[insert bee pun]

Summary:

“They’re called teeth,” Grace said, feeling tired all of the sudden. He rubbed his face, knocking his glasses to the side. “No, it’s not normal for humans to lose teeth. Not at this age anyway.” 

Rocky bristled. He wasn’t happy about being kept out of the loop. “Grace go to med bay,” he ordered. “Will fix.” 

Grace sighed. “I don’t think this is something that can be fixed, Rock.” 

Or:

Summary:

All I’m asking is what does someone do in a library all day?” Something in his gut told him to keep pushing the subject. Years in the ED meant that Robby trusted his gut more than anyone. He was scratching the surface of something and he didn’t know what. 

“Read.” Whittaker’s tone was short and clipped. He didn’t sound anything like his awkward but well-meaning self. His shoulders were tense like he was preparing for a fight. “Are the labs back for my patient with vertigo?” he asked, turning away from Robby. 

“I hate that kid,” Ilya said out of nowhere. Shane blinked. He’d been too focused on Irina’s form to notice anything. 

“What kid?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the other parents. Ilya might’ve not cared about trash talking one of their children in front of them but Shane did. 

“Tommy,” Ilya said, thankfully lowering his voice. He nodded at a curly haired kid with a permanent scowl, not unlike Ilya. Tommy said something to Irina as he skated past and she answered with a withering glare. 

“Oh, yeah.” Shane watched Tommy chew on his mouth guard. “He’s an asshole.” 

“And he has it out for Ira,” Ilya continued, his eyes glued on the kid. “Since first day.” 

Shane watched their daughter more closely. Her long dark braids swung side to side as she skated the length of the rink. Her helmet blocked most of her face but he knew her brows were furrowed in concentration. Tommy skated over to her and said something again. This time, her eyes flashed and she snapped at him. He smiled and said something else and Irina raised her hands to shove him before the coach blew his whistle, signalling that it was break time. 

“Hate that kid,” Irina muttered as she skated to the bench. Shane handed her the water bottle that had fallen out of her bag earlier. Ilya’s accent came out in her voice which only happened when she was upset. 

“What is he saying?” Ilya asked. 

“Dumb stuff.” Irina pushed hair out of her sweaty face. “He doesn’t think girls can play hockey.” 

Shane frowned. He had the sudden urge to take the little punk aside and give him a stern talking to. Ilya had other plans. “Chirp him back,” he suggested. “He has a terrible backhand.” He grinned evilly. “He is also very short. Use that.” 

“No,” Shane interrupted. The smile that was spreading across Irina’s face looked like trouble. “Be the bigger person. He’ll get bored eventually and move on.” 

“Or you can put him in his place.” 

“Ilya.” 

Ilya heaved a dramatic sigh. “Or you can be boring like your dad and do nothing.” He made a face and hung his head. Irina giggled. The coach blew his whistle again. She flicked her visor back down and handed the water bottle to Shane. 

“Don’t tell her to get in fights with the other kids,” Shane scolded once she was out of earshot. Ilya looked offended. 

“She plays hockey, yes?” He asked the question like Shane was being slow. 

“Yeah, but you don’t have to fight in hockey.” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Ok, Mr. Go-home-you-fucking-pussy.” 

Shane blushed and looked around to make sure no one was listening. “That was one time,” he hissed, remembering his fight with Scott Hunter. He’d apologized to the man but it still haunted him. Hunter didn’t deserve getting swung at just because Shane was having relationship problems. 

He turned his attention back to the ice and saw Tommy and Irina fighting over the puck. Tommy shoved her and she shoved him back harder. Then the little twerp stuck his stick in front of her ankles and she lost her balance. Shane sucked in a breath. Ok. 

“Ira,” he called. She looked confused but still skated over. 

“What?” she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice. 

“Kick his ass.” 

“What?” she squeaked at the same time as Ilya. Shane shook his head. He was going to regret this but he wasn’t going to let anyone hurt his little girl, especially not some boy with a smart mouth and too many opinions. 

“You have my permission,” Shane continued. “If he keeps this up, throw off your gloves and kick his ass.” 

Irina’s face lit up. She looked between Shane and Ilya before nodding and rejoining the team. Tommy once again tried to approach her. She said something before he could even open his mouth and he recoiled like he’d been slapped. He looked around warily and reluctantly gave her space. 

