Winter Advent 2011 - Day 19
adventchallenge Day: 19
Title: Lightfingered
Fandom: Oliver!
Characters: Artful Dodger, Fagin
Rated: PG Words: 1601
Disclaimer: characters and background material adapted by Lionel Bart from Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens (which I have not read)
Summary: post canon - Dodger and Fagin struck out on their own at the end of the musical. Since then, the sneak thief and his den master have established a Christmas tradition of staying in posh houses while the residents are away for the holiday.
He couldn’t remember the name his father gave him, or his father’s. It’s entirely possible he had no father to speak of. Dodger by nature had become Dodger by name, years ago.
Nineteen, blimey!
Sneaking into these fancy houses wasn’t so simple as it was when he was twelve. Still, he’d managed to get them into a different one each Christmas since he and Fagin left the den in London and he didn’t intend to start failing now.
Got it! The third storey window slid up just enough for him to wriggle through and quickly shut it behind him, without catching the clothes he stole last year. No time to boast as he hurried along to what he hoped was the master’s bedroom. The resident mark was such a fat old gent that Dodger and Fagin could fit together in one trouser leg, and have room for a nimble girl. Bachelor, by the looks- perhaps the ‘Fagin’ kind of bachelor who preferred the company of fifteen to seventeen year old boys. Dodger’s eye spied a portrait in the moonlight. Definitely a dandy.
Dodger tossed a cup of water from a window to gain Fagin’s attention then bundled the smallest, cheapest looking coat into a sheet along with a smashing woollen hat, gloves and boots. He hurried down to the cellar, stuffed the bundle up the coal chute and dashed back up to unlock the door.
“Thank you for calling at such short notice Professor Winterbottom,” Dodger said in grand tones at a natural volume as he let the disguised king of sneak-thieves into their holiday home.
“No inconvenience young man, I assure you. Let’s get this problem sorted before your master returns, shall we. I sense the approach of snow…”
Dodger took Fagin directly to the pantry to see what he’d need to steal before they could make a decent meal without a fire. The house was already warmer than they were used to and the smallest trickle of smoke from a chimney would give up the gig. Now that he had gotten in, they could venture out during the day and make a fire in the Common on which to cook the fruits of tonight’s pilferage. Rich folk never left food that could spoil while they were ‘in town’ or wherever they went for Christmas, so there was no meat, eggs, fish, fruit, vegetables, milk, butter or cheese.
“Flour, salt, vinegar, tea, honey, oats,” Fagin muttered loudly. “Slim pickings Dodger me lad.” He looked sideways at Dodger with a frown. “No longer me lad, are you, young man?”
Fagin had never tried it on with Dodger. This question merely preceded the annual ‘this is no life for you’ speech. Dodger knew it by heart and spent the time thinking over different types of bachelorhood. The other boys knew Dodger was Fagin’s favourite from an early age and assumed he was getting more special attention than they were. He’d never gotten any and had been jealous of them all, until he found out what it involved. Filthy old deviate.
“Now young Oliver…!”
Dodger hid an eye-roll behind the brim of his latest hat. He could be wearing nothing else, but only felt truly naked without a hat.
“…too dainty, pretty and fragile for life without servants. Would’ve been torn to pieces and devoured if he’d stayed much longer! But you, my Artful Dodger, are made to survive, to thrive. You don’t need someone holding your hand,” Fagin flounced about like a fop, “saying think this and do that, or buying you pretty suits to wear while reading pretty books in some pretty room. You could own the world lad.” He sagged and looked mournfully at Dodger. “You could own the world.”
“I can’t even read.”
“Not the extensive works of The Bard,” Fagin emphasised Shakespeare’s title with booming voice and theatrically raised hand. “No. But you recognise more words than many a Lord. You can tell weights with no tool but your hand. And numbers? Your skill with counting coin makes me weep.” Fagin’s head drooped down to his chin. Dodger smiled openly, hiding it the moment Fagin raised his head only to reveal it again when Fagin looked down once more. He saw the glee quirk at Fagin’s lips and laughed aloud. Fagin looked up with a wink, as he had when Dodger could count his years on one hand. Things were dank, and dark, and horrible then but Fagin looked after his pick-pocketing charges better than many a parent the boys saw while out thieving.
