A/N: Posted for Roger's birthday, yes, give the poor guy some credit, he had to stay holed up in an orphanage full of…ugh, and guess what, he had to put up with Mello AND Matt AND our lovable (cough) Near. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.
And still no-one heralds him for dealing with what would have made a saint hop up and down, red-faced with frustration. Really? Giv'im a little love here…
(Hypocrite hypocrite, does not really like Roger all that much herself)
So, uh, enjoy.
Penny For Your Thoughts?
By LawlietLennoxLove
Make no mistake about it, Roger Ruvie hated children.
He'd even said as much, in his job interview. Why he'd admitted it them, was still beyond him: try as he might, he still couldn't come up with a more inappropriate moment. He was out of a job (and steadily eating himself out of his house, too), and had realised a few miserable months previously that no, nothing was going to rise in a shower of golden feathers from the pile of soggy grey ashes that was all that remained of his lifelong dream, curse the English weather.
And so he had, with increasing panic, tried to snatch himself a situation, but alas, Fortune wrinkled her nose at him very much the same way most people would wrinkle their noses to finding a woodlouse merrily making a swimming pool of their til-then delectable soup.
But oh, life was cruel in London, and this job he'd eagerly picked up on in the newspaper (picked off the street, after making sure that no-one was there to witness it: his pride felt every bit as rumpled as the slightly-trampled pages)…
…wasn't even in London, but how cruel, all the same! The carrot had been there, all right, a good solid block of steady income, comfortable conditions and already-provided accommodations, but he'd only just opened the wrought-iron gates when the stick had come crashing down: there, before his very eyes, spelled out for him: Wammy's Orphanage. And 'orphanage' meant…children.
How it fitted: something that darn near knocks you out when you open the door, it was a kid's prank. As things stood, he hadn't quite lost consciousness (though he'd felt dangerously close to it), but it'd seemed that he'd lost his power of speech from pure, skin-crawling horror, and could only stare mutely when Mr Wammy had greeted him (a great start).
He should have at least expected it, even if he had only very hastily skimmed the description and address, desperate to arrive before any other hopeful. 'Caretaker Wanted', had been the heading, what had he thought, that he'd be a caretaker for a box of eggs? And he'd actually voiced that thought, with his employer-to-be right there with him. Well, miracles never ceased. He still got the job anyhow. (Though if pushed, Roger would admit that Quilish – hm, Mr Wammy that was – probably hadn't heard him: the inventor had looked as weary and washed-out as he was. Perhaps it was because Roger had that kicking-his-own-leg-afterwards tendency to blurt out the truth under pressure. Hence, 'Does the job really have to involve kids?'.)
A drowning man would clutch at any straw, Roger could tell you that from experience. But even with a lifeline and several dozen stacks of life rings under his arm (Mr Wammy really was thorough in these things, he wouldn't grudge him that), he was still drowning. In a sea – no, a sticky, muddy, clingy swamp – of, oh dear God, children. Because Roger could also tell you – no, not just tell you, he could shout it, rage it, run from the bottom of the 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland not to mention all those British Isles' to the very northernmost point of Scotland, and scream it – those first few weeks were Hell.
Well, he understood why Mr Wammy had looked so worn, at least: he felt much the same way, himself. But no: it seemed that the inventor actually liked those little blighters, looking every bit the kindly old grandfather (when he wasn't even all that much older than Roger, fifty at the most). But even he had bitten off more than he could chew – not for lack of trying, though – and as a result his hands had been full to say the least, as full as his head with the same child over and again.
Which was quite strange, actually: this newest addition, the one which he-who-now- called- himself-Watari had so troubled over, was in fact the one Roger had taken to the most.
***X***
Dusk was falling, thank God, because dusk meant the following few hours of precious, undisturbed time all to himself (funny how he had had so much of it, alone in that dingy little flat, but hadn't seen it as anything near resembling a blessing), that little pocket of peace between the chaotic flurry of chasing-into-beds until near midnight and the frustrating flurry of chasing-out-of-beds until noon the following morning. So long as none of the brats came and prodded him out of bed in the middle of the night, snivelling with some insignificant nightmare or other. He'd not yet had such luck.
He was currently settled very snugly in his office, tucked away with a choice volume from his extensive, well-thumbed and very secret collection. Every now and then, he flicked his eyes nervously towards the glass pane in his door, as if in fear of being caught in the act. It was this way that he chanced to see the reclusive (he hardly ever saw him) Mr Wammy walking very slowly past the door, carefully leading by the hand a ridiculously fragile-looking (yes he guessed it) child by the hand.
