I don't usually write long explanatory notes, but there is one at the end of this story to explain what the heck I was thinking. I admit up front that this is fanciful and requires willing suspension of disbelief. It was written for an AO3 challenge and is cross-posted from that platform.
On the Monday after Thanksgiving 1936, Captain Robert E. Hogan looked out the window of his office in the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square. Winter was setting in, and this afternoon a freezing rain was falling. Hogan had truly enjoyed living and working in London for the past eight months, but the outdoor delights of spring, summer, and fall had vanished. Now, as he watched an icy mixture plop from the sky, he missed the snows of his boyhood in Connecticut, which were puffier and prettier than this slop. Gazing onto the street three stories below him, Hogan could see people slipping and sliding as they walked past the embassy.
He sat down and picked at a turkey sandwich he'd bought in the cafeteria. There was work to do, so he was having lunch at his desk. The winds of war were blowing, and all the U.S. embassies were on high alert.
During the summer, Ambassador Robert Worth Bingham had sent Hogