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It would be incredibly unprofessional to ask. So he doesn't. But more and more often, Abel finds himself staring at Cain, vaguely wondering about his partner's real name. Wondering what his people at home called him, wondering what he answers to whenever he goes on shore leave without Abel. Wondering until idle curiosity becomes an idle habit of guessing.
It's difficult for Abel to even do that, honestly; the colonies are a branch of humanity, but it's both figuratively and literally another world on Mars, and Abel doesn't remember much from high school social studies. All he knows is that Cain's of Russian descent, so he starts from there. He decides early on that he likes the sound of the Russian language. Harsh sounding, until he really listens and begins to hear everything in between, and it's not so harsh after all, only sounding that way because it's Cain who's uttering it, probably. He's heard his Fighter curse and swear in it, heard him speaking it once or twice, to Deimos. Heard it mouthed against his skin as it rolls off Cain's tongue, or spat out when Cain comes in him, shuddering and momentarily losing himself. Heard it mumbled against his lips when they kissed, his own mouth swallowing words that mean nothing to him.
(He had asked Cain what he meant before -- what are you saying, I don't understand, tell me -- but Cain's never had a reply for him. Depending on his mood, he either laughs and reverts back to English, or he growls and bites at Abel's lips, distracting him with an onslaught of teeth and tongue. It always shuts Abel up either way.)
Hell, he doesn't even have a repertoire of Russian names to guess from. So the next time he goes on shore leave he gets a book of baby names, Russian baby names. It's small and discreet and Abel's read through the entire thing by the time he's back in space.
On his personal datapad, he makes a list of all the names he thinks he can see Cain being referred to by.
Aleksandr. Aleksei. Arseni. Dmitri. Isaak. Ivan. Mikhail. Nikita. Nikolai. Sasha. Sergei. Sevastyan. Valeri. Vasiliy. Viktor.
Then he narrows it down to names that feel right when he mutters it under his breath while he looks at his Fighter's slumbering face. His eyes tracing over hard lines softened by sleep, though Cain's expression is never what he'd call 'peaceful'. Not since they boarded the Sleipnir.
Isaak. Nikita. Sasha. Vasiliy.
Four names he whispers into the darkness, testing each one out on his tongue, wondering what it would be like to call Cain by anything other than Cain.
Of course, Abel makes sure he never raises his voice above a bare whisper; for one thing, it'd be too obvious what he's up to should Cain ever awaken, and for another... what if against all odds one of his guesses was actually right, and Cain was startled into responding?
Abel is uncomfortable just thinking about it. It would be an unforgivable violation of Cain's privacy, of his trust, to surprise him into answering a question he'd never even been given the chance to refuse to answer. And as great as Abel's curiosity is, he is content to let the matter lie. Perhaps if -- no, when -- they return from this mission... or when the day came to leave the Fleet and task names and anonymity were no longer relevant...
He wonders what it would be like to hear Cain call him Ethan.
Unbidden, a frisson of something between anticipation and elation runs up his spine. To have Cain calling him by his name, his real name, to have Cain whisper it into his ear, to hear the Fighter commanding Ethan to come for him as they fucked -- to hear Cain moaning it as Ethan took him--
Abel bites his lip hard, stifling a small noise, and then rolls over on his side. His other side, facing away from Cain.
No. It's too much. Too inappropriate, too personal, too intimate. He shouldn't even indulge in fantasies like this. They were assigned task names for good reasons, reasons to keep them all safe.
Abel twitches as from behind him, Cain grunts, shifts in his sleep. To Abel's relief (though he can't pinpoint exactly why), he rolls away as well, his blanket sliding off of him. Both of them back to back.
He shouldn't indulge in fantasies. But even as Abel tells himself this, he knows his resolution in this matter is particularly weak. But so long as he keeps it a fantasy, it should be all right.
Right?
Sighing, Abel sits up just long enough to pull the blanket back over Cain. Then he lies back down and lets his thoughts meander on disjointed, broken tracks until sleep overtakes him.