Shane could feel Ilya’s gaze on him. “What happened to no fighting?” he asked with a smug smile. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asked. 

Ilya stood quickly, nearly hitting his head on the metal rack. “Nothing.” 

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Why are you looking through my closet?” 

“Our closet soon, moya chernika,” Ilya reminded him, smoothly stepping out of their closet. 

“Blueberry?” Shane translated, tilting his head like Anya when she was curious. He looked adorable. 

“Good job,” Ilya praised, raising a suggestive eyebrow. 

“You’re not going to distract me that easily.” Shane gave him a stern look. “What are you doing?” 

Ilya hesitated. There wasn’t much point in lying anymore after he was so clearly caught. Besides, he’d done enough lying to Shane for a lifetime. “You know the Olympics?” 

A wry smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “I’ve heard of them.” Anyone who said he wasn’t funny was a liar. 

“The 2014 ones,” Ilya clarified. “Team Canada wore this sweater.” 

Shane eyed him suspiciously. “The fleece; I remember.” 

“Do you still have it?” 

“Why?” Shane asked, crossing his arms. 

“I want to see you in it.” 

“Why?” he asked again. Ilya decided to stop dancing around the subject. 

“Because you were so cute in it,” he cooed, running his hands over Shane’s arms. “You looked so soft and—what is word—snuggly.” 

Shane rolled his eyes but he was definitely blushing. “Oh my God.” He began to walk away. “No.”

Ilya followed him, tugging at his shirt. “Please,” he begged. He sounded whiny, even to his own ears. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Shane.” Ilya dragged out his name. 

“No,” Shane said again. He turned around, annoyed. “You should’ve told me how I looked when I was wearing it instead of telling me to fuck off.” 

 Ilya was hit with the sudden memory of their conversation years ago in the Sochi arena. He’d been cold, dismissive, much too cruel to Shane Hollander in his adorable team Canada sweater. “Ok, I am asshole,” Ilya agreed. He was ready to get on his knees and beg. “I’m sorry.” 

“You weren’t then.” It wasn't true but it was easy to see why Shane thought that. The last of his irritation faded as he began to walk away again. “Come on. I’m hungry. Let’s make dinner.” 

Ilya groaned dramatically but still followed. He’d have to try again another day. Shane was going to wear that fleece, one way or another. 

~

“I’m home,” Ilya called as he shut the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes, muddy from his morning run. 

“In here,” Shane called from the living room. He'd skipped their run to catch up "work," whatever that meant. Ilya followed the sound of his voice and saw the man he loved sitting on the couch, Anya beside him, and wearing a familiar white fleece. He looked up, his glasses slightly askew. “How was your—oof.” 

His sentence was cut off by Ilya practically jumping over the couch and tackling him in a hug. “You wore it,” Ilya exclaimed. Anya huffed and moved to sit elsewhere, offended by the sudden intrusion. 

“Well,” Shane said shyly. “I happened to be digging through some old boxes and found it.” 

“So this is not for me?” Ilya teased. Shane furrowed his brows comically. 

“No, of course not.” He smiled and oh God, Ilya loved him. He took his face in his hands and peppered dozens of kisses all over his freckled cheeks, exactly what he wished he could’ve done in 2014. 

“Jesus,” Troy muttered. 

“I know,” Harris said mournfully. “I seriously don’t think there’s any footage from today I can use without people being worried for their safety.” 

“Roz is a madman,” Wyatt agreed, watching the Russian spew chirp after chirp. Troy nodded. 

“I don’t know how Hollzy handles him.” A tense silence fell over them, an unspoken question hanging in the air. Troy cleared his throat. “Do you think—” He looked over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “Do you think Rozy’s too rough with him? Like… outside of the rink.” 

The other two looked at him quizzically. Troy rushed to explain. “I mean, you know how he is. I’m not saying he’s hurting Shane or anything but do you think he forgets his own strength.” He looked down at the ground, suddenly embarrassed for some reason. 

“What, like in the bedroom?” Harris asked without shame. Troy shrugged and Wyatt’s jaw dropped. 

“Do you really think so?” Wyatt asked, squinting his all-powerful goalie eyes at the duo on the ice. 

“Maybe we should ask Shane,” Harris said firmly. Speculating was getting them nowhere. 

