Stray
By Cybra
A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay. Despite planning out this story, I ended up moving everything I was writing for chapter two into chapter three in order to write this chapter. (O Lord, why does this story keep expanding beyond my plans?) I've already gotten most of chapter three written along with part of chapter four, so at least it shouldn't take me as long with those. Mea culpa, everyone.
Disclaimer: Generator Rex belongs to Man of Action.
Chapter 2: How It Almost Ended
The mercenary frowned as he gazed around the department store, wondering why exactly it was necessary to print some garish-looking cartoon character on just about everything in the children's section. It really didn't make sense why even underwear, something nobody was going to see it anyway, would have such decoration. He'd seen this pattern in three other stores already, but it seemed no matter how many times he saw the phenomenon, he was still going to be puzzled by it. Perhaps it was something parents just understood once they had their own children.
He selected three green long-sleeved shirts. He'd yet to figure out what the kid's favorite color was, but green seemed to go well with the boy's pale skin, dark hair, and brown eyes. It wasn't loud and obnoxious yet also seemed to further mute the barely-visible scars on his hands, face, and neck.
One grabbed a pair of jeans as well. He'd already bought four other pairs at the previous stores, but one more couldn't hurt. The sad part was that the clothing he held would most likely be too big for the boy despite being the smallest size for someone his age.
He passed by the display of back-to-school items, glancing at the contents. He still needed to find something to carry the kid's new belongings in. However, a suitcase would be too much of a hassle.
A jean backpack caught his eye. It was undecorated and therefore nearly buried amongst the brightly-colored character backpacks. Perfect. After a few minutes of digging it out of the display, One resumed his walk to the line for the cashier.
After several minutes of waiting, he set his purchases down on the conveyor belt, watching the cashier listlessly swipe each item over the scanner. "That'll be $45.73."
One sorted through the bills in his wallet, pulling out two twenties and a ten. He handed her the cash as she finished putting the backpack in a large plastic shopping bag with the shirts and jeans.
She deposited the money in the drawer and handed over his change. She told him in a bored tone of voice, "Have a good day."
He rolled his eyes. Yes, he could tell she meant it, too.
Shopping for the day done, he headed back towards the hotel.
Not surprisingly, the kid was still sleeping when One entered the room. He barely gave the child a glance. The boy would need all the rest he could get before they finally set off on the long bus ride at the end of the week.
After setting down the bag with the others from previous shopping trips, he left the room again and headed to the front desk. Due to the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the doorknob, the washcloths he'd used to clean the kid hadn't been replaced.
The manager at the front desk scowled at him as he approached. "Sir," the man said crisply, "there's a rule about having pets in this hotel: They're forbidden."
"I know," One said calmly.
"Then how else do you explain the washcloths you brought to the front desk this morning? They had to be thrown out! Not only were they filthy, a few even had fleas!"
The man was practically frothing at the mouth as he said that. Ah, one of those types. Little wonder he'd become the manager of a hotel: His obsessive neat streak must've been useful for ensuring that the rooms were above reproach.
One wasn't ruffled by the man's outburst. In fact, he'd already prepared himself in case news of his comings and goings reached suspicious ears. "Maybe this will explain."
He pulled out a business card from his wallet, one of many, and handed it to the manager.
The man frowned as he took the card and read it. Then he read it again, more slowly. The annoyance on his face turned to confusion. "…You work for a child protection organization?"
"Yes, sir," One smoothly lied. "I'm sorry I didn't warn you ahead of time, but I didn't expect to find the little guy like that."
The manager suddenly looked uncomfortable as the clerk beside him put her hands over her mouth.
"You mean all that came from a child?" she gasped.
"Yes, ma'am." He gave a sad nod as the manager returned the business card and he put it back in his wallet. "I decided I needed to remove the boy from that environment as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, I didn't have very many options as to where I could take him. I'll pay for the replacement washcloths, of course."
"Well, um, thank you, sir. My apologies for being so confrontational," the manager stuttered out, looking a bit sickened.
One internally smirked as the man waved the clerk off to retrieve a clean set of washcloths. He hadn't lied about the boy's condition just in case someone should spy him, but he'd kept the circumstances vague enough to allow their imaginations to fill in the details. It made things simpler should he be questioned at a later date and the version he gave didn't match up with what he'd previously said.
"If there's anything else you need," the manager continued, "please feel free to ask."
One gave the man a smile, taking the washcloths the clerk came back with. "Thank you. I'll try not to cause you too much trouble."
With a small wave, he left the front desk and headed back to his room. Once safely inside, he sighed and ran his fingers through his short hair. "Little shadow, we almost had a real problem there."
There was no response aside from wheezing.
The mercenary looked up at his charge, realizing that the boy hadn't shifted from that position since that morning. The glass of water he'd left on the table beside the bed before going to the store was untouched.
He dropped the washcloths on top of his luggage and hurried over to the boy. He placed one well-calloused hand on the boy's forehead, the other on his own.
The comparison was unnecessary: The kid was burning up.
He snatched up one of the washcloths that he'd dropped, hurrying to the bathroom sink. After holding it under cold water, he squeezed out some of the excess liquid and returned to the boy's side. He folded the washcloth lengthwise into thirds and placed it over the boy's eyes.
The only reaction was a weak, rattling cough.
He should've expected this. The kid's body was clearly a wreck, his immune system pushed beyond its limits. Yet somehow One had been caught by surprise due to his confidence that he had everything under control.
He'd been so very wrong.
He pulled the chair closer to the side of the bed and settled down. It was going to be a long wait.
