"Now keep in mind, I can't tell you everything," Camille warned. "As an adult, I don't think Nicholas would appreciate too many people holding this … information."
Young nodded, trying to keep his face neutral. He was pretty sure he'd already failed.
"Go on," he told her.
Camille sucked in a deep, troubled breath and started. "He's a foster child. His real parents were … unfit. They left him on a bridge in Glasgow, on a stormy day – let the police pick him up."
She hesitated over her next words. "The reason he freaked out on you … the other day …. Well, you told him he could like you."
Young nodded, uncomprehending.
"And you're an adult," said Camille slowly. "An adult who's taken over as his … father."
There was a moment's pause, and then Young blanched.
"That can't be," he spluttered, pulling back a little, distancing himself from the conversation. "He loves his dad. He's always raving about him, how much he misses him."
"His foster father, yes," Camille affirmed. "But not his real one. His biological father is in prison now – that's why he was so reluctant to tell us his last name. It must be pretty common knowledge where he came from."
Young shook his head and looked at the floor, trying to pick between cold horror and absolute rage.
"We have to turn him back," said Camille gently. "All the problems we're having with him … we can't handle them, Colonel. We can't be the emotional support for a young child when we're also fighting to stay alive. More importantly, we can't be the emotional support for someone like Nick."
Her fingers hovered near his arm as she hesitated, trying to decide whether to touch him. Eventually, she pulled away.
Her eyes turned to the Kino remote on the table behind her; the Kino it connected to was trained on Nick, who was watching as Mr. Brody and a civilian welded something together.
"That's all," Camille murmured. "You can go."
Young found himself alone in the mess hall, trying to decide whether or not to drink the mug of Brody's beer he had before him. The implications of Camille's 'interesting news' were swirling around in his head, just repeating over and over without offering any solutions.
He ducked his head to take a sip just as he heard voices and footsteps coming nearer.
"Mr. Young!" Nick exclaimed, rushing in with Brody and Volker on his heels. "Look what Mr. Brody made me!"
He held up something that looked like a distorted, metallic sailboat.
"He made me a toy! And it's metal! And I cut myself on it, but TJ gave me a bandaid, so it's okay."
Young nodded slightly, staring down at his beer. Slowly, Nick's smile faded. He lowered the sailboat and stepped forward, the picture of confusion.
"Hey. What's wrong?"
And before Nick could move away, Young had him in a vice-like hug. They stayed there for a moment, pressed together. Young thoroughly ignored Brody and Volker's incredulous looks.
"Mr. Young ..?" said Nick finally, voice muffled against the colonel's stomach. "What are you doing?"
Young hugged him tighter.
…
…
"Mr. Young ….?"
The rest of the day was almost normal, all things considered. Nick was hyper enough to drive everyone insane, and wouldn't stop reciting the alphabet – except for when he decided to prattle on about how the ship worked instead.
He named his sailboat Rex and decided Young's paperwork would make a good ocean.
He later decided Rex would make a good tank missile and chucked it at Greer's head.
"That was very bad, Nick," TJ scolded as she checked Greer for a concussion and checked out the scrape on his temple. "We don't throw. Tell him, Colonel."
"No throwing," said Young dutifully. Nick couldn't seem to decide whether to pout or glare.
"Greer throws things at me."
There was a bit of an awkward pause.
"That was, um, very bad, Greer," TJ said, not quite meeting the sergeant's eyes. "… No throwing."
"Aw, come on," Greer said in a mock whine. "Moooom!"
"No. Now, both of you have been very bad, but unfortunately … it's not in my power to punish Greer."
Greer pumped his fist and winked at Nick. "Sorry, little man."
"Park can punish him," Young shrugged. Greer gave a lascivious grin and stood, stretching a bit before turning to go.
"Who's punishing me?" asked Nick. Young didn't look down at him.
"I am. You're going straight to bed after you take a shower."
"Can Lisa punish me instead?"
Greer stumbled, hopped on one foot for a moment, and ducked outside to hide his giggles.
"What was that?" Nick asked.
"He must've stubbed his toe. Come on."
He pulled Nick out of the infirmary and down the corridor, stoically pretending not to notice when a Kino started following them. He'd tried to convince Eli not to film Nick so much, but there was no stopping him. It was just such great blackmail material.
"Where are we going?" Nick asked, jumping around Young as they walked and trying to take the colonel's hand with him.
"Stop that. We're going to the showers."
"I don't wanna take a bath."
"Well, good. Because you're taking a shower."
Nick dug his heels into the deck plating and abruptly stopped moving. Young lurched for a moment and turned around. He gave Nick's arm a little tug.
The boy didn't budge.
"Don't be a baby," Young told him in exasperation, tugging a little harder. "You haven't taken a shower since you came here."
Nick scowled. "So?"
"So you smell awful and your hair's greasy and you look like a pig. Come on."
Nick only gave him a disdainful look. "My hair isn't greasy."
"Yes, it is. Come on."
"Nuh-uh. Hair only gets greasy after years."
With a long sigh, Young used his free hand to cover his face. "Nick," he said, "I think this explains a lot about you."
"Huh?"
"Come on."
He swooped down and grabbed Nick around the knees, lifting him to his shoulders. The boy struggled and wriggled like an eel to get free. Finally, he made it so his legs were wrapped around Young's neck – one hand fisted in the colonel's hair, the other covered his eyes.
"Damn it, Nick!" Young cried, holding his hands out in front of him. "Get off me!"
"No! Say I don't hafta take a bath!"
"You don't," Young growled, reaching up to grab Nick's shirt and yank him down. "You have to take a shower. Now stop being such a brat."
Hands pinned to his side, Nick just stuck out his tongue. Young tucked him under his arm and carried him like a football down the hallway. When they reached the shower compartments, Young shoved Nick inside, closed the door, and waited for the boy to take off his clothes.
Nick stuck his head out from the space underneath the door.
"It's too high up," he complained. "You can see my dick."
"I'm not gonna be looking at your private parts. And don't say dick."
"What am I supposed to say?"
Using his foot, Young pushed gently on Nick's head until he slid back inside. "Say 'private parts.' Or 'wiener.' Or actually, say nothing at all. Stop talking about your dick."
He heard the sounds of faint grumbling.
"Are you taking off your clothes?" he asked.
"No."
"What? What are you doing?"
"Looking for an escape hatch."
"Nick –" Young pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are no escape hatches. Just take a shower."
Nick paused.
"I can't," he said, an odd note in his voice instantly setting off Young's internal lie detector. "The buttons on my clothes are too hard. I can't get 'em off."
With a measured voice, Young said, "Then come out here and let me do them."
"No!"
"Nick, I'll just un-do the buttons. Then you can go back into the shower and take them off yourself."
Very slowly, glaring heavily, Nick pushed open the stall door and let Young work the buttons.
"There," said Young, nudging him back to the shower. "Get in."
Grumbling again, Nick went back inside. His silhouette shifted as he struggled with the clothes and got them off, kicking them through the space at the bottom of the door.
"I'll give you my sailboat," he offered as his last-ditch attempt.
"You're taking the shower, Nick." Shaking his head, Young turned and smacked his hand against the button that released the beady mist that constituted their showers. There was a pause, and then the water hit Nick.
And he screamed and started to cry.
Vaguely, Young remembered something about small boys abandoned on bridges on stormy days.