And a child that's born on a Christmas day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

It's a cold night – of course it is, it's winter and Yakov's lucky the snow has started to let up – and he really doesn't have any reason to be out walking in it except that maybe it will help clear his head after a long day and get his mind off of missing Lilia, who is currently far away in Paris. The quiet is nice, at least; there's nothing quite like a snow-covered park, the ground glinting in the glow from the lights and the full moon illuminating everything so that it's almost as bright as day.

He has to pause to adjust his hat when a strong breeze tries to lift it from his head, and perhaps that's the only reason he notices something strange in the corner of his eye when he looks up again. There's a shadow under an evergreen tree, and it's dark enough there and far enough away that Yakov has to stare to try and figure out what it is. An animal? A lost coat propped up on the snow? But then it moves slightly and turns, and he realizes that it's a child.

There's no reason at all for a child to be out so late on a night like this, especially alone. Yakov frowns and starts to stomp his way over, calling out. He attracts the child's attention – it's definitely a kid, maybe six or seven years old – who stares at him but doesn't reply or even get up. As Yakov draws closer, he realizes that the kid (a boy, he thinks) isn't even dressed for the weather; he has on a long-sleeved shirt, but no coat or anything else. He must be freezing!

Yakov hurries over. "Where are your parents?" he asks, and the boy tips his head back as Yakov kneels next to him, but doesn't answer. "Where are you from? What's your name?" He revises his estimate of the boy's age down a year or two – he's small – and starts to undo his scarf. "Aren't you cold? Did you lose your coat?" Does he have hypothermia? Did he start pulling off his winter clothes because he felt hot? Is that why he isn't talking? But he looks fairly alert – he's watching Yakov quite closely – and although he's pale, he doesn't look blue, as far as Yakov can tell in this lighting. He's not even shivering.

No reply, though, until he wraps his scarf around the boy's neck. The boy touches it – no gloves, either – and smiles at him. Then he says something Yakov can't understand at all. He doesn't even recognize the language.

"Do you speak Russian? English?" He tries a couple of others, but the boy only says more words in that unfamiliar language. It sounds strange, lyrical and with odd combinations of sounds.

Well. Understandable or not, he can't very well leave a young child to die of exposure. "Can you walk?" he asks, and the same as before, there's no answer. He stands up and takes the boy's hand instead, helps him stand as well. He does so stiffly, but after shaking his legs out, he seems fine. He takes a clumsy step when Yakov tugs him along.

And then on his next step, he trips over himself and falls into fresh snow. He laughs and makes no move to get up; Yakov sighs and starts to unbutton his coat. Looking around for any other clue to the boy's identity or what he's doing here, he notices something else that's odd: the snow in the area that the boy was sitting in is tamped down in a rough circle next to the tree. But there's only one set of footprints leading to that circle, and those are from Yakov coming over to investigate. There's not even the depression of old footprints being filled in by the snow, and it hasn't been snowing that heavily for the past few hours now.

There should be some hint as to how the boy got to the middle of the park. Surely he didn't simply drop out of the sky. He can't have been sitting here for hours and hours, unnoticed, either, if he isn't frozen half to death. If he only recently lost his outerwear, there's no sign of it anywhere nearby; on the other hand, if he's been without it for a while, then again, how is he not hypothermic?

He doesn't know what to make of it. But there's something more important to take care of right now.

Yakov finishes unbuttoning his coat and tosses it around the boy's shoulders. It practically swallows him, and the boy clutches at it and smiles more widely at Yakov. He doesn't seem distressed at all. When Yakov picks him up, he reaches for his neck and looks around, says something again, like he's excited about his newfound height.

Yakov tromps back to his previous path. In the moonlight, the boy's hair is shining like it's silver, and his eyes are wide and striking. He's round-cheeked, looking happy and well-fed. Surely someone misses him?

