Chapter Text
Shane loves his job. Which, ok. Might be a bit of an exaggeration. Shane is good at his job. Possibly one of the best. French comes to him easily, he’s more organised than anyone else in the company, he almost never takes sick leave, he hasn’t had a vacation in the entire five years he’s been there, and he’s always the last one to leave.
“Being here until eight thirty every night isn’t a flex, Shane,” Hayden sighs.
“It’ll earn me a promotion,” Shane shrugs.
“And then what, stay until ten? Where does it end? Are you just gonna move in?”
“Goodnight, Hayden. Tell Jackie thank you for the zoodles,” Shane says, waving Hayden out the door.
“Dude, I was just happy to get them out of the house. Zucchini noodles are wrong.”
“I’m not having this argument with you again, man. Go home to your wife and kids.” Shane ducks the hair ruffle Hayden attempts on his way out the door, throwing a crumpled up post-it at the back of his head. It nails him as the door closes and Shane still feels weirdly accomplished until he goes home three hours later.
🏢🏢🏢
Shane is kind of notorious around the office for going through assistants like tissues. He’s had six in the last year, close to twenty total in the five years he’s been in the position. And look, he’s not an asshole ok? He’s just…particular. He needs his assistants to be able to keep up with him, understand his needs, and not fuck up every week. Shane doesn’t really think it’s a big ask for someone to do their fucking job, but apparently it’s too much for Linda from Calgary so he lets her go at 4:59pm on a Friday. She swears at him in French (incorrectly) and English on her way to the lift so Shane has security meet her in the lobby. He’s kind of petty like that.
In his defence, she had called in sick on four out of the last five Mondays and Cassie from Design said that Linda had been posting ‘Sauced Sunday’ to her Instagram stories (‘no seriously, Shane. Like ten tequila shots off her roommates stomach’) and had then emailed a client a very poorly translated document she’d done herself to try to ‘prove how good she was at French’. Shane doesn’t have time for that shit.
“I’ve already emailed you the details of an applicant who might be a good fit,” Hayden tells him as he gathers his stuff. It’s now 5:09 and Shane is probably still a good four and a half hours away from being done for the day. It would only be like two and a half but fucking Linda had started an absolute shitstorm with her email. Hayden had stayed back for ‘the show’.
“How -”
“I know when someone isn’t working out for you, Shane. You should have fired her two weeks ago,” Hayden snorts. “This guy doesn’t speak French -”
“Hayd -”
“But he does speak Russian and we’ve had an unexpected influx of Russian clients in the past month so he could be a really valuable asset. And I already spoke to his current employer and she very enthusiastically sang his praises,” Hayden continues. He points at Shane with his
umbrella, raising an eyebrow. “Call him.”
“That reeks to me of an employer trying to get rid of someone,” Shane argues, but is admittedly impressed by the guy’s CV. He’s currently based in Boston but is wanting to move to Canada and eventually seek citizenship, and is possibly over qualified for the position. Shane calls him.
🏢🏢🏢
Ilya starts two weeks later and Shane instantly knows he’s going to be a problem.
“Ottawa is more boring than I expected,” Ilya says in response to Shane asking him how he’s settling in. Shane blinks, unsure of how to respond. He’s lived in Ottawa his whole life and yeah, it’s not the most thrilling place on earth but there’s plenty to do here. Shane has annual passes to the Canadian Museum of Nature and the Canada Science and Technology Museum, there are some decent restaurants, skating on the canal is awesome, and he’s been told the queer nightlife is worth checking out (he has yet to do this, despite coming out slowly over the last three and a half years).
“Do you skate?” Shane asks.
“Yes, I have been skating since I was three. I am very good at it,” Ilya smirks and oh fuck that’s pretty.
“The Rideau Canal freezes over in winter and people skate on it, that’s pretty fun. It’s the largest skating rink in the world,” Shane tells him, cowering a little under Ilya’s intense gaze. Maybe drowning a little in his eyes, but Shane won’t ever admit that to anyone.
“You skate?”
“Yeah, since I was a kid. Played hockey until I was sixteen,” Shane shrugs, because even though it’s been almost fifteen years since the injury that cost him what would probably have been a very successful hockey career it still stings a little to talk about it. “Broke my leg and it didn’t set properly, so. Haven’t played again.”
“Ah, but you watch?”
“Yeah, I watch. You?”
“Yes. Big Raiders fan. Are you not embarrassed to be a Centaurs fan?” Ilya grins and it’s even more dangerous than his smirk. Shane’s in some real trouble here.
“Montreal fan,” Shane corrects. “When I was younger I thought I might end up playing for them.”
“Montreal?” Ilya gasps. “This is terrible. Will make my job very difficult.”
“Luckily for you, me liking a clearly superior hockey team doesn’t impact your ability to do your job,” Shane mutters. “Uh, anyway. There’s a folder here outlining your basic daily tasks and documents walking you through our systems. Just spend today reading those, get a feel for the systems, fill out anything HR has asked you for, and ask me if you’ve got any questions.”
“Ok, Shane Hollander,” Ilya sighs, flopping down into his seat. “This chair is terrible. Can I buy a new one?”
“Uh, we don’t really have new chairs in the budget right now.”
“No, I will buy with my own money. No need to pay me back.” Ilya blinks up at Shane expectantly who can only nod and clear his throat before escaping back into his office.
“Was I right or was I right?” Hayden asks. Shane throws him what he hopes in a withering stare, but judging by Hayden’s answering laugh he doesn’t think it was very successful.
“Can’t pass judgement yet,” Shane says and it’s only kind of a lie. Ilya’s going to be good at his job - this much Shane can tell already. It’s everything else that is going to cause Shane great pain and suffering.
🏢🏢🏢
“Everyone has gone home, Shane. It is 5:30,” Ilya tells him flatly from the doorway of his office. “You are not leaving?”
“Oh, no. I stick around for a few more hours to get stuff done. Part of my job is signing stuff for people and answering questions which means I have people in and out of my office all day, so I stay late to actually get my work done,” Shane explains, a little sheepishly. It’s not like he has anyone waiting for him at home or friends to go hang out with. Rose transferred to the Vancouver office three months ago, Hayden is busy with the kid, and JJ has a new girlfriend keeping him well and truly occupied. Shane has dinner with his parents every Friday night and has been thinking about getting a cat, but for right now there’s no good reason for him to not take advantage of the office being quiet.
“Ok. I will stay too,” Ilya shrugs.
“I don’t expect you to do that, we don’t get paid overtime here,” Shane warns him. “You can go home.”
“No, I will stay. Apparently someone needs to make sure you don’t fall asleep at your desk.” Ilya is smirking again and Shane has to take a long drink from his water bottle to stop himself doing something stupid like licking his lips or fluttering his eyelashes.
“Now I feel bad.”
“Good. Maybe this bad feeling will force you to go home at a more normal time.”
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” Shane sighs.
“I like trouble,” Ilya shrugs. “Get your work done, Shane Hollander. I would like to go home before the sun comes back up in the morning.”
“You don’t have to - fine, ok. I’ll try to keep it to two hours,” Shane concedes. He’d normally stay later than that but he doesn’t want to keep Ilya here that late on his first day (even if Ilya is doing it by choice).
“Ok,” Ilya sing-songs like he doesn’t believe him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Uh. Yes, actually. This client has sent an email in Cyrillic. Normally I’d just run it through an online translator, but -”
“Those things are shit,” Ilya snorts. “Unreliable. Cannot catch tone properly.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that. Ryan in IT set your company email up already, yeah? Can I forward you this email to translate for me?”
“You can set up all emails from Russian clients to forward to me, if you would like. I will translate and send back to you.”
“There are six of them,” Shane tells him with a grimace. “You don’t -”
“Forward them all to me. This is part of why you hired me, yes? I cannot speak French and I am not so good with numbers, but I am very good at Russian and knowing what people need,” Ilya replies, his smile genuine and dangerous. Shane takes another long drink of water. “You need a refill?”
“No,” Shane lies as he sets his empty bottle down on his desk. “Yes.”
“Give,” Ilya demands, holding his hand out. Shane hands him the bottle, Ilya’s fingers overlapping his own as he takes the bottle from Shane’s hand. “This is terrible drink bottle. You should get one that keeps your drink cold.”
“An insulated one?” Shane suggests carefully. He doesn’t want to make any assumptions about Ilya’s English proficiency, because it’s definitely more than good enough for the job.
“Yes, insulated. I have extra at home if you want,” Ilya offers.
“I have like seven at home. People keep giving them to me as gifts. Apparently I look like I don’t drink enough water. I just forgot one today.”
“You do not just keep one here? Why do you need seven at home?” Ilya asks, seeming genuinely amused.
“I don’t,” Shane huffs. “I can’t wash them here properly, I’ve seen how people use the dish brush in the break room.”
“You do not just rinse?”
“I used to. Then I realised I was drinking straight up mould two years ago. Rinsing didn’t quite catch where the straw - it was foul,” Shane shudders, cutting himself off. That had been a particularly horrifying discovery.
“Not ideal,” Ilya snorts. “You could bring your own brush?”
“People here already think I’m weird enough,” Shane mutters. “I’m just…particular about my stuff.”
“Ah,” Ilya hums, and doesn’t push. “Ok. Do your work, Shane. I will bring back cold water for you. Ice?”
“Yes please.”
“How much?”
“I’m not that particular,” Shane scoffs. A lie. Ilya simply raises his eyebrows at Shane, waiting. “Six cubes, please.”
“Sure thing, big boss man.” Ilya leaves and Shane sinks down into his chair, covering his face with his hands. He can’t tell yet whether hiring Ilya is the best or worst decision he’s ever made.
🏢🏢🏢
“What’s this?”
“I dunno. It was on your desk when I got here,” Hayden shrugs. “Kind of looks like one of those sanitiser things for baby bottles but bigger.”
“Congratulations, Pike. This is exactly what it is,” Ilya monotones from the doorway. Hayden’s expression is one Shane has come to refer to as ‘give me a second, I’m piecing it together’ and it gets more awkward as Ilya doesn’t offer up further explanation.
“Uh. Why?” Shane asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer. His favourite insulated bottle is in his hands and Ilya has bought him a fucking sanitiser.
“So you don’t need to use crappy plastic bottle anymore,” Ilya tells him. “You can keep your insulated one here.”
“You really didn’t have to do that.”
“It is my job to make your job easier, yes? This will make it easier.” Ilya says this like it’s something Shane should know already - and yes, his job is to make Shane’s job easier. But that doesn’t typically involve an assistant purchasing non-necessities with their own money purely for Shane’s personal comfort. He doesn’t know what to do with this.
“Thank you,” Shane says, a little stiffly. He’s a little overwhelmed. He’s a lot grateful. “This is - thank you.”
“Of course,” Ilya smiles disarmingly. Shane can see Hayden studying him carefully in his peripheral vision and pointedly keeps his eyes forward. “You have children, Pike?”
“Four,” Hayden replies.
“That is too many,” Ilya snorts.
“Excuse me?”
“Your wife is a saint,” Ilya sighs. Shane looks between the two of them with a growing sense of dread building in his chest.
“You don’t even know her!”
“I do not have to. Motherhood is hard job. Are you saying your wife is not a saint?”
“Of course she is. She’s a stay at home mom, she’s the best. But you -”
“Ah, so she is raising your children for you?”
“Ilya,” Shane cuts him off, desperately wanting to avoid the fight that is seconds away from starting. He doesn’t want to fire a second assistant this month. “I’m sure you have emails waiting for you.”
“Sorry,” Ilya says but he’s looking at Shane instead of Hayden who huffs loudly. Shane still can’t decide if hiring Ilya was the right choice.
“He’s kind of an asshole,” Hayden mutters once Ilya is out of earshot. He’s cracking open a can of Coke and Shane can see an empty can already on his desk. Shane definitely does not watch the way Ilya’s throat moves when he takes a swig and is absolutely not momentarily distracted by the way he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Jackie is kind of a saint, Hayd,” Shane says with a shrug once he’s able to snap his attention back to where it needs to be. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“I know, but I’m not - god, whatever. Tell your assistant to mind his own fucking business,” Hayden huffs. Shane just rolls his eyes and turns his computer on for the day. He wouldn’t really mind Ilya knowing his business, he thinks. Might be kind of nice.
