Chapter Text
Ilya crouched in front of her as she slumped against the wall, cup of water held out in front of him like it could protect him from this fucking shitshow.
“Okay, Rose - can you drink this please? Slowly slowly…”
Most of it ended up spilled down her front but who knew, maybe that would be sobering?
“Do I - do I know you?” Her head fell to the side, glassy eyes unfocussed as she searched for recognition. Not that sobering.
“No. I mean, maybe. I'm… friends with… Hollander. Shane.” Jesus Christ, could he have said it in a way that sounded more fake? But what truth could he tell? And when her eyes lit up at that, some happy lucidity summoned by the mention of Shane's name, at least she wasn't present enough to hear the crack as the last fragments of Ilya's stupid fucking heart shattered on the cold concrete.
“Then why haven't I met you before?” Good question. Because we're not friends, Ilya didn't say. Because he hates me. Because I love him. Because I hate you.
“We have all been very busy, yes? But now we are meeting. Look, we should call him. Do you have your phone?”
She spread her hands pathetically. No, she had nothing. No bag, no jacket, no pockets, not even a bra to shove her phone in. She looked like her tits were going to freeze right off, honestly.
“Okay” - not at all okay - “put on this jacket, sweetheart, and then I will call him.”
He couldn't maneuver her clumsy arms into the sleeves of the blazer, so he had to settle for tucking it around her shoulders. Turning away, still trained by eight years of paranoia, his thumb jabbed the call button on Jane's contact. Ignored. He tried again. Ignored. Again. Ignored. It felt almost like meditation. The soft buzz when he hit the call button, the same 6 rings, the same generic answering machine. Again. Again. Ignored. Ignored. He could have gone on all night, but Rose Landry chattering behind him brought him back.
“I know who you are.” Her hair pooled in the dent behind her collarbone as she tilted her head at him. Ilya couldn't stand it.
“Oh, do you?”
“You're Ilya Rozanov. You're good at hockey!” She shouldn't be smiling at him like that, freely and genuinely, as if it cost her nothing. He smiled painfully back at her.
“Do not let Hollander hear you say that.”
“So are you and Shane like, friends from work?”
She giggled, and it was beautiful and soft and humiliating.
“Is that what he said about me?”
That puzzled her for a second. “No… he didn't say anything about you.”
God, he wished she was meaner. He wished she was ripping him apart on purpose.
“Oh, you look sad,” her shoes scraped loudly on the ground as she tried to stumble to her feet. “We should dance!”
“Ah, no,” he caught her as she fell forward, and lowered her gently back down. “I am okay. How do you feel?”
“I'm good,” she drawled, flopping onto his shoulder. “I feel silly. Where is everyone?”
Ilya wished he knew. Hollander was not answering him. Obviously. Rose was going to freeze to death out here before she sobered up, but he desperately needed the okay from someone who wasn't high and vulnerable before he, what, kidnapped her? Took her somewhere? Warm? Fuck.
“I don't know, but I am going to find someone for you, okay? Hey, would you like to make a new friend? On the phone?”
He was confusing her, he knew, but he desperately needed a moment to think. She nodded cautiously.
“Svetlana,” she had picked up on the first ring, the angel, “I need you to talk to someone, to keep her calm for a minute while I work out what to do.”
“Ilya? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I'm at the club, this girl has been spiked, I think, I'm trying to call her boyfriend but he's not answering. Can you please talk to her while I work it out?”
“Yes, shit, of course. Why is her boyfriend not answering her calls? Are you sure she's okay to go home with him when you find him?”
“I'm in Montréal, where else can I send her home to? Svetlana, don't freak out.”
"I'm not! Why would I freak out?”
“She's Rose Landry.”
Svetlana freaked out. “What the fuck? Oh my god, Rose Landry. Why are you with Rose Landry, you don't even like her! Wait so… this is Shane Hollander who is ignoring his girlfriend's calls?”
Ilya groaned. He should let this tiny smear on Shane's reputation stand.
“No… he's ignoring mine.” He switched to English before she could respond. “Okay I'm putting you on FaceTime now! Be nice! Rose, this is my friend Svetlana, she's going to talk to you for a little bit.”
Rose took the phone, wide eyed.
“I couldn't understand you talking before, but now I understand you! I thought maybe I'd got suuuuuper drunk really quickly.”
“I was just saying hello to Ilya in Russian,” Svetlana laughed, “don't worry, I don't think you're that drunk.”
“Wow… ‘hello’ in Russian is very long to say.”
Svetlana moved past that very quickly. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose, I think you're amazing! Wow your dress is so pretty! Where did you get it?”
Svetlana was probably enjoying this too much. Rose was immediately entranced, and Ilya allowed himself to sink to the ground beside her. The longer he kept her out here in this freezing smoking area, the weirder it looked, Marlow guarding the door like a watchdog. But she was simply too famous to take back inside in this state – he could not let the tabloids splash photos of her like this in the morning. Fucking Hollander had probably fucking blocked his number.