The boy finishes looking around and snuggles into his shoulder. Yakov has the sudden urge to take him home and keep him. It's an absurd thought; the boy's not his, of course he can't just take him, and even if he could, Lilia isn't here and she doesn't much like young children, and Yakov isn't that attached to them. He has no idea where the thought came from.

A gust of wind nearly blows his hat off once more. Yakov shifts the boy's weight so he can push it back on. The boy laughs, reaching for the dancing snowflakes with one tiny hand.

Yakov can't remember where the nearest police station is. It's cold without his coat. The apartment is close. Looking at the boy, he can't help but suddenly think that surely it won't hurt to warm him up a bit and wrap him in something that isn't Yakov's own coat before he calls the police to report a lost child.

It's not a long walk, and it's good to get inside, out of the wind and snow. The boy peers around curiously when Yakov carries him into the kitchen and untangles him from the coat and scarf. Even in this light, his hair is silver – not pale blond, and not grey – and it's very fine, the boy's overgrown haircut catching the air as he swivels his head back and forth. When Yakov puts him down, he follows him around the room. Between his odd hair and the way he walks, like he's only just learned how his legs move, catching himself on Yakov or the cabinets every few steps, Yakov wonders if he's ill. He's no expert on small children, but one as old as this boy looks to be should know how to walk properly.

He feels about half a second of unease before the boy pushes into his side again. He's so cold where he presses against Yakov's hand. However he got under that tree, however it is that he doesn't seem bothered by how low his temperature is, bringing him out of the weather outside was the right thing to do.

Yakov puts some water on to heat. "What's your name?" he asks as he waits for it to boil, though he knows the boy won't understand. He kneels down, points at himself, and says his own name slowly to give the boy an idea of what he means.

The boy stares for a moment, then lights up and points at his face. "Vic-tor," he says, and then again with more confidence.

"Victor, hm?" Victor nods several times and beams at him. Yakov finds himself smiling back before he stands up. There's a blanket on the couch in the other room; he fetches it, then wrangles Victor into a chair and finishes wrapping him up just as the water starts to bubble.

Yakov makes overly-sweet tea for Victor and reheats some soup for both of them. Victor likes the tea, once it's cooled down a bit, but he has trouble with the spoon when he tries to eat his soup. It's like his fingers don't work right, either, sometimes bending the wrong way to keep the spoon in his hand. He improves after the first few minutes of trying and then watching Yakov eat, but he ends up drinking most of the soup right from the bowl.

Something in the back of Yakov's head wants to fetch more blankets, tuck Victor in for the night, and let him stay until the morning before dealing with him further. Nonsense, of course. Victor needs to go back to his parents. Or if they're the ones who left him there, then somebody else who can take care of him. The sooner Yakov reports him, the sooner that will happen. He rubs at his face while Victor slurps his tea; why is he getting so attached so quickly? It's not as though he particularly regrets not having children or anything like that. Maybe he simply misses Lilia more than he thought.

When they're done eating, he puts the dishes in the sink. Victor grabs at his hand again, and maybe that helps, or maybe being warmer does, because his walking is steadier now, though his fingers are very cold.

Making the phone call is no easy task. As soon as he sits down to do so, Victor scrambles up on the sofa after him, and then into his lap before Yakov can stop him. It's not just his hands; his entire body is still chilly, enough so that Yakov can feel it through his clothes when Victor snuggles into him. It makes him pause, but Victor doesn't seem upset by it. Perhaps he's still warming up. He picks the blanket up from where it was dropped near his feet and drapes it back over Victor's shoulders.

Victor is smiling at him again. It's very distracting. Yakov gives up on moving him and then needs three attempts to dial the correct number; he keeps forgetting which digit he's on when Victor says something in that unknown language of his or pulls at his shoulder, and keeps looking at him with that cheerful grin on his face.

On the phone, he is told that nobody has reported a child of Victor's description to be missing and that someone will be over to pick him up. It's a long wait, and Yakov is thankful that Victor is apparently easy to entertain; he is fascinated by the splashing of the water when Yakov goes to wash their dishes, to the point that Yakov drags a chair over so he can stand and watch instead of trying to climb on the counter. It's as though he has never seen someone wash a bowl before, or maybe he just likes water.

