Chapter Text
Shane Hollander didn't expect his entire world to upend today, but then, these things can't be predicted.
It starts normal enough. The sun is bright and Shane struggles not to squint. He looks directly into the camera with an earnest smile.
“And with your help, we can help the people of Lac-Cartier rebuild,” he says. He gestures at the surroundings for emphasis. He’s standing in what used to be the town square, but is now the ground zero for a disaster zone. “For the next two weeks, Rozanov and I will match all donations made.”
It’s the ninth time he’s said the line, and the words are beginning to get jumbled in his mouth. He pushes through. For a good cause.
Unfortunately, his scene partner isn’t as patient. “Why do we do this again?” Rozanov complains. “Is good enough first time. Is good every time.”
“Cut,” the director sighs.
Shane slumps, blowing hot air onto his numb hands. He’s tired. This whole endeavour has been tiring, and he tries not to let it show. Complaining about his own hardships while residents line up in the freezing cold for clean water is, ostensibly, not a good look.
For a good cause, he tells himself again. The northern Quebecois township of Lac-Cartier has been recently devastated by a spate of floods, and the League had the brilliant idea of teaming up with a local charity to raise awareness for the situation.
In theory, this is something that Shane can totally get behind. He’s no stranger to being in front of a camera, and it’s nice that it’s for charity, instead of the usual cologne ads or sneaker brand deals. In practice, however, the whole trip has been miserable. Travelling was the first issue; the nearest airstrip was a four-hour drive away, and the drive to Lac-Cartier was over pitted, unkind roads. Even worse, the director of this shoot is wildly picky, demanding they do take after take in pursuit of perfection. Those aren’t the real problems, though.
The real problem is who the League decided to send for this particular TV spot.
It makes sense, Shane has to admit. Both he and Rozanov are free; neither of their teams made it past the first round of playoffs, and so their schedules are wide open. More importantly, seeing Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, arch-rivals on the ice, teaming up for the good cause—it sends the right kind of message. With their assistance, Lac-Cartier can finally begin to rebuild.
Unfortunately, it means spending all day in close proximity to Ilya Rozanov.
They haven’t talked since Vegas. Not really. Not since Shane, feeling pathetic and sad, almost texted something unbearably stupid to Rozanov: we didn’t even kiss. Even thinking of it now makes Shane shudder with embarrassment. Despite all he’s done to prevent it, sometimes his omega instincts show up in the most unexpected ways.
Such as: being ridiculously needy with a hookup who doesn’t owe him anything.
Needy. Clingy. All the hallmarks of being an omega—all the things that Shane has worked day in and day out to suppress.
Shane rolls his head back, trying to clear it. The cold is making him stiff and sore.
Rozanov cuts him a glance. “What is wrong, Hollander?”
Other than being stuck in the middle of nowhere with you? “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Let’s just—get through this, alright?”
“Let’s go for another,” the director calls from behind the camera. “More passion, Shane! More passion!”
Rozanov leans in. “Someone should tell this guy that he is no Spielberg,” he mutters.
Shane laughs.
…
By the time they’re done filming, it’s nighttime. Snow falls in big, fluffy clumps. Shane eyes the sky uneasily. If the weather gets any worse, they might not be able to fly out. Hell, they might not even make it to the airstrip.
Someone nudges him. “Worried about a little snow, Hollander? Here I thought you are good Canadian boy.” He grins crookedly. “Is too bad we fly home tonight. No time to… catch up.”
It’s the usual teasing, but something about Ilya calling him good boy makes Shane’s whole body shudder. He throttles the motion, violently. Stop it, he tells himself. “It’s not a little snow,” he replies. “We might get stranded.”
Rozanov snorts. “So dramatic.”
Shane closes his eyes briefly. Tired. He’s tired, and that’s why he feels like shit. He’s achy, hot and cold at the same time. His mouth is dry. “Excuse me,” he mutters, pushing past Rozanov, needing the space.
