Summary:

One day the drawers in Shane's kitchen turned on him. One by one they all turned squeaky and slow. And of course, the fucking repair guy is on vacation for the next week and a half. or. Overstimulated Shane and Softy Sweety Ilya. Shane stood at the stove stirring oatmeal with slow, methodical motions while Ilya leaned against the island in a pair of sweatpants that should have been retired years ago. “Too many blueberries, relax.” Shane said without looking up. “There is no such thing.” “There absolutely is when you are feeding all of them to the dog.” Anya looked up immediately at the sound of her title, enormous brown eyes alert and hopeful. The tiny girl sat perfectly between Ilya’s feet, tail brushing rapidly against the hardwood. “She is starving. my poor baby” Ilya informed him solemnly. “She ate breakfast already.” “She is growing girl.” “She’s six.” “Still growing, where you done growing at six? Did not think so.” Shane snorted quietly. Ilya grinned at the sound. It had been almost two months since they’d gotten married and somehow mornings still felt strange in the best possible way. Domesticity had settled over their lives slowly. It was coffee mugs left beside the sink. Grocery lists. Arguing over laundry settings until Shane pouted and Ilya caved. Falling asleep together every night without worrying who might find out. It was oatmeal on a Tuesday morning. Shane liked routines. He liked knowing what came next. His therapist called it grounding structure. Shane called it not feeling insane all the time. Ilya understood that now in a way he hadn’t ten years ago. “Did you answer Hayden?” Shane asked. “Mhm.” “What did he say about dinner Friday?” “He says if we make quinoa again he is not coming.” “That was one time.” “And it was awful the one time.” “You had three servings.” “Because I was hungry, not because quinoa deserves to be in my mouth, unlike other things.” Shane rolled his eyes. Anya huffed dramatically when no more blueberries appeared. “Oh, now she suffers.” Ilya murmured sympathetically, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “Cruel father deprives tiny princess.” “She’s getting to big.” “She is sturdy.” “She’s twelve pounds.” “Is all muscle. Isn't it малышка.” The oatmeal thickened enough for Shane’s liking. He turned the burner down and reached automatically toward the silverware drawer. The moment he pulled it open, the drawer let out a violent high-pitched shriek. It was sharp and metallic and unbearably loud. The sound ripped through the kitchen. Shane screamed. A full, horrified scream tore out of him as his entire body seized. It was like being burned. If had heard this in public he might have grimaced and bit into his lip way too hard, but he was at home. He could do this. The drawer slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cabinets. “Oh, fuck.” Ilya blurted. Shane had already stumbled backward, hands flying over his ears. His breathing turned ragged instantly, face drained white beneath the freckles scattered across his nose. “Shanya—” “Nope.” His voice cracked harshly. “Nope nope nope.”