Yakov makes more tea. Victor keeps dropping the blanket, and eventually Yakov folds it up and puts it back on the couch. It's too late at night for to try to force a wriggling child to sit still underneath it, even if it's for his own good.

The person who eventually shows up at the door is a young man, shivering in his snow-covered clothes and attempting to look official despite it. He takes notes on everything Yakov has to say about where he found Victor – which isn't much, and which he already told to the person on the phone. Then the officer attempts to wring more information out of Victor himself. "What's your name?" he asks, crouching in front of Victor, his voice going higher and slower. Victor blinks at him and doesn't respond.

"I told you, he doesn't understand Russian."

The officer has the same idea as Yakov, pointing at himself and saying his name. This time, Victor says, "Victor!" with great confidence, then suddenly stands up straighter. "Victor," he repeats, then adds, "Ni-ki-for-ov." He says it like he's been taught to say it, not like it's his name. The officer frowns and jots something down.

All of his other attempts to get something further from him fail. If Victor can name any of his relatives or where he's from, he doesn't understand the requests to do so; when the officer tries to get him to draw the place he came from, Victor does draw something. It might even be a place, but the lines are far too wobbly to tell what anything is, and he keeps getting distracted by the way the pen moves and the way he can make it click.

"Well," the officer says, looking at the mess on the paper, "we'll see if we can find some record of him. For tonight, would you be willing to let him stay here?"

"I was told you would be taking care of him," Yakov snaps. He tries not to raise his voice too much, so as not to scare Victor, but he is tired and the request is ridiculous.

"Of course," the officer says, looking confused himself at what he just said. "Right." He pauses, watching Victor, who they have left scribbling away at a new piece of paper. He makes an unhappy noise – the first Yakov has heard from him – as the pen clatters from his stiff fingers and rolls away across the floor. Yakov hands it back to him, and Victor snatches it with a few happy sounds that may or may not be words. He kicks at the floor and starts drawing again. "I could send someone in the morning," the officer tentatively suggests, his voice gone distant. "It's very late."

So it is. Surely nobody wants to come take Victor away at this hour. Surely Victor should already be asleep. All Yakov has to do is put him to bed and then feed him breakfast in the morning. Something in him doesn't quite want to give Victor away just yet. It's only one night.

Victor turns his paper around and glances up at Yakov before he begins drawing once more. He looks content.

"As long as they get here early," Yakov reluctantly concedes. He has students to teach; he can't be stuck watching some strange boy, even one as charming as Victor.

The officer nods, stares at Victor for a few moments longer, then shakes his head several times. He asks by what time Yakov will need someone to come in the morning and promises that Victor will be picked up by then.

Victor gives the pen back and sits back to admire his drawing, which is a mess of shapes and what might be childish stick figures if viewed from the correct angle. The officer suddenly seems to be in a hurry to put on his coat and leave.

When he is gone, Yakov pulls out some spare blankets and makes up the couch into a nice little bed. Victor watches him do so, his eyes wide, and when Yakov is finished, climbs under the covers happily enough with some encouragement.

Laying there, he stares at Yakov.

"Go to sleep," Yakov says. Shouldn't a boy his age be tired by now? He's fed and warm and in bed. Is there something else he needs? When Victor just continues to look at him, Yakov sighs and gets up to turn off the lights, ready to head to bed himself.

Victor slips out and goes to follow him around. Yakov takes him back to the couch. "Sleep," he says, more firmly than before, and this time he sits and waits until Victor has closed his eyes before he stands up.

Just as he turns the lights off, he hears the distinctive thump of feet on the floor, and a moment later, Victor is holding on to his shirt. "Yakov?" His inflection is odd, and his voice plaintive.

Yakov is too exhausted to keep trying. He gives up and lets Victor tail him as he gets ready for bed, lets Victor climb into bed with him. Victor burrows into Lilia's pillow and, as far as Yakov can tell, is asleep within five seconds. He doesn't understand why there's such a difference – though it's possible he's just used to sleeping with his parents and not on his own – until Victor, perhaps not quite all the way asleep yet, shifts closer to him a few minutes later.

Victor is freezing. His body is radiating cold instead of warmth like it should be, as though he hasn't warmed up at all since coming inside. No wonder he wants to be near Yakov, even if just for the body heat. Is he sick, or still recovering from being outside without winter clothes on? How long was he out there, and why hasn't he been acting like he needs to get warm?

Yakov has no answers, but he can draw the blankets further up over Victor's shoulders. Victor blinks his eyes open, gives Yakov a sleepy look, and then snuggles back into the pillow. Yakov can't help but brush some of his hair out of his face before he pulls his hand away.

It's been a long time since he's had anyone but Lilia sharing his bed, and with Victor it's cold despite the covers, but Yakov is somehow comfortable anyway. He thinks of how in the morning he'll make a breakfast that's hot and hearty, easy for Victor to eat even with the difficulty he seems to have with his hands. And after that...

After that, he'll go teach his students and pick Lilia up from the airport. Thinking of the part in-between, of Victor being taken away to either return to his family or go to a children's house, is strikingly unpleasant, even though Victor can't stay here.

Victor turns over in his sleep, wriggles deeper under the blankets until they cover him up to his eyes. He breathes a happy-sounding sigh and settles down again. It might be less chilly than it was a few minutes ago. Yakov makes himself close his own eyes and go to sleep, already.

~!~

In the morning, he manages to get up without waking Victor, and has nearly finished making a quick breakfast when Victor appears in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, his hair a fluffy mess. Yakov herds him into a chair and takes a moment to smooth down his hair.

Their breakfast is hot, milky porridge, with jam on top for Victor and accompanied by a cup of coffee for Yakov. Victor seems to like it well enough – again, it takes him a few minutes to figure out the spoon, and he ends up holding it in an upside-down fist, turning his wrist at an odd angle to jam it into his mouth. It works, at least; he's not getting food all over himself or the table. He eats slowly, and scrapes the bowl for the last bits when he's finished.

"Are you still hungry?" There isn't time to cook anything else, though Yakov could certainly find him some bread or fruit. Victor just smiles at him and plops his spoon back into his mouth. Maybe he likes the food? Though it was nothing special.

Yakov shuts his eyes to drain the last of his coffee, only to open them again when he hears a scraping noise. Victor is dragging the chair he was sitting on just a moment ago. Puzzled, Yakov watches as he pulls it all the way over to the sink, comes back to get his dishes, and then clambers on to the chair to dump them in the sink. He even reaches over to turn on the water, though he then gets distracted by sticking his hands in the flow without bothering to push up his long sleeves.

"Here," Yakov says, coming over. "Like this." He washes most of the dishes for him, then lets him try with one of the spoons. Watching him work to wash it – using his whole palm to mash the sponge into the metal – is oddly charming. Victor manages to get it clean and hands it to Yakov with another grin. Yakov can't help but smile back at him.

Maybe he does this with his parents. Four or five is old enough to try helping with simple cleaning tasks, isn't it?

He's just handing a towel to Victor after drying his own hands when there's a knock on the door.

When Yakov answers it (Victor trailing after him again, towel forgotten and hands still wet), he sees a woman dressed sharp and neat, looking picture-perfect despite the flurries Yakov glimpsed through the dark windows earlier. She looks, a little bit, like Lilia might have if she had ended up as a grade-school teacher instead of a ballet dancer, which is something of a terrifying thought.

They talk for a couple of minutes, but Yakov's mind isn't on what they're saying at all; it's taken up by Victor, who is standing next to him and watching the whole exchange curiously, no comprehension at all on his face. Yakov can't tell him that this woman is going to help take care of him until, hopefully, they find where he came from. For all Victor knows, Yakov will be abandoning him for yet another stranger.