“Don't worry about Jane calling, keep talking to me,” he heard Svetlana telling her. What?! Yes, fucking worry about Jane calling! He saw the call banner as it disappeared at the top of the screen. Shit. But if he was finally calling Ilya back, maybe he'd answer an unknown number? This conversation might be easier if Rose was too occupied to listen anyway.
He stuck his head through the door. “Marly, I need your phone right now.” Surprised but obedient, he handed it over immediately. Ilya's captain voice was still working at least. He was horrified to discover he could type Shane's number from memory. The soft buzz of the call button again. Shane picked up on the first ring.
“Hollander, you actual dickhead, where are you?”
The relief that he'd finally answered his damn phone was short-lived.
“What the fuck? What the fuck? You've rung me sixty-eight times? To shout at me and ask where I am? Why? Want to come here and ruin my life?”
Why did Hollander sound like such a raw mess? What did he have to worry about? If he was hysterical already he was not going to like what came next.
“Where are you? Come to the smoking area where Marlow is guarding the door. You need to help Rose.”
“What?” His voice had changed in an instant. Still scratchy but so so cold.
“Someone has drugged her, I think,” he continued quietly, glancing at Rose. “The drug in the drink? She is okay, she will be okay, but she is a mess, she cannot be here, she needs to be at home.”
Silence spilled from the phone for a moment.
“I drove home already,” admitted Shane. “I'm getting back in the car now, but it'll take 40 minutes.”
“No, that's too long.” Ilya pushed up from the ground, looking helplessly around the freezing gray sliver of outside they were hunkering in.
“Fuck! Where is Miles?”
“Miles is… gone home also.” Miles had disappeared into the shadows and then out of the door with a beautiful man, but he didn't think he could tell Shane that. Or explain why he'd watched it happen so closely. Or admit that he'd considered that kissing Miles might make Shane the most jealous of all.
“Okay, okay. Shit. Can you take her back to her hotel? I can meet you there.”
Fuck, how could he explain to sweet little Hollander? “I cannot go to her hotel like this. She has no phone, no cards, no hotel key, she is wearing stupid little dress.” This felt mean, she was right there. He took a few steps away and whispered, "She is ok but she cannot walk without everyone seeing her underwear. She is like a baby on the ice. You understand? Everybody knows I am some sort of playboy. I cannot walk to the front desk of a hotel with Shane Hollander's wasted girlfriend all over me and say ‘Hello, yes, take me to her hotel room please.’”
That would ruin all three of their lives.
“Don't call her that,” Shane snapped.
Ilya's mouth fell open. “You are serious? An hour ago you were kissing her in front of me. Now I cannot say she is your girlfriend?”
“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.” One of Ilya's many blessings was that he could reconstruct an exact image of any of Shane's facial expressions. Right now he could see his furious eyes, the crumpling of his nose so clearly in his mind. He wanted… “I wasn't… just shut up about that,” Shane left no time for his distraction, “I mean – don't say it like you would do that if she was someone else.”
Silent seconds ticked by.
“I have to take her to your secret apartment, Hollander. It's much closer, and no one will see,” he said as gently as he could.
“I know. Fuck.” Was that defeat or relief? “I'll go there now. Are you getting a taxi? I'll be there first to let you in.”
“Yes. I can…” Ilya was so glad that Shane couldn't see his own face twisting now. “If you don't want me to be alone in the taxi with her, I can bring Marlow too. But then he will know about your apartment.”
Shane didn't answer for a second. Then – “Are you actually stupid? You think that I think… you think that I don't trust you to sit in a car with Rose? Don't bring Marlow, Jesus Christ. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to Rose, okay?”
“Okay okay. Give me one moment and I will call you back on speaker.”
He felt dizzy hanging up; adrenaline, panic, irritation, and the aching sadness he refused to acknowledge dripping from him like sweat. He ordered the taxi quickly and flung his phone and an explanation to Marly, sinking to his knees next to Rose. She was now chatty and pliable and far, far too affectionate.
“Okay, Rose, we're going to talk to Shane now, and then we're going to take a taxi to see him, so he can look after you, okay? So we need to say goodbye to Svetlana.” Svetlana who was watching him too closely. “So we can call him.”
“Okay, yay, Shane! Goodbye, Svetlana, I love you,” Rose gushed, clinging to Ilya's arm as he gently took the phone from her hand.
“Goodbye, Svetlana,” echoed Ilya, “I love you, thank you, I owe you everything in the world.”
“Goodbye Rose! Love you. I love you too Ilya. You owe me a phone call tomorrow where you explain a lot of things.”
He could already hear the horn of the taxi as he rang Shane again.
“Okay Rozanov, put me on speakerphone.”
Shane's voice felt impossibly loud and impossibly distant as Ilya helped Rose to her unsteady feet.
“It's okay babe, everything is going to be alright…”
Ilya wondered if he could add a stop to their journey by some friendly bridge he could throw himself off.
“... get in the taxi with Ilya, ok, he's going to bring you to me.”
Oh, no need, Shane was going to kill him first. Rose leaned into him, too familiar and too trusting, as he pulled open the taxi door and belted her in, settling the jacket over her legs. He flung in the phone as well, to give himself three seconds of reprieve from Shane's sweet reassurances as he stomped around to his own door.