Drabble inspired by this post cause the vision wouldn't leave my head
"Uh, you can't smoke inside."
This seems like a perfectly reasonable prerequisite to Shane, but the man standing on his doorstep gives him a droll look like Shane's just said something amusing, lip twitching around his lit cigarette.
"Good morning," the man says, speaking out of the corner of his mouth since the aforementioned cigarette is still clenched between his teeth. He has an accent. Russian, maybe?
Shane shifts slightly, unsettled. Okay, maybe it was kind of rude to immediately open the door and start giving out orders, but in his defense, showing up to work after lighting up was just as inconsiderate.
Still, Shane was raised by Yuna Hollander. His manners kick in, albeit with some reluctance: "Good morning," he amends, begrudgingly. "Please put out your cigarette."
The man's lip twitches again. He reaches up and pinches the cigarette between his thickly knuckled thumb and forefinger. He then proceeds to stub out the cigarette with the sole of his beat up boots, briefly balancing on one foot to do so, before tucking it behind his ear.
The idea that the man was saving the cigarette to smoke later after he'd just put it out using his shoe is patently disgusting. Shane tries to keep his revulsion off his face, though. The man was going to be working inside his home for the next couple of hours, after all. Best to keep things civil, even if they've gotten off to an unpromising start.
This is what Shane gets for trusting word of mouth for hired help, he supposes. He's really only got himself to blame.
With a short exhale, Shane beckons the man inside with a jerk of his head, opening the door wider so he can step over the threshold.
The man does so, briefly adjusting his ball cap over his mop of curls. He's still sporting that faint smirk, like he's laughing at some private joke, not a hint of contrition anywhere on his face.
The man brushes past, the width of both their shoulders making it pretty impossible for them not to touch, not unless Shane plasters himself against the wall of the entryway, which would just be absurd.
Shane shuts the front door a little harder than strictly necessary, already prickling with annoyance. Clearly, it was going to be a long day.
As if getting knocked out of the playoffs wasn't bad enough, Shane had returned home to a strange damp smell and a sink surrounded by a pool of stagnant water.
Now, instead of licking his wounds in private, Shane is forced to supervise while a stranger lies on his back on Shane's kitchen tiles on top of some hastily arranged towels and rummages around in the closet underneath his kitchen sink.
Shane is trying not to tap his foot impatiently, but really. The man has yet to say anything, but how long could this possibly take? It isn't exactly rocket science.
"Well?" Shane eventually bursts out, after another minute of silent rummaging.
The man crawls his way out from under the sink. He'd taken off his ball cap before he'd gotten on the floor, so his angular stubbled face isn't shadowed when he looks up at Shane.
'What?" Shane is briefly so taken aback by the crude language that the sentence doesn't even register. But when it does, his annoyance flares anew: "Obviously I know it's fucked, that's why I called you."
There's that infuriating expression again, like the man just heard a joke at Shane's expense. "No, I mean the whole pipe is fucked. Will need to buy a new part."
"Oh." Shane crosses his arms, flummoxed. "How long is that going to take?"
The man shrugs one bulging shoulder. "I can stop by the store now, pick it up, come back. Take fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe."
"Well which is it, fifteen minutes or twenty?"
Brilliant. This is just what Shane needs. "Fine. Go get the part."
The man pushes up off the floor, rising to his feet. He and Shane are probably of a height on even ground, but in his heavy soled work boots, the man is taller. He adjusts the tool belt threaded through the belt loops of his faded, paint splattered jeans. Then, he extends his hand expectantly.
When Shane just shoots him a bewildered look, he snorts.
"I need cash," he says, slowly, like prompting a small child. "For the part."
Face burning, Shane pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his slacks. "How much do you need?" If Shane's voice comes out a little testy, well, he can't exactly be blamed - obviously, he's being tested.
The man tells him the amount. Shane forks over the cash.
Then, the man... counts the bills in front of him? Like Shane might not be good for it.
Shane can do nothing but stand there, bristling with outrage, as the man quickly thumbs over Shane's crisp bills.
"Is it all there?" Shane grits out when the man reaches the end of the stack.
The man looks at Shane from beneath eyelids that have slitted to half mast. "Yup," he says, popping the p obnoxiously.
"Don't worry," he adds, after pocketing the cash, "I'll make sure to bring back the change."
There's something about the man's tone that makes Shane's stomach squirm, like he's being teased, except he can't quite pinpoint what for.
"Good," Shane says eventually, floundering, when it looks like the man is waiting for a response, "you do that."
The man's responding grin is slow and bares most of his teeth. He has surprisingly sharp canines.
Shane turns on his heel abruptly, heading for the archway that opens up into the adjoining room - no point standing around the kitchen for 'fifteen maybe twenty' minutes.
Shane pauses, turns back around. The man is leaning against the island, hip cocked.
"My name. It is Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. Since you did not ask."
Shane knows that when he flushes, his whole face goes red all the way down to the back of his neck. He can feel it happening now, without even knowing why. The man's - Ilya's - voice is not particularly chastising, but Shane feels scolded regardless. It puts him on the defensive.
"Okay, well," Shane blusters, "is that all?"
Ilya cocks his head. He flicks a long, scrolling look up and down the length of Shane's body. Shane experiences a strange electric awareness of the dragging path of his gaze. He feels strangely frozen by it.
When Ilya has had his full of Shane and his athleisure wear, he clicks his tongue. "You are very rude," he says, almost thoughtful. The thick burr of his accent scrapes against Shane's raw nerves: "Is a pity. Spoils your pretty face."
And then he's pushing off the counter and walking away, tool belt jangling with every step.
The front door slams closed, echoing into Shane's stunned, scorched silence.
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