🏢🏢🏢
Shane comes in the next morning lugging a case of Coke cans, heading straight into the break room. It’s perfectly normal, he tells himself, to stock the fridge with your assistant’s favourite drink after they buy you a drink bottle sanitiser with their own money. Right?
“Oh fuck yeah,” Wyatt groans as Shane loads the case into the bottom drawer of the fridge. “I am so fucking sick of Pepsi.”
“Sorry, these aren’t communal,” Shane shrugs, scrawling Ilya’s name across the front of the box. “You know you can ask Bood to order Coke instead of Pepsi, right?”
“And have Dykstra hunt me down and gut me? No thanks,” Wyatt snorts. “Who are they for? You drink ginger ale. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink any form of cola.”
“They’re for Ilya,” Shane says, tapping the name on the case. Wyatt’s eyebrows fly up and Shane can’t blame him for being surprised because this isn’t something Shane does. He’s always been professional and polite to his assistants but he’s certainly never bought them anything. He’s never wanted to impress one of them as badly as he wants to impress Ilya.
“He prefers the cherry ones, I think,” Wyatt says. Shane must look panicked because Wyatt laughs and adds “but he drinks these ones too. I think he’ll be putty in your hands either way.”
“That’s not - he bought me a drink bottle sanitiser, I’m just returning the favour,” Shane sputters, pulling out his phone to order a bottle of cherry syrup for express delivery like an insane person.
“Uh huh,” Wyatt smirks, obviously unconvinced. Shane likes Wyatt a lot - he’d been one of the first people to notice that Shane was decidedly Not Okay after the breakup with Rose (and actually picked up on the fact that it wasn’t because Shane was too boring for Rose like everyone else thought) and was the first person (other than Rose) that Shane had very awkwardly come out to. Hayden still hasn’t forgiven him for it. But he thinks that maybe it would be nice if, for once, Wyatt could be marginally less observant.
“Don’t you have a job to do?” Shane huffs, stalking out of the kitchen. He’d bought an extra can of Coke so he’d have a cold one ready for Ilya, who is already at his desk wordlessly holding out Shane’s coffee. Shane hands Ilya the can of drink and is rewarded with a bright and surprised smile.
“Shane Hollander, you are spoiling me,” Ilya hums.
“It’s a can of pop,” Shane snorts, cheeks warm.
“Thank you for the soda, Shane.”
“It’s pop,” Shane corrects even though he knows he’s only arguing for argument’s sake.
“Soda. It’s ok to be wrong sometimes.”
“Which you are,” Shane counters with a smirk. Ilya doesn’t smirk back, just keeps smiling at Shane like he’s just handed him something far more valuable than a can of pop.
“I have never been wrong about anything in my life, Shane. Ever.”
“You’re insufferable,” Shane groans, not actually hating this at all. “There’s, uh. A case in the fridge with your name on it.” Ilya’s cheeks are suddenly very pink and Shane wonders if his own are the same shade. Judging by the satisfied grin and thumbs up Wyatt throws him as he walks to his own office, Shane thinks they probably are. And the blinding grin Ilya gives him when Shane hands him the bottle of cherry syrup that evening paints what Shane is convinced is a permanent red stain on his cheeks.
🏢🏢🏢
Turns out most people in the office legitimately think Ilya is kind of an asshole. Sure, he flings out playful insults here and there which technically Shane should be calling him out on but he’s not actively breaking any company policies and Shane has found his job to be significantly easier and more enjoyable since hiring Ilya. Plus, Shane secretly thinks he’s pretty fucking funny.
“Is your husband blind, Hunter? He cannot see he is married to a dinosaur?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov. At least I’m not the office asshole,” Scott scoffs.
“No, you are office dinosaur. That is not much better,” Ilya smirks. Shane bites his lip to tamp down the smile threatening to spread across his face.
“I’d argue that it is significantly better. Can I please just speak to Shane?”
“Is it a question that could be asked over email?” Ilya asks bluntly.
“Well, yes, but I’m here and -”
“Shane is unavailable. Please email your inquiry through and he will reply at his earliest convenience,” Ilya says, tone flat like an automated recording. “Thank you and goodbye.”
