Play Detective

Adults and Grown-Ups

Mr. Ruvie, feeling the boy lagging behind him, gave a sharp tug on his arm and he hurried along. A smell of a toddler's massive "uh-oh" was lingering in his nostrils and following them everywhere they went. He felt his palm perspiring even though the child's hand holding it wasn't very warm at all.

They met Mr. Wammy in the hall that held their bedrooms (with attached personal bathrooms). Mr. Wammy in question had gathered some things from Nursey's office, and took the boys hand again readily.

Looking down, and then back at his colleague who was turning, he wondered why didn't he think to let the boy change? Disregarding, he turned his attention to L in question, and led him calmly into his bathroom before kneeling before him.

He hadn't really ever examined L physically, and noticed a certain kind of disproportionality in his features.

His hands were small, yes, but not small enough to match his matchstick arms and trim chest. He wasn't starving, his stomach wasn't bloated and protruding, but laying with his chest. Overall, it seemed he'd been stunted by something, although it didn't seem to matter now.

He was set to grow.

Mr. Wammy spoke softly as to attempt to relax the (obviously, quite visually) unsure boy before him.

"Let's set to getting this off of you, shall we?"

Reaching behind his head, Mr. Wammy undid some snaps L hadn't noticed before, and folded the less soaked front over once before carefully pulling it over his head. His underpants were with the mess in Nursey's office, the gentleman deduced.

His fair skin was already sufficiently irritated and forming a stinging, angry pink rash on the inside of his thighs.

"We can fix that right up after your bath. It'll feel much better then."

L himself was staring ahead blankly, thoughts ebbing and breaking regarding the events recently taking place and... how nice Mr. Wammy was being. No other word but nice came to mind- it was still revolting from the trauma and under massive aching and vertigo. It was difficult to stand perfectly still.

"...Does anything else hurt?"

"My... My head."

His voice came out more tearful than it really felt, but he allowed it to slip by- Oh, did it just hurt!

"Do you know what happened?"

Of course he did! Now, if only there was a polite way to put it- any way at all, really.

"Look at me, come on, did you hit your head?"

He took L's chin in his thumb and forefinger, and put his hand under his armpit to help steady the boy. L nodded, looking down at the man's glasses.

"Did that woman drop you earlier? I heard something..."

L nodded again, putting his hands where it hurt, which was nearly everywhere but his face itself.

"Yeah, I'll put a cold pack on that, maybe give you something to help the pain ....after your bath."

But first, he sat the boy on the toilet and told him to use it if he needed, then turning to collect everything he'd need after L was clean. The gentleman knew he probably had a pounding headache and was about to drop- he didn't want to prolong the child's suffering.

And so, he gathered the towels, baby powder, diaper cream (Nursey kept it for frequent bedwetters or poorly trained five year olds), the clean clothes, and a pair of his thick socks while L "took care of business".

Entering once more, he lifted the child into the tub, marveling at how lightweight he was. After rolling his sleeves, he took the beige washcloth he had brought and wet it with warm water from the tap. He gathered up a bar of round, perfectly ivory soap and pressed it into the rag, rubbing intermittently.

Thus began the process of more preparation.

"How are your classes? Do you like them?"

L nodded again, although he thought they were absolutely uninteresting.

"... You can tell me if you're bored. They might be too easy, we chan change them. In fact, I know they're too easy for you. We can discuss that later."

He smiled at the boy in the tub and folded the washcloth into a square, and started on his face very, very lightly, as one would dust fine china or treat incubator-bound babies. L let him do what he wanted, enthralled in drowsiness and that omnipresent headache in the pleasantly steaming bathwater. The man had his chin tilted slightly towards him with his left hand, wiping away the itchiness and the uncomfortable heat it held, the warmth relaxing the discomfort.

Being cared for was a luxury alien to him, but somehow expected. He sought to enjoy it, at whatever cost. He liked this. This was good- unlike so many other things.

He was only seven years old, and his conscious couldn't translate his thoughts into more descriptive terms. No matter what he was- he was a child. He always would be. He was very vulnerable, gentle at this stage- frail to many qualifications. His body had taken beatings, and his limbs were bandy like the limbs of a crabapple tree after the harvest. Eyes, lovingly melded, were slipping around out of anxiety, an attention disorder, or the rapid procession of thoughts outpouring.

Then, Mr. Wammy washed his shoulders and arms once-over before asking the lamb to stand and running over the insides of his thighs and personal areas, being especially careful, but causing minor suffering for the sake of total cleanliness. Frowning, he uncovered the damage that can be done by an accident and plenty of walking in about an hour.

Finishing, he took L back out of the bath, and wrapped a white towel around his round shoulders, patting him dry, and being slightly surprised when he was greeted with a slightly damp face leaning on his chest through his flannel pajamas. Satisfied with the bath he had given, he took away the towel and began to talk reassuringly once more.

He stood L apart from his own person and gawked momentarily, his speech stalling momentarily. After a few months taken in, the boy was still thin as a rail and uncomfortably detached. Seven year olds are particularly clingy before they become self-aware, this one seems to deny himself. The gentleman readied the tube of Desitin feeling a sense of wonderment- what else is there for a child to think of without parents, friends, or even toys? Schooling couldn't possibly take it all up. It would be either marvelous or horrid, whatever suited at the time.

"This might feel cold, but you need to trust me. This will keep it from getting worse- and it might go away come tomorrow morning."

The older man uncapped the cream and put a generous dab on his finger before reaching out... for L to jump back a touch, shaking his head with his eyes wide. He looked ultimately preposterous, like a baby bird out of it's avian context.

"Please don't be afraid, I promise it'll feel better. I'm afraid you can't really see what's... needing it, or I would let you do it yourself."

With more coaxing and mildly taking the little imp by the hand, he was able to move his lithe body over his own smarting knees and carefully applied the noxious smelling substance. After re-dressing him (by now, his lamb was looking more like a gray, spoiled piece of left over lambchop from fatigue), he looked him over again. It was surely late, and his roommates would not take kindly to being awakened. And so, Mr. Wammy devised a plan. He was the owner of the orphanage, and there is no protocol for this sort of thing. Common sense centered around the church was generally the guide.

"Would you mind sharing a bed?"

Well, wasn't that pedophilic sounding of him. The child obliged him, and nestled himself in the aftershave-perfumed covers made so over time and time again the groomed gentleman had slept. The older man watched the youngster fall asleep readily, almost falling directly unconcious. Reassured that all would end well, Mr. Wammy cut off the light and allowed himself rest.