Work Text:
"Viktor is your name? Isn't it?" Singed asked, rather abruptly cutting off one of the usual periods of silence that had stretched over the lab while the two of them had been busy focusing on their respective projects.
Viktor frowned at him for a very long moment, trying to make sense of the question and searching for hidden meanings which he ultimately failed to find. "Yes?" He replied eventually, unsteady and unsure. "I thought you'd known that for ages?" He muttered, a little disheartened which gave Singed the deep routed instinct to rush and reassure him.
Instead, he kept his answer as careful and composed as ever. "Of course, I was just double-checking." He explained himself, refocusing his attention back on his work, though Viktor didn't seem to be done with the conversation as he set his pen down on his paper.
"Why would you need to double-check?" The boy questioned, less offended and more curious now.
Of course, Singed had known the boy's name. Even when there had once been a language barrier, back when they'd first met, it had not been difficult for the boy to express what his name was to the doctor. And although it had taken him a while to learn how to spell it properly — it had required a few separate occasions of rubbing out 'c's for 'k's on the blackboard where Singed wrote up equations for the boy to solve for him to remember to stop spelling it 'Victor'. He'd asked the boy why he'd decided to spell his name this way, knowing that he'd previously only ever spelt it in his own language with an entirely different alphabet so had made the choice of the Piltovian spelling entirely on his own, and the boy had simply explained that 'Victor' didn't look right but 'Viktor' did. A 'k' was sharp where a 'c' was not. More similar to the original spelling from his native language. — he'd said it enough times for it to be cemented in his memory, along with the boy who he was sure he would never fail to remember no matter how much time passed, with or without him still in his presence (though he preferred the with).
"I came to drop off some medicine for you the other day and ended up speaking with your mother." Singed began, feeling it was appropriate to start off with context. Viktor has gotten sick the other week — which was not a rare occurrence. The boy was naturally very sickly and his immune system wasn't the best. — and he hadn't shown up at the lab for a good few days so Singed had decided to drop off some new books and medicine for him while he was down to do his usual shopping at the market.
"She didn't say anything embarrassing, did she?" Viktor frowned nervously, "Her Piltovian still isn't the best, I'm trying to teach her but... she works a lot. There isn't much time."
"No, not at all." Singed reassured him, "I understood her just fine. I was just a little confused because when she spoke about you, she didn't call you Viktor, but rather something else."
The boy's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh! Was it 'Vitya'?"
"Ah, that sounds about right." Singed nodded.
"That's still my name, or well, it's like a nickname, I suppose." He explained, "In our language, calling someone their proper name is quite formal, so we use nicknames instead. For example, my mother's name is Sonya, but people call her Sonechka, Sonyusha, or Sonka. And for my name, people call me Vitya, like my mother does, but there are others such as Vitusha, Vitenka, Vitiok."
"How about your father? What does he call you?" Singed questioned, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Insults." The boy winced. Singed decided it would not be appropriate to laugh so he gave the boy a sympathetic smile instead
"Ah, well, thank you for the language lesson. Rather interesting." Singed commented, sensing the conversation was finished now that his question had been answered.
There was a slight pause before Viktor spoke up again, suddenly seeming rather nervous. "Maybe you could call me Vitya, if you'd like... Just like my mother does."
Singed glanced over at the boy. He was staring down at the desk and picking at his fingers, pointedly avoiding any eye contact or even looking in the direction of the man he was speaking to. But even still, there was a hopefulness to him, like a child offering up a new colourful picture to go on the fridge.
"Daddy! Look what I made!"
"Ah, how beautiful, Ori."
The doctor said nothing and tried not to acknowledge the way the child wilted beside him the longer his silence stretched.
And when a few days later, he said a quick "Hello, Viktor." to the boy as he entered the lab, he also tried not to acknowledge how disheartened he looked to hear his own name.
It was not his place to be soft, Singed reminded himself.
He could feel as guilty as possible for tossing aside the vulnerable offer the boy had given him, but it still was not his place to be soft.
This child was not his.