The film crew’s home base is a stone church, one of the few buildings in Lac-Cartier that hasn’t been altered by the floods. The crew is busy packing up their gear, placing cameras and lights and lenses into pelican cases. It’s clear they’re in a hurry. Everyone is trying to beat the storm. Shane knows he should be in his rental car right now, driving down the pitted two-lane highway, but Jesus Christ, he needs a moment. He’s feeling worse by the minute.
So he goes to the bathroom. There’s no running water, of course, and that’s a damn shame because Shane would love nothing more than to splash his face and snap out of it. Instead, he stares at himself in the mirror. Sweat lingers on his temples. His eyes are glassy and febrile. Shit, maybe he is coming down with something. A cold, or the flu. Just his luck. At least he’s got Advil in his bag—
Advil. Medicine. A ping goes through Shane, half-revelation and half-panic. His pills. He took them last night, right? Didn’t he?
He looks at himself again, and thinks: no fucking way.
Shane is a creature of habit, and this last-minute flight to Nowhere, Quebec is not part of his routine. He tries to think back, remember what he was doing at this time yesterday. Packing his travel bag, yes. But did he take his daily suppressants?
The answer comes to him. No. In the rush of it all, he forgot. Like an idiot, Shane Hollander forgot to take his medication.
No wonder he feels so weird. Without the pills suppressing the natural rhythms of his body, he’s screwed. He’s entering preheat.
“Shit,” Shane says. “Shit, shit, shit.”
This can be remedied. Surely he remembered to bring his little white pillbox. It’s not advised, but if an omega forgets a dose, he can correct it by taking a double dose the next day. He’ll feel a bit woozy and nauseous, but that’s better than what’s currently happening.
“Hollander?” Someone is knocking on the door. It’s Rozanov, of course. “You in there?”
Shane groans and presses his forehead to the cool surface of the mirror. Rozanov’s voice is doing things to him. His skin feels itchy and overly warm. It shouldn’t be happening this fast, but maybe being near the presence of an alpha is, sort of, accelerating the process. Just his goddamn luck.
"Hollander?"
Shane doesn't reply, tries to spin up a lie. He can't tell Rozanov the truth; Rozanov doesn’t know that Shane is an omega.
No one in the League knows. Sure, the NHL is theoretically progressive—the ban on omegas playing was repealed in the 90s—but he doesn’t want to test it. There have been no ‘out’ omegas in the NHL, ever, and Shane doesn’t want to be the first. He has no inclination to trailblaze. His credibility would be ruined first off; his team, his beloved Metros, a group of brilliant and rowdy and incredibly dominant alphas, would never rally behind an omega as their captain. Instead, Shane masquerades as a beta, using a strict regimen of hormone suppressants, scent blockers, and every trick in the book to hide. It hasn’t been easy, but it has worked.
He’d even fooled Rozanov.
Now, his own stupidity threatens to tear it all down. Everything he’s built. Everything he’s worked for.
“Go away!” Shane says.
There’s a long pause. Shane hopes that Ilya has done exactly that. Then: “What is wrong, Hollander?”
Shane takes a deep breath. Looks at himself in the mirror, one last time. It’s still early preheat, and he’s wearing a lot of layers of clothing. There’s a good chance his scent isn’t strong enough to permeate. He treats the whole thing like an obstacle course; get past Rozanov, get to the car, find his pills. Easy. No problem. He puts on the hood of his parka for extra protection, then opens the door.
Rozanov says, “Hollander—!” But Shane is already walking by, which is harder than it should be, because his hormones do not want to leave the vicinity of this alpha.
Shane ignores everything and charges outside.
It’s the kind of dry, icy cold that hurts on every inhale, and Shane ignores this too. The snow is getting worse, and visibility is poor. He beelines straight for his rental car, a grey Subaru on the edge of the makeshift lot. He’s vaguely aware of Rozanov calling after him, equal parts indignant and bewildered—
“Hollander? What is your problem?”