They waited until Shane was out of the shower and dressed before approaching him. By the way panic flared in his eyes, they probably looked like they were staging an intervention. 

“Rozy was crazy today,” Wyatt began tentatively. 

“Yeah,” Shane said slowly, narrowing his eyes. He bent forward to put on his shoes. “He’s an asshole.” 

Wyatt glanced at the others helplessly. He might’ve been Ilya’s friend but he had no idea how to talk about stuff like this. Luckily, Harris stepped in. “Is he like that at home?” 

“What? An asshole? Definitely.” Shane sat up and looked at the three of them suspiciously. “Why?” 

Harris shrugged and looked at Troy for backup. None of them knew how to go about this. “But he’s not too much of an asshole, right?” Troy bit his lip. “He doesn’t act the way he does on the ice in your, um, romantic life?” 

Shane stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. Then it dawned on him. A wide smile slowly spread across his face and he looked like he was fighting the urge to laugh. He looked over his shoulder and called, “Rozanov.” 

Ilya appeared out of nowhere with wet hair and a towel around his neck. “Да?” 

“Show these guys your back.” 

It was Ilya’s turn to laugh. He didn’t even question it. He simply turned around and tugged his shirt off. There were red scratch marks everywhere, from the smooth panes of his shoulder blades to the top of his hips, not to mention about a dozen hickeys. 

“Oh my God,” Harris said. Troy and Wyatt had already averted their eyes. 

“Jesus, Hollzy,” Troy muttered. Shane grinned proudly and patted Ilya’s back, signalling to him to drop his shirt again. 

“Ilya.” 

“You are gay, yes?” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Yeah, last time I checked.” He had no idea where this could be going. Ilya toyed with his crucifix, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking hard about something. 

“Who made you gay?” he asked finally. 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” 

“Who was the one that made you realize you like men?” Ilya’s face showed no hint of humor. Shane blushed and looked away. 

“You, obviously,” he said honestly, pushing down his embarrassment. 

“No, before that.” Ilya rolled over and pushed the duvet aside so he could look Shane in the eye. “What made you suspicious?” 

“Are you asking me who my first gay crush was?” Shane asked. He was having a hard time following Ilya’s line of thinking. Apparently he’d figured it out because Ilya’s eyes lit up. 

“Yes, that,” he said excitedly. 

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Why?” He already knew his answer but wasn’t sure if he could admit it out loud without wanting to die. Ilya shrugged innocently. 

“Just curious.” He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at Shane imploringly. “Well?” 

Shane sighed. Curious meant he was going to be badgered all evening unless he fessed up. He looked away pointedly and said in a flat voice, “Scott Hunter.” 

Shane had grown up around hockey and could vividly remember Hunter’s rookie season. The tall, bearded man with an incredible smile had captivated Shane so much that his teenage bedroom had been covered with posters of Hunter. He’d even gotten a number 21 jersey for his 15th birthday. He’d only realized later that his obsession with Scott Hunter went beyond admiring his skill. Shane waited for Ilya to say something. He glanced at him and realized Ilya’s mouth was hanging open. “What?” Shane asked defensively 

Ilya swallowed. “Me too.” 

Shane sat up. “What?” he repeated. 

Ilya laughed so hard that he had to clutch his side. “I saw his picture in hockey magazine Svetlana gave me,” he explained. 

“What about your coach’s son?” Shane asked, still in disbelief. Ilya waved a dismissive hand. 

“I never liked him. He was just a bit of fun.” 

“Huh.” Shane laid back down. He couldn’t believe it. “Scott Hunter.” 

“Scott Hunter,” Ilya echoed. He scooted closer so that he could put his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. They were quiet for a moment and Shane reveled in the feeling of Ilya’s breath against his neck. Ilya suddenly started laughing again. “We should tell him,” he said once he’d calmed down enough. Shane’s heart dropped at the idea. 

“No.” 

Ilya got up, grinning evilly. “Where is my phone?” 

“Ilya.” Shane sprang out of bed and lunged at Ilya before he could grab his phone. They spent the next ten minutes wrestling over the stupid phone until Ilya finally gave up and swore not to text Hunter. Their efforts were futile anyway. 

That same day, when Scott turned on his TV in his New York apartment, a segment came on about the Hollander/Rozanov rivalry. He smiled to himself. 

“What?” Kip asked, looking up from his book. 

Summary