“I can see him,” Scott argues. Shane avoids looking at him, keeping his head down and eyes on his computer screen. He would prefer an email - he had a long morning of meetings and really isn’t up for more human interaction than is strictly necessary for the rest of the day. It’s almost five and Shane is counting down the minutes until the work day ends and it’s just him (and Ilya) in the office.
“Email, Hunter,” Ilya reiterates. Shane hears Scott sigh, utterly put out, before walking away.
“Ok you see what I mean, right?” Hayden hisses as he begins shutting down his computer. “Nobody else likes him.”
“I don’t need people to like him, Hayden. I need him to do his job,” Shane replies through gritted teeth. They’ve had at least five different versions of this argument over the past three weeks and Shane is exhausted by it. “Have you noticed how much more work we’ve been getting through because I don’t have people coming in to ask me questions twice an hour?”
“Yeah, because everyone is terrified of Rozanov,” Hayden laughs. “He told me I’m the third best person in our department.”
“But there’s only two of us.”
“Exactly,” Hayden scoffs, exasperated.
“Oh,” Shane snorts, catching Ilya’s eye. Ilya winks and Shane’s not able to stop himself from laughing, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t you start too,” Hayden warns, voice completely devoid of any heat or anger. “I’m heading out, I’ll come in fifteen minutes early tomorrow.”
“No you won’t,” Shane counters, because Hayden is never early when he says he’s going to be. Shane doesn’t hold it against him, though - Hayden always gets his work done and is one of Shane’s best friends so he lets it slide.
“No I won’t,” Hayden grins, waving over his shoulder and pointedly ignoring Ilya as he passes him.
“Goodnight, Pike. I miss you already,” Ilya calls after him.
“Y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little less of an asshole to him,” Shane says once Hayden has flipped Ilya off and walked out of earshot. Ilya saunters into the office and sits on the edge of Hayden’s desk, leaning back on his arms. Shane can see the flex of his biceps through the burgundy sweater Ilya is wearing today and salivates, just a little.
“Two percent is the best I can offer,” Ilya shrugs. “Did Hunter email you?”
“Uh.” Shane fumbles with his mouse a little and opens the email from Scott - it is, in fact, a basic question that does not require an immediate answer. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Scaring people away from my office is your job?”
“Making sure people don’t annoy you with stupid questions that can be emails is my job. Is it not helping?” Ilya cocks his head to the left, eyebrows raised and curls catching the light of the setting sun.
“It’s helping,” Shane concedes with a small smile and a nod.
“Good. Then I will keep letting everyone think I am an asshole so you can get your work done properly,” Ilya nods. “I have no more emails today. What else do you need help with?”
“Uh,” Shane stalls. His and Hayden’s work loads are split in a way that makes sense - Shane takes on a little more than Hayden because he…well, mostly just because he can and he has nothing else going on in his life. “I don’t know.”
“Are you still working on the report from your third meeting?” Ilya grabs Hayden’s chair and slides it over, closer to Shane than he probably needs to be. He sits down and leans even closer, eyes scanning the wall of text on the screen. Ilya smells of citrus, cedarwood, a hint of jasmine, and underlying cigarette smoke. Shane wishes he could bottle the scent.
“What cologne do you use?” Shane asks before he can stop the words coming out of his mouth. He slides his eyes over to Ilya, who looks utterly delighted by the question.
“You like how I smell, Shane?”
“Wh - no,” Shane sputters. “I was just curious.” He knows Ilya can tell he’s lying because he can feel how flushed his cheeks are. Ilya is grinning, bright and open, waiting for Shane to look at him.
“It is actually a perfume oil,” Ilya shrugs. “I liked the smell. Scents should not have a gender.”
“Yeah, totally,” Shane answers, feeling a little stupid. Surely he could have come up with something more articulate than that. “I mean - I agree. Gendering products is stupid.”
“It is,” Ilya hums curiously. “Very stupid. Why can I not wear a skirt if I want to?”
“Uh,” Shane falters, brain utterly broken over the mental image of Ilya in a denim mini skirt, or maybe something pleated, possibly something sparkly showing off what are undoubtedly thick muscular thighs and god fucking damnit this cannot be happening to Shane right now. “I - you could.”
