It hits Shane one evening, when they’re relaxing together on the couch in the house they own together, that he’s achieved something he didn’t even consciously realise he had set as a goal.
He’s created a place where Ilya feels safe.
To some extent, Shane knew they sort of always had something like that - in 1410, in 1221, in countless hotel rooms that then became the homes they had separately, in Boston and Montreal - but this, obviously, is different. It’s different in the best way.
He looks down at Ilya, fast asleep with his head in Shane’s lap, covered in a blanket. His eyelashes are so long. There’s no furrow in his brow, and his mouth is just slightly open. He makes the kind of snuffling, clicky noises that he only makes when he’s sleeping really comfortably and really well.
This is a house they share. Ilya’s stuff is safe here. Their dog is safe here. Ilya can fall asleep on Shane’s lap on the couch with the knowledge that he’s safe and loved and cared for in every single moment. He doesn’t have to tiptoe around or worry about someone’s mood or censor himself in the way that Shane imagines he had to do when he was a child, after Irina passed and the house lost all its warmth. Here, Ilya and everything he is is treasured. He’s safe.
Shane smiles and wraps a finger around a loose curl, scritches at his scalp gently enough that it doesn’t wake him. Ilya purrs a little in his sleep. They’re all good here.
