Literature final
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Door has a feeling the place to start looking might be less obvious than knocking on Marley's head, so she heads over to where Scrooge isn't: the Cratchit home.
When the door opens at first she thinks for a second that the ghosts have spread, as there's no one there, but then she looks down.
"My, you really are tiny, aren't you?" Considering she's not a lot over five foot herself.
The small boy who's answered the door while leaning on a crutch sticks his tongue out at her. "Least I don't have ink on my face. What's it mean, Window? Am I meant to be able to see through your head?"
Door frowns. "I got attacked by a flying ink-pen that thinks my name is funny." Which she'll admit it is, but eventually the jokes do get old, and while she's trying to revise for finals? Not the time to test her breaking point.
The boy begins to giggle. "Your name's Window? Heeheeheeheeheehee..."
"No, it's Door." She frowns at him again, less because of the laughter - she can understand that from a kid, after all - than because something seems way off here.
"...............eheeeheeeeheeeeheeeheeeeheeeee! Oh, that makes all the difference! Heeeheeheee...." He points at her and then just continues giggling.
"Tim, who's there? It's not Mr. Scrooge again, is it?" comes a female voice from within the house. "For goodness' sake, invite him in this time." Her voice comes closer. "Sir, my apologies; I don't know what my son was thinki--"
"It's not old Scrooge, Mother. It's just some mad, half-dressed chit named-- heeeheeeheeee...." Tiny Tim points at her again.
Door's getting a bit annoyed now, especially since it's December in Dickensian London and she is half-dressed for that weather.
His mother appears in the doorway. "Tim! What is wrong with you?" Looking up at Door, she shakes her head. "I am sorry, miss. He's usually the sweetest child. I don't know what's come over him today. And you poor thing, you must be near frozen. Do come inside."
Door ducks past the still-laughing boy, and wraps her bare arms around herself, because yes, she is, more than a bit. The house isn't a tropical paradise, but it's a welcome haven compared to the bitter cold outside. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Will you have something to eat?" Mrs. Cratchit looks her over and it's clear she's taken in Door's paleness and clothing or lack thereof and is politely hiding the judgment that Door must be some poor starving and yes possibly raving waif. "We were just about to sit down to Christmas dinner, but my husband's taken off to try to convince his employer to return." Her face goes odd and confused when she says the word 'employer', as if she's used to scowling but now doesn't know what to think. "The goose isn't carved, but there's gravy and potatoes..."
Though Door's tummy grumbles, it's mostly at the idea of Christmas dinner more than a true need for it; she's already had lunch. "No, thank you, ma'am. I only came by to see..." She stops and re-winds. "Your husband's gone after his employer?"
Tiny Tim stops laughing and makes a horrid face. "Yes. Don't know why. "
"Because he was your father's guest and it would be rude not to." Again with the conflicted expression. "What did come over you, Tim?"
Door looks down at him again, her thoughts on what's wrong crystallized now. "What did you do?"
Tiny Tim grins cheerfully. "Leaned on the doorframe and hit him in the shin with my crutch when he tried to come in!"
It's all Door can do not to burst out laughing, despite how horrifically wrong it is in the world of literature. She really can't manage to be annoyed with him any longer. "Aren't you supposed to be a sickeningl-- um. Sick, sweet, little boy? It's what I've always rea-- heard about you."
Tim shrugs. "Was, until this morning. Then I just woke up, thought about how we were going to have another Christmas with barely enough money for dinner, patched clothes, Father going off to slave for that old skinflint the next day, and I'm probably going to die this year anyway--" He ignores his mother's look of shock and dismay. "--so why waste what time I've got on being some lispy little angel?"
"Do I have to fix this?" Door mutters. She rather prefers him this way. Sighing, she crouches down and looks him in the eye. "Between you and me, I'm with you. It's just while you were seeing the light, so was old Scrooge. He was about to buy you a bigger goose even though that only happens in the film and give your father a rise and make sure you got healthy enough that you don't die for quite a long while."
Tiny Tim stares suspiciously at her. "What, all of a sudden after years of not noticing anybody but his sorry old self? .....Why?"
Door rubs at her forehead, which doesn't help get the ink off, or make her thinking much clearer, since she really doesn't have a good answer for that. "Deus ex machina?"
"...?" They really are rather wide, rather bright eyes, for all he's apparently thrown off his cherubic nature.
"It means God made him feel guilty." Sort of. "Also don't look a gift goose in the mouth. If you can convince him it was all some sort of misunderstanding, you could still have yourself a jolly old benefactor for the rest of your long, fat healthy days."
Mrs. Cratchit is still staring, but finally her mouth snaps shut. She's a practical woman."What are we waiting for? Peter! Martha!" she calls back into the house. "Fetch your coats and mufflers, and the little ones' as well. We're all going after Mr. Scrooge!"
Tim pouts rather effectively. It's probably the crutch. "Do I have to say I'm sorry?"
Door nods. "There's also a bit about 'God bless us, every one.'"
The scowl doesn't lighten, though it's joined by the Victorian version of a bitch, please face.
"You can still complain about him all you like behind his back, you know," Door points out a little desperately.
That would be a slow smile spreading across Tiny Tim's face. "Well, God bless us, every [you know when you're a wee cripple boy who doesn't say much beside the occasional astonishingly-precocious inspirational blurb, you really do overhear the most interesting words on the streets of London...] one, then!"