“Hmm,” Ilya hums. “What is the queer scene like in Ottawa?”
“Oh, I uh. I don’t know, actually. I’m not…” Shane thinks Ilya is probably a safe person to come out to. “I’m not really as involved with it as I should be.”
“Should be?” Ilya questions, still way too close for Shane to be able to properly process his thoughts. He smells so fucking good. “What do you mean?”
“I’m gay,” Shane shrugs like it’s not a big deal, even though for a long time it really was a big fucking deal. Especially when he essentially had to announce to the entire company that he and Rose had broken up because he realised he very strongly (and exclusively) preferred dick. “But I’m not, like…I’m bad at it.”
“Bad at it,” Ilya repeats flatly. “Like bad at sex?”
“That’s not - I didn’t mean that. I just mean…I’m not involved in the queer scene. Like at all. So I don’t have any answers for you,” Shane fumbles his way through the answer, mentally kicking himself for not sounding more…confident, maybe? He realised he was gay four years ago and has been mostly at peace with it for close to three and a half years now. But telling Ilya feels like admitting far more than just the fact that he is only attracted to men.
“There is no right way to be gay, Shane. Whichever way you are is the right way for you,” Ilya says. “I am bisexual but I have slept with many more women than men. Am I doing it wrong?”
“I - no, fuck. It’s not - why are we even talking about this? I thought you were going to help with the report.” Shane is desperate for a subject change before he does something stupid like ask Ilya to help him figure out how to be a better gay man. “Thank you for telling me, though. That’s um, cool.”
“Yes,” Ilya chuckles. “I certainly think so.”
“This company is pretty accepting. There are a few of us who are openly queer here,” Shane stammers a little, attempting to recover some dignity. “Uh. Hunter is - well, you know that much. Kip too, obviously - he’s our head Project Coordinator. Troy Barrett is one of our software engineers and his boyfriend Harris runs our social media accounts.”
“Very queer workplace,” Ilya nods. “Was different in Boston. Not homophobic but less…open, I think. I didn’t have to hide, but…here is better.”
“Good,” Shane exhales. “So, uh. The report. I’m done running the numbers, so if I give you a list of people this needs to be emailed to and just a general idea of what the emails need to say could you do that?”
“Of course. How many emails?”
“Uh. Thirty.”
“Thirty separate emails?” Ilya’s eyes have widened but his expression is mostly neutral otherwise. He takes a deep breath, nods once, and heads back out to his own desk. “Anything for you, Gay Shane.”
“That’s not -” Shane cuts himself off as Brandon Wiebe (his direct manager) walks past. He freezes and opens his mouth to speak and Shane only has a few seconds to say something to stop Ilya being reprimanded. “He’s not being homophobic! He’s just being…Ilya.”
“Ok,” Wiebe shrugs and carries on. He and Shane have worked together in some capacity since Shane’s first day and he pretty much trusts Shane implicitly at this point. Shane has only been working with Ilya for two weeks and thinks he might already be at that point with him which is insane. He looks over at Ilya now who is smiling softly to himself as he types. Yeah, Shane is super fucked.
🏢🏢🏢
The shift in Shane after he meets Ilya isn’t subtle. His parents comment that he seems more relaxed, Rose tells him she’s never seen him this happy over their weekly video call, and Hayden keeps shooting him these knowing looks that Shane ignores. He’s home by seven every night (Ilya quite literally marches him out of the office at 6:30), he’s started researching the best options for a cat for himself, and he’s not waking up anxious every morning. Shane finds himself actually looking forward to work (not that he particularly dreaded it before) and especially looks forward to five o’clock when everyone goes home and it’s just him and Ilya in the office.
Ilya talks about Boston - tells Shane about the work he did with his friend/boss Svetlana (helping her establish her luxury car dealership), talks about befriending the Boston Bears purely by charming his way into a private event one night and parking himself on a stool next to Cliff Marlow, and explains in nauseatingly explicit detail how he somehow managed to break his collarbone and six ribs doing a backflip into a pool in Tampa nine years ago.
Ilya is already at his desk, waiting with Shane’s coffee, most days of the week. He’s sometimes a little late on Thursdays, citing “family shit” and not elaborating - Shane doesn’t push for details and Ilya doesn’t offer any until he spills it all.
“Sorry,” Ilya mumbles, expression pinched and body tense one Thursday morning as he runs in closer to ten than he should be coming in. “I - sorry.”
“Hayd, can you give us a minute?” Shane asks, beckoning Ilya over to his desk. Ilya wheels his own chair over and sits down stiffly, staring at his hands that are clenched in his lap. One of his thumbs is rubbing back and forth across the back of his hand in a pattern that’s definitely going to cause a friction burn if he doesn’t stop soon.
“Nice knowing you, dude,” Hayden sighs. “Or, you know. Not.”
“Hayden,” Shane snaps. “He’s not fired, fuck. You’re not helping.”
“You’ve fired people for less,” Hayden reminds him unhelpfully. Ilya isn’t making eye contact but Shane can sense the panic pouring off him - it’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with.
“He’s not fired,” Shane reiterates firmly. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
“Fine, sheesh. Sorry,” Hayden huffs, all but stomping out the door. Shane waits until the door is shut before dragging his chair around to the same side of the desk that Ilya is sitting on.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Shane drops his voice down the same way he does when he’s talking to Hayden’s kids when they’re upset. It feels a little patronising because Ilya is a fully grown adult, but it works because his hands relax and he finally lifts his head.
“Not really, but…maybe I should,” he murmurs. “My father is…very sick. Has been for a long time. I call him every Thursday morning and today I -” Ilya cuts himself off and clears his throat, shaking his head. “He is getting worse. I don’t know if - if maybe I should go back home before…before.”
“Is it - how -” Shane stops himself and exhales heavily through his nose. “Sorry, I’m not good at this.”
“No, you’re fine. This is helping,” Ilya smiles. “He has dementia.”
“That’s awful,” Shane murmurs. He doesn’t know if he should touch Ilya - if it would be too inappropriate if he held one of his hands or squeeze his shoulder, if Ilya would push him away if he rested a hand on one of Ilya’s knees. “Is your mother - how is she handling it?”
“She’s dead,” Ilya tells him and starts bouncing one knee. Shane puts a hand on it without thinking, squeezing to apply the same kind of pressure that helps him when he’s overwhelmed.
“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers.
“I was young,” Ilya sniffs. His knee stops bouncing and one of his hands brushes over Shane’s. “My stepmother is young and scared. She isn’t helping him and my brother is useless. I cannot - my father is confused. He’s scared. And I am here. We are not close, but…”
“He’s still your father,” Shane offers. Ilya nods and rests his hand on his own leg, close enough that their thumbs are almost overlapping.
“Yes. It is all very complicated.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, uselessly. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d like to.”
“Thank you,” Ilya exhales heavily. “You’re helping.”
“I’m barely doing anything,” Shane murmurs. His other hand is resting on top of Ilya’s - he hadn’t even realised he’d put it there.
“You are here,” Ilya says simply. “I will be ok. There are probably at least twenty emails I can distract myself with. Call Pike back.”
“Are you sure?” Shane asks, squeezing Ilya’s knee again. Ilya smiles down at Shane’s hands on him and nods.
“Yes. Get back to work, Hollander.”
🏢🏢🏢
“Shane, it’s your turn to pick where we order lunch from today,” Wiebe says the next day, wandering into the office with his phone out. Everyone in the office hates it when it’s Shane’s turn to pick the Friday lunch which is baffling because there’s nothing wrong with sushi or a nice cold soba noodle dish.
“Oh god,” Hayden groans. “Shane. Buddy. I need carbs today. I’m begging you.”
“Don’t listen to him, Hollander,” Ilya chimes in. “Order your gross seaweed salad thing.”
“Do not order the gross seaweed salad thing,” Hayden all but shouts. “Carbs. Please. I will give you my first born child.”