But there's nothing to do for it. The woman reaches out to take Victor's hand, and he lets her, but when she tries to tug him along, he digs his heels in and pulls away, steps back to grab at Yakov's arm. He says something short. Probably no.

"You have to go with her," Yakov says, even knowing it's useless, and he tries to pry Victor off, which doesn't work at all. When the woman grabs Victor's shoulder and tries to pull him again, he only clings harder, shakes his head, says that word again. He gives Yakov a pleading look.

A strange guilt floods Yakov's heart. He has an urge to wrap his arm around Victor and tell the woman that no, he can care for him after all. Even though he can't. Yakov steels himself with the knowledge that he doesn't know the first thing about looking after children, and even further with imagining the look on Lilia's face if she comes home to find a strange child in their apartment. She would never agree to it.

As Victor continues to fend off the woman's attempts to take his arm, Yakov swears under his breath. He picks Victor up, making him squeak, and dumps him in the woman's arms. There. Even surprised, she catches him easily enough. Victor's eyes go wide. For a moment, he just stares at Yakov, and Yakov thinks that maybe this will work, this will be the end of it and Victor will go away and Yakov will be left with some odd memories and perhaps a lingering sense of guilt over putting that expression on Victor's face.

Then Victor starts to – squirm isn't the right word for it. It's too forceful. A few seconds later, when the woman is still holding on to him (albeit with obvious difficulty), he screams at the top of his lungs.

Yakov flinches. The woman drops him, clearly startled. Victor hits the ground, bounces up, and goes to hide behind Yakov, whimpering.

Suddenly, he has a pounding headache. This is why Yakov doesn't work with small children, he thinks. All of his students are at least old enough to not throw screaming fits on the ice. And then he thinks again about how Victor doesn't understand what they say, how he must have no idea what's going on, must only know that Yakov rescued him and fed him and this woman is trying to take him away from that. He must be terrified.

Yakov half-turns and lets Victor press his face into his side, puts a hand on the back of his head automatically. He's shaking, like he should have been when he was out in the cold. The woman is staring at him, frowning, looking much more tired than she did a minute ago, and like she also now has a headache.

"I don't suppose," she says, something strange to her voice, "that you've ever thought about becoming a foster parent?"

"My wife is out of town," Yakov snaps.

"I could bring the paperwork at a better time," she says, and then she looks confused, and then she tries to grab Victor again. She succeeds in pulling him maybe a handful of centimeters before he breaks away and reaches for Yakov once more.

Both of them look at Victor. After a few seconds, Victor looks up at Yakov, his blue eyes huge in his face, on the verge of tears, and something in Yakov's head starts shouting keep him keep him keep him.

He can't. He can't. Yakov has nowhere else to take him while he's at the rink. When she gets home, Lilia won't stand for it. Surely Victor should be looked after by someone who has experience with children beyond teaching them how to skate like gold medalists.

He tell himself these things again as Victor makes a soft, unhappy sound and tugs on his sleeve. Taking Victor in is not the reasonable thing to do. He turns to the woman and takes a deep breath.

Yakov ends up being twenty minutes late to the rink. He has a heavy feeling in his stomach when he enters. He glares at his oldest student, hoping to ward her off before she asks him why he's late, and he doesn't quite succeed.

"Coach," she says, "is that your nephew?" She leans over the side of the rink to wave at Victor, who uses the hand which isn't holding on to Yakov's to wave back at her with a bright smile. "He's so cute!"

Yes. Yes he is. That doesn't stop Yakov from wondering what he's doing, or what he's going to do with Victor all day, or what on Earth he's going to tell Lilia.

A/N: Prompted by a nonny: Gen or Victuuri fic where Victor is secretly (part) alien/fairy/demon/government experiment/other non-human entity. (Basically anything besides an animal shifter.)

I estimate from what I've written so far and what I've outlined that this will be about eight chapters when finished, but that count may change.