—and instead goes straight for the trunk, where he keeps his duffel. Frantically he finds the medicine bag. Christ, his fingers are numb. It’s unbearably cold, but he rifles as fast as he can. Advil, check. Benadryl, check. Miniature first aid kit, check. But where are his suppressants? Not here, evidently.
He looks again. He overturns the whole bag and dumps it all out. Shane is usually so fastidious, and it’s a testament to his desperation that he doesn’t care about the mess. He paws through the pile of clothing and toiletries. Misery is tangible, a lump in his throat, a pounding behind his eyes.
“No,” he mutters. “No fucking way.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Shane jumps.
Rozanov is standing right behind him, peering at the mess in the car. “Ah, did you forget your special disgusting protein bars or something? Do not worry, you will survive.”
“Fuck off,” Shane snaps, closing the trunk. Shit, shit, shit. Alarm bells are tolling in his head. He’s forgotten his suppressants. He’s forgotten them, and there’s a blizzard, and he’s very far from home, far from a doctor who can help—far from anyone who can help. This is the middle of nowhere, the edge of civilization. There are no helpful heat facilities nearby, stocked with the necessary toys and materials to assist a wayward omega. Staying in Lac-Cartier is out of the question; the town is reeling from a disaster and not a safe place to spend a heat.
So, then: Plan B.
Plan B is driving like a maniac to the airstrip, and praying for the weather to clear up. Preheat usually lasts a day, so if Shane is able to fly out tonight, then he should arrive in Montreal just in time. At least he’ll have options in the city.
An anxious part of Shane whispers, What if the blizzard gets worse?
Then it’s Plan C.
Plan C is to drive as far as he can, pull over somewhere safe-ish (gas station? Walmart parking lot? Fuck, the options aren’t great), and deal with his heat alone. In a rental car. In the middle of nowhere.
Jesus. Shane doesn’t know if he’ll survive Plan C, but it’s all he’s got.
“Hollander…?”
Rozanov is looking at him with something like concern, but that’s impossible. Concern isn’t part of the equation. They meet up, they fuck, and they hate each other in public. That’s how it goes.
“Storm’s getting worse,” says Shane. “You should go.”
“Yes, I should,” Rozanov replies, “but first I make sure you’re okay.”
“That I’m okay?” Incredulous. Shane wants to laugh. Now Ilya Rozanov cares?
Rozanov scoffs. “Because you are acting crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. Go away.” And just to prove his point, Shane once again walks away from the alpha. He gets into his car, slams the door shut, and starts the engine.
Click-click-click-click—
He turns the key again.
The car whines and sputters. It doesn't turn on. He tries it again. And again. Each time, the engine makes a sad little clicking noise. The Subaru is dead.
No. Shane sort of feels like crying. He decides he must have done something truly, unforgivably atrocious in a past life, and this is the moment where he pays for it. It’s the perfect storm, literally, a perfect series of awful mistakes and bad coincidences. This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening. No pills. No way home.
“Car trouble?” Rozanov calls, because of course he’s still there, standing outside the driver’s side and watching all this go down. “Is the cold. Kills battery.”
“Yes, I know that,” Shane snaps.
“What? Cannot hear you. Window closed.”
Shane shuts his eyes and leans forward. Every passing minute, he’s more aware of his own body, and how wrong it feels. He’s wearing too much clothing, and it’s all so scratchy against his oversensitive skin. The headache is getting worse.
Shane centres himself, taking a few deep breaths. Then he opens the door and steps into the cold once more. Subtly, he positions himself downwind.
“Do you have jumper cables?” he asks.
Rozanov shakes his head. “No. Rental does not have.”
“Shit. Neither do I.”
“Is no problem.” Rozanov holds up his own keys. “I can drive. Get your things.”
Shane stares at him, stares at the keys. The temperature is continuing to drop, and the wind—and the snow—are picking up, howling with a fervour exclusive to the vicious Canadian tundra. Accepting Rozanov’s offer is dangerous, but this current situation is untenable. Shane has no choice.
“Fine.”
He only hopes he can make it.