“I think Jackie might have something to say about that,” Shane snorts. He mentally runs through his usual choices wondering if maybe, just for today, he could pick somewhere Ilya might like to eat from. He had been unnervingly quiet yesterday after their conversation about his father and Shane wants to try to lift his spirits a little. He could keep up a constant supply of cans of Coke for him so he doesn’t have to get up from his desk for them but that would involve Shane getting up from his desk approximately fifty times which sounds like a fucking nightmare.
“She would understand. Ruby is a nightmare at the moment anyway, it’d be a nice break.”
“Wow, Pike. You are even bad at bribing,” Ilya monotones, staring at his fingernails. “At least we know you did not bribe anyone for your job. They would have paid you to never come back.”
“Fu- shut it, Rozanov,” Hayden huffs. Wiebe, ever patient, looks to Shane for an answer.
“How about subs?” Shane suggests, delighting in the surprised look Ilya throws him. Hayden whoops and grabs Shane’s face, smacking a loud and obnoxious to his cheek. “Dude.”
“Thank you,” Hayden grins. “I gotta call Jackie.”
“Of course, this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened in your life,” Ilya snorts. Hayden flips him off and ducks out of the office, phone already pressed to his ear.
“They make bets over what I’ll pick for lunch. He thinks I don’t know, but Jackie told me like two years ago,” Shane shrugs.
“Ah and you felt like giving him a win today?” Ilya asks. Wiebe is standing by just looking amused by the whole thing - Shane thinks maybe Wiebe finds Ilya just as endearing as he does (well, maybe not quite as much).
“Not him,” Shane replies, pointedly avoiding eye contact with both people in the room. He thinks he hears a soft ‘oh’, from Ilya, but he doesn’t dare look up to check - he doesn’t have to see Ilya to know his gaze is focused on Shane. The smile he can’t fight down is probably giving enough away.
“So…just the chicken salad for you from the sub place, Shane?” Wiebe asks, a distressingly knowing smirk on his face when Shane finally manages to drag his eyes away from his desk.
“Dressing on the side, no cheese,” Ilya answers for him. Shane chances a look up at Ilya now and Ilya fucking winks at him.
“Oh I know,” Wiebe calls over his shoulder as he leaves, Ilya grinning to himself at his desk. Shane buries himself in his work, definitely not distracted by Ilya’s smooth and fast-paced Russian as he speaks to a client.
Watching people in the office grab sandwiches is like watching lions tear into a gazelle carcass. It’s ugly, it’s loud, people end up bruised and bleeding (seriously - the last time they ordered from this place Troy almost ended up with a broken nose trying to take the last chicken parm sub). Everyone steps aside when Shane walks in, though, because he’s just grabbing a salad. And the last chicken parm sub for Ilya (who will likely be on the phone for at least another twenty minutes and Shane cannot let him end up with the soggy tuna monstrosity that nobody touches).
“Pike already got his, put that back down!” Troy yells as he walks in. “I earned that sub.”
“Sorry,” Shane shrugs, feeling entirely unapologetic. “It’s for Ilya, he’s stuck on a phone call.”
“Then he misses out,” Troy tells him through gritted teeth. “Come on man, I cannot lose out on the chicken parm twice.” Shane shrugs again and pulls a can of Cherry Coke out of the fridge before slipping out of the lunch room, ignoring the litany of complaints called out after him. Ilya is still on the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand as he waves Shane over with the other before muting the call.
“Can I translate corporate policies into Russian to send to these clients?” Ilya asks, exasperated. “They are asking to send their own auditor over, they do not believe we are capable.”
“Officially, I need to clear it with the higher ups. But yes, if you think it will help if they see the legal terminology then go for it. For now, just tell them you need to send a request through to Wiebe before they send anyone so we can delay them a little. Then hang up and eat your lunch before Troy knocks me out to take it,” Shane tells him, dropping the sub and can of drink on his desk.
“Shane,” Ilya gasps. “You risked your life to bring me chicken parm?”
“I don’t think I’ll be invited to the next team outing, but they’ll get over it,” Shane snorts. “Wrap up your call.”
“Yes sir, big boss man,” Ilya salutes but it’s soft and fond, and he’s looking at the food and drink in front of him like it’s a gourmet meal. Shane absolutely does not think about it for the rest of the day and absolutely does not think about the fact that every time he looks over to Ilya, Ilya is already looking back.