One held the child in one arm, sitting him up, as he placed two children's aspirin tablets into the child's mouth before carefully pouring in a little water. Then he rubbed at the boy's throat, the kid reflexively swallowing. Then he laid the child back down and got up once again to wet the washcloth just as he'd done the previous night.
He debated taking the boy to the doctor, but how to explain it? The child technically didn't even exist. Besides, the doctor would want to know how he'd gotten into such a condition, and One couldn't even begin to explain it.
The mercenary rubbed at his eyes as he let the washcloth sit in the sink for a moment. He hadn't slept very well over the past three days. Even before the fever spike, the child's breathing had been disquieting. On top of that, apparently the kid had horrible nightmares. Given what his existence had been like before—One wouldn't call surviving in such squalor "living"—it was no surprise that the boy had such night terrors.
He returned to the boy's side, placing the washcloth back in its place over his eyes. As the child lied on the bed and wheezed, One pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back down in the chair. What to do? Perhaps he should leave the kid at the hospital. Less of a hassle. As an added bonus, the kid would get the medical care he clearly needed.
And then what? Once the boy was healed, what would happen next?
Considering how the boy had followed him upon first meeting despite being ready to drop, the kid would see One leaving him at the hospital not as an act of mercy but as one of rejection: "You're too much trouble. You're someone else's problem now."
The kid would end up in a foster home. Probably bounced between them. The entire time, he'd believe that no one wanted him because he was too troublesome. If the kid wasn't already distrustful—and, if that look he'd given One when ordered him to strip proved anything, he was—that would solidify it. A happy couple looking to adopt a child would never take in a kid with the sort of emotional baggage this boy would come with.
One put his elbows on the table, sighing deeply as he put his head in his hands. It had to be him that found the kid. Not a priest, not a CPS agent. No, it had to be a mercenary who had no idea how to deal with kids in general much less little strays like this one.
He looked up at the ceiling, attempting to glare at God Himself. "Well, now what am I supposed to do?"
The boy in the bed whimpered, huddling into a small ball as another nightmare savaged his rest. The washcloth slipped down onto the pillow beside him, prompting One to put it back in its original position. Despite the fact that the kid was now properly clothed in a set of pajamas that should've been too warm for the current weather, he shivered as though he was still in his street rags.
One reached out to brush the too-long bangs out of the boy's face. The intense heat of the child's fever burned against his calloused fingers.
"Master…" the child whimpered. "Master…"
The pitiful, pleading tone softened the mercenary's heart a bit. He wiped away the sweat collecting on the child's brow. "Rest, little shadow. I'll be right here."
A few more minutes of whimpering passed before the child let out a cough and fell into deep slumber again. It would've been good for the child to wake up and see that it had merely been a bad dream, but at least the nightmares seemed to have temporarily lost their power over him.
He set back, pulled out the notebook again, and resumed working for lack of anything constructive to do.
One was scratching out another name in his notebook when the kid's coughing turned violent. Thick globs of mucous splattered onto the child's face.
He was immediately on his feet, turning the boy on his side lest he choke. The pillow soon sported dark yellow spots from the disgusting phlegm. He rubbed the boy's back soothingly. "That's it. Get rid of it all."
The coughing fit passed after a few minutes. One wiped the child's face off and switched out the pillows so that he lay on a clean one. At least the manager wouldn't be as upset over this as he'd been over the ruined washcloths.
A touch to the child's forehead proved that the fever was still very high, but the boy's breathing had eased somewhat.
One's lips spread into a pleased smile as he settled down on the bed beside the kid. "Keep fighting, my little shadow. Don't ever go down without a fight. Consider that your first lesson."
"…Master?"
One jerked awake at the quiet voice, looking down to see his charge gazing at him through half-lidded eyes that shone with fever. However, there was a lucidity there that relieved the mercenary.
"Ah, awake at last." One reached out to feel the boy's forehead. "How're you feeling?"
"Tired…and hungry," the boy admitted.
Yet despite that weak tone, there was an underlying determination that pleased One to hear it. Whether or not the kid had heard and understood what he'd said earlier, the child had made the decision to live, refusing to back down from the long and difficult road to recovery that undoubtedly lie ahead of him.
One couldn't have been more proud.
"Well then, let's see if we can fix that."
One stretched, popping his back as he did so. Leaning against the headboard while asleep had not been the most comfortable position for him. Still, at least he'd gotten some rest himself.
He went to the kitchenette to fix another mug of broth for the boy. The warm liquid would help his body break up the remaining mucous in his lungs.
Returning to the bed, One smiled at how his student was looking quizzically at his notebook. "I'm trying to pick a good name for you," he explained.
The boy looked up at him.
"Unless, of course, you'll tell me what yours is." He carefully handed over the mug.
The boy shrugged a little, hands shaking with the action. He took a few swallows of the warm liquid. "Don't know it."
One frowned just a hair. Amnesia, perhaps? And judging by the way the child had looked when One had found him, no one had bothered looking for him.
Left to die as garbage.
Shaking the morbid thoughts from his mind, One sat down and leaned against the headboard once more. The boy handed over the mug once he'd finished, and the man set it down on the bedside table on his side.
To his surprise, the boy then snuggled up against him, putting his head on One's chest. Then he slowly drifted off with only the occasional cough to break up his slightly-wheezing breathing.
One gently touched the boy's forehead experimentally. His lips twisted into a smile.
It had taken almost two days, but the fever was finally going down again.
"Keep fighting, my little shadow," he murmured, wrapping an arm around the boy. "Just keep fighting."
He took several deep breaths through his nose, releasing them through his mouth to relax. Then he, too, fell asleep.