Three weeks Roger had enjoyed the good food, tasteful accommodation and infestation of too-intelligent kids offered by the Institution. Long enough to know almost all the faces and names, as well as various miscellaneous details attached to them- turn your back on Yari and you will regret it; someone really does need to take a very sharp pin to Gilbert's ego; Rinkai managed to use up all the sunflower oil oiling (to tremendous success) her trumpet, and now Ivan has a deadly animosity towards her for it, etcetera and so forth.
This one, though, he doesn't even think he's seen before. It wasn't that since the diminutive figure looked ready to sink into the shadows at any moment, and so he'd overlooked him earlier, or seen him once then forgotten him: this wasn't the type of kid to just be forgotten, if only because he was so different from all those other boisterous loudmouths.
The kid reminded him of a butterfly that had just emerged from the cocoon, thin wings too frail to support themselves. Like still-wet canvas stretched across the brittle wooden frame of a bi-plane. Pale as a maggot (Roger really wasn't a romantic) with a mess of tar-black hair.
(Penny for your thoughts, he could hear Watari asking.)
Curious, he abandoned his book in favour of edging, not entirely of his own will, towards the door. A child spying through the keyhole.
The actual child, perhaps sensing his none-too-friendly gaze, turned towards it, and Roger was greeted with unnaturally wide eyes, dark as the mirrored surface of some freezing-cold lake.
"What is it, Ryuzaki?" Watari prompted, before following the child's stare to see what potential threat had caught his eye. (Ah, another thing. His office wasn't soundproofed. He had to listen to all those hysterical shrieks and pounding footsteps.) Out of instinct, he ducked, then felt profoundly stupid, hiding behind his own door. Nothing for it, though, but wait, and hope that scraggly little scarecrow wouldn't give him away.
***X***
Taken to, meaning, in this case, 'intensely disliked'.
It had been another week since Roger had seen his favourite little kid again.
***X***
This must be what a war veteran feels like, Roger thought sagely, clutching yet another of his treasured (and no less secret than before) books. Darned tired.
Safe to say, his first month-and-a-half of work had taken a lot out of him. Namely his belief that he was in fact quite an intelligent individual. Nothing like sixty-something kids with 'gifted and talented' scrawled all over them to stamp over that particular bubble.
Oh, to speak of the (one-in-sixty-something) devil(s). And the main one, too: the Hades of the Underworld, Satan in his snug little Hell.
More commonly known as 'Ryuzaki'. Which wasn't his real name, either, according to Mr Wammy: what that was, was one more mystery revolving around the kid like multiple Jupiters revolving round one chalky moon, one Roger had no interest in solving.'Ryuzaki', fine, a strange name to go with a more-than-strange child.
He rather hoped that the pale scrap of skin-and-bones would pass him by in its – sorry, his – bare-footed wanderings; how he never caught a cold, was, like so many other things here, beyond him. And no, he was shivering at the thought of wearing so little in the partially-exposed corridor in the middle of November, and not, most definitely not, for fear of this – hem – child.
Said child swivelled his head round, and stared for a moment or two over a bony, angular shoulder. Darn it, did this (child, child) have an in-built sensor, to do that every time? Or what had Roger done now, breathe too loudly?
Probably both. And now the self-proclaimed 'Ryuzaki' was ambling towards him like he was a slice of cake to be devoured. And strawberry cake at that.
The phantom halts about three steps away, but it's still much too close for Roger, who fears not only for himself but for his book. Oh why didn't he stay in his office. Now this 'Ryuzaki' was going to declare-
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Well, that froze his them as effectively as a shower of liquid nitrogen. Damned boy, he wanted to growl, to sound so uncertain, playing over the edge of the saying, like he was so darn innocent. The 'damned boy' didn't even wait for a reply, before tugging the book from his grasp. Black eyes skimmed over the title, and when he looked up, Roger could have sworn he was smirking, head quirked to one side.
…He had to get that book back.
He held a hand out for it, levelling Ryuzaki with as deadly a glare as he could muster. The child seemed to muse over something for a moment, and Roger was painfully aware of what a ridiculous tableaux they must make. If only Ryuzaki would hurry up.
That he did: very slowly, and very solemnly, the child placed a dull copper – a penny, no mistaking it – onto his out-stretched palm.
Then promptly sauntered off, book under arm, leaving Roger too stunned and bemused to call him back.
***X***
And that was how, even to this day, Roger holds a slight grudge against Ryuzaki (he calls himself 'L', now, does he).
Because let it be known, his marvellous insectology book was worth much more than a penny…!
To conclude: oh yes, Roger Ruvie hated children.
The past tense is very important here.
A/N: M-hm. Lalala. Damn stomach-ache. I'd swap it for taking care of all of Wammy's House any day.