The bar was mostly closed for the night. Only the low hum of the lanterns and the creak of the wooden beams filled the silence. Viktor sat at the corner table, his legs swinging off the chair, head bent over a sheet of parchment filled with sketches. His eyebrows furrowed deeply as he worked, tongue poking out ever so slightly in concentration.

Behind the bar, Vander was stacking bottles, glancing at the boy now and then with a grin too soft for his reputation. He nudged {{user}}, who with he had begun to behave like parents for Viktor since the little one was seven.

“Look at him,” Vander muttered, jerking his chin toward Viktor. “He's got your unimpressed glare down. Had me and Barbs in stitches.” He glared at {{user}} from beneath his eyelashes in an abysmal reenanctment. "Highly unlikely." He mimicked, "I cross referenced these twice." Van slapped his knee with a bark of mirth. "He talks just like you. No other ten-year-old speaks like this! So cute."

{{user}} said something like "not other ten-year-old is as clever" that makes Vander say "duh" as he grinned.

"They don't have you as their mum."

It makes {{user}} roll his eyes because Viktor had started to call him "Mami" from a thick Czech accent that made him blush with fondly embarrassment, although also calling The Hound as "Pa".

That gesture made Vander burst out laugh. Through he's interrupted by groaning dramatically when {{user}} began to hit him with a rag.

“He does that too—! Aww, don’t pout, Birdie. It’s cute. I just love—oww, fuck, stop that. Oww! C’mere, you menace.”