They all liked Fagin just that little bit more than they were frightened of him, a lot more with hindsight. They loved him. Fagin had taken care of them, even when each boy cost more to feed than he pilfered.
“Wherever I’d go Fagin, I’d take you wiv me.”
“With, with! They’ll never put you on stage if you don’t talk proper boy.” Every day of Dodger’s life was an act, that’s how Fagin saw it. ‘You’d be paid in more than coin for that very performance in a thee-ate-or,’ he said regularly.
“I’ll bovver wiv that when you’re in the ground. Get up into that bath you old codger before the cold wind sneaking in through that chimney blows you away.” There were candles everywhere - wax, not vile yellow tallow-and Dodger knew how to heat small quantities of water without casual passers-by cottoning on to their presence.
“You’re a cruel master, Mr Dodger, far crueller than ever I was.”
Fagin was ill as well as old. He tried to hide the blood landing in his handkerchief at every cough, but his loyal lad saw. “I’ll bring you up a blob of honey in a cup of tea and put it beside the bed once you’re washed, dressed and under those blankets.” Then he’d do what he did best and pilfer something more substantial to eat for the morning.
Fagin had a grand time going through the mark’s clothing as Dodger heated enough water to fill the basin in the washstand. Sometimes the old fart would find an article of dress so amusing he had to gad about in it for Dodger’s benefit.
Dodger grinned wryly over the basin. “You’re the one belongs on stage.”
“Not pretty enough, me. You-you’ve got that face people yearn to love and a knack for being invisible when the mood strikes. Profitable, lethal combination that. Own the world,” Fagin’s voice drifted quieter then quieter again, “own my soul.” He put on a show of growing tired with his current garb and made a dramatic exit.
It reminded Dodger of Nancy. He still wished he’d been old enough to keep Nancy safe from that murdering badger Bill Sykes. Every girl he met he compared to Nancy, every lass made him miss her more. Nancy’s voice echoed Fagin’s kind of miserable when the boys asked why she took Sykes’ beatings. ‘Because I love ‘im’ she’d say, without fail. Dodger looked through the pattern at the bottom of the basin as he swirled the warming water. Did Fagin love him? If so, then, why every boy but me? Because Fagin loved him?
Dodger returned to the pantry to make the promised tea with honey. He placed it by the bed and told Fagin he was heading out in search of a magnificent holiday feast, with his usual hint of humour. Fagin grunted as he searched for valuables in the various drawers.
“See what you can get for this.” He tossed a gold and garnet ring to Dodger. “On with it, boy.”
It wouldn’t be talked about. Properly personal matters never were.
Dodger went about his business, slid his gains down the coal chute-apart from the squashed and warmish pork pie, which he ate-and used the spare key he’d pocketed to let himself in. He took the food to the master bedroom so they it was at hand if the mark returned home unexpectedly. It had happened before. Dodger slid half the money he got for the ring under Fagin’s empty teacup and placed an apple inside it.
“What’s that?” Fagin asked suspiciously.
“Earnings, and a Christmas present.”
“Earnings from what?” The voice from within the blankets was sharp. Tarting was a girl’s vocation, forbidden for boys wanting to doss down in Fagin’s den.
“Just the jewellery.”
“That’s more than expected.”
“The stone’s not garnet. Least that’s what I told the gent trying to get back in with his missus.”
“Clever lad,” Fagin clucked proudly.
Dodger took his boots and outer layers of clothing off before getting into the bed. There were other beds in the house but he’d gotten used to sharing in the den. He felt safer beside Fagin, even knowing what he knew. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering why that was.
“Fagin?” he asked, hoarse from exhaustion, and received and equally weary grunt in response. “Why did you never ask me to tart for you?” His tone added details he couldn’t put into words, like relief.
“Too good for this life, always have been. Spark of the Devil's mischief in an Angels heart.” The words were small. The meaning wasn’t.
Dodger rolled over and put a grateful arm around his guardian. “Sorry I don’t…” he stumbled. It was better left unsaid, he never should have asked. Dodger moved closer so he could feel the old man’s irregular breathing and irregular heartbeat because he couldn’t always hear them. This’d likely be Fagin’s last winter. “I’ll be with you til the end.”
Fagin tapped Dodger’s hand. “Bless you, boy. Bless you.”
Title: Lightfingered
Fandom: Oliver!
Characters: Artful Dodger, Fagin
Rated: PG Words: 1601
Disclaimer: characters and background material adapted by Lionel Bart from Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens (which I have not read)
Summary: post canon - Dodger and Fagin struck out on their own at the end of the musical. Since then, the sneak thief and his den master have established a Christmas tradition of staying in posh houses while the residents are away for the holiday.
He couldn’t remember the name his father gave him, or his father’s. It’s entirely possible he had no father to speak of. Dodger by nature had become Dodger by name, years ago.
Nineteen, blimey!
Sneaking into these fancy houses wasn’t so simple as it was when he was twelve. Still, he’d managed to get them into a different one each Christmas since he and Fagin left the den in London and he didn’t intend to start failing now.
Got it! The third storey window slid up just enough for him to wriggle through and quickly shut it behind him, without catching the clothes he stole last year. No time to boast as he hurried along to what he hoped was the master’s bedroom. The resident mark was such a fat old gent that Dodger and Fagin could fit together in one trouser leg, and have room for a nimble girl. Bachelor, by the looks- perhaps the ‘Fagin’ kind of bachelor who preferred the company of fifteen to seventeen year old boys. Dodger’s eye spied a portrait in the moonlight. Definitely a dandy.
Dodger tossed a cup of water from a window to gain Fagin’s attention then bundled the smallest, cheapest looking coat into a sheet along with a smashing woollen hat, gloves and boots. He hurried down to the cellar, stuffed the bundle up the coal chute and dashed back up to unlock the door.
“Thank you for calling at such short notice Professor Winterbottom,” Dodger said in grand tones at a natural volume as he let the disguised king of sneak-thieves into their holiday home.
“No inconvenience young man, I assure you. Let’s get this problem sorted before your master returns, shall we. I sense the approach of snow…”
Dodger took Fagin directly to the pantry to see what he’d need to steal before they could make a decent meal without a fire. The house was already warmer than they were used to and the smallest trickle of smoke from a chimney would give up the gig. Now that he had gotten in, they could venture out during the day and make a fire in the Common on which to cook the fruits of tonight’s pilferage. Rich folk never left food that could spoil while they were ‘in town’ or wherever they went for Christmas, so there was no meat, eggs, fish, fruit, vegetables, milk, butter or cheese.
“Flour, salt, vinegar, tea, honey, oats,” Fagin muttered loudly. “Slim pickings Dodger me lad.” He looked sideways at Dodger with a frown. “No longer me lad, are you, young man?”
Fagin had never tried it on with Dodger. This question merely preceded the annual ‘this is no life for you’ speech. Dodger knew it by heart and spent the time thinking over different types of bachelorhood. The other boys knew Dodger was Fagin’s favourite from an early age and assumed he was getting more special attention than they were. He’d never gotten any and had been jealous of them all, until he found out what it involved. Filthy old deviate.
“Now young Oliver…!”
Dodger hid an eye-roll behind the brim of his latest hat. He could be wearing nothing else, but only felt truly naked without a hat.
“…too dainty, pretty and fragile for life without servants. Would’ve been torn to pieces and devoured if he’d stayed much longer! But you, my Artful Dodger, are made to survive, to thrive. You don’t need someone holding your hand,” Fagin flounced about like a fop, “saying think this and do that, or buying you pretty suits to wear while reading pretty books in some pretty room. You could own the world lad.” He sagged and looked mournfully at Dodger. “You could own the world.”
“I can’t even read.”
“Not the extensive works of The Bard,” Fagin emphasised Shakespeare’s title with booming voice and theatrically raised hand. “No. But you recognise more words than many a Lord. You can tell weights with no tool but your hand. And numbers? Your skill with counting coin makes me weep.” Fagin’s head drooped down to his chin. Dodger smiled openly, hiding it the moment Fagin raised his head only to reveal it again when Fagin looked down once more. He saw the glee quirk at Fagin’s lips and laughed aloud. Fagin looked up with a wink, as he had when Dodger could count his years on one hand. Things were dank, and dark, and horrible then but Fagin looked after his pick-pocketing charges better than many a parent the boys saw while out thieving.
They all liked Fagin just that little bit more than they were frightened of him, a lot more with hindsight. They loved him. Fagin had taken care of them, even when each boy cost more to feed than he pilfered.
“Wherever I’d go Fagin, I’d take you wiv me.”
“With, with! They’ll never put you on stage if you don’t talk proper boy.” Every day of Dodger’s life was an act, that’s how Fagin saw it. ‘You’d be paid in more than coin for that very performance in a thee-ate-or,’ he said regularly.
“I’ll bovver wiv that when you’re in the ground. Get up into that bath you old codger before the cold wind sneaking in through that chimney blows you away.” There were candles everywhere - wax, not vile yellow tallow-and Dodger knew how to heat small quantities of water without casual passers-by cottoning on to their presence.
“You’re a cruel master, Mr Dodger, far crueller than ever I was.”
Fagin was ill as well as old. He tried to hide the blood landing in his handkerchief at every cough, but his loyal lad saw. “I’ll bring you up a blob of honey in a cup of tea and put it beside the bed once you’re washed, dressed and under those blankets.” Then he’d do what he did best and pilfer something more substantial to eat for the morning.
Fagin had a grand time going through the mark’s clothing as Dodger heated enough water to fill the basin in the washstand. Sometimes the old fart would find an article of dress so amusing he had to gad about in it for Dodger’s benefit.
Dodger grinned wryly over the basin. “You’re the one belongs on stage.”
“Not pretty enough, me. You-you’ve got that face people yearn to love and a knack for being invisible when the mood strikes. Profitable, lethal combination that. Own the world,” Fagin’s voice drifted quieter then quieter again, “own my soul.” He put on a show of growing tired with his current garb and made a dramatic exit.
It reminded Dodger of Nancy. He still wished he’d been old enough to keep Nancy safe from that murdering badger Bill Sykes. Every girl he met he compared to Nancy, every lass made him miss her more. Nancy’s voice echoed Fagin’s kind of miserable when the boys asked why she took Sykes’ beatings. ‘Because I love ‘im’ she’d say, without fail. Dodger looked through the pattern at the bottom of the basin as he swirled the warming water. Did Fagin love him? If so, then, why every boy but me? Because Fagin loved him?
Dodger returned to the pantry to make the promised tea with honey. He placed it by the bed and told Fagin he was heading out in search of a magnificent holiday feast, with his usual hint of humour. Fagin grunted as he searched for valuables in the various drawers.
“See what you can get for this.” He tossed a gold and garnet ring to Dodger. “On with it, boy.”
It wouldn’t be talked about. Properly personal matters never were.
Dodger went about his business, slid his gains down the coal chute-apart from the squashed and warmish pork pie, which he ate-and used the spare key he’d pocketed to let himself in. He took the food to the master bedroom so they it was at hand if the mark returned home unexpectedly. It had happened before. Dodger slid half the money he got for the ring under Fagin’s empty teacup and placed an apple inside it.
“What’s that?” Fagin asked suspiciously.
“Earnings, and a Christmas present.”
“Earnings from what?” The voice from within the blankets was sharp. Tarting was a girl’s vocation, forbidden for boys wanting to doss down in Fagin’s den.
“Just the jewellery.”
“That’s more than expected.”
“The stone’s not garnet. Least that’s what I told the gent trying to get back in with his missus.”
“Clever lad,” Fagin clucked proudly.
Dodger took his boots and outer layers of clothing off before getting into the bed. There were other beds in the house but he’d gotten used to sharing in the den. He felt safer beside Fagin, even knowing what he knew. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering why that was.
“Fagin?” he asked, hoarse from exhaustion, and received and equally weary grunt in response. “Why did you never ask me to tart for you?” His tone added details he couldn’t put into words, like relief.
“Too good for this life, always have been. Spark of the Devil's mischief in an Angels heart.” The words were small. The meaning wasn’t.
Dodger rolled over and put a grateful arm around his guardian. “Sorry I don’t…” he stumbled. It was better left unsaid, he never should have asked. Dodger moved closer so he could feel the old man’s irregular breathing and irregular heartbeat because he couldn’t always hear them. This’d likely be Fagin’s last winter. “I’ll be with you til the end.”
Fagin tapped Dodger’s hand. “Bless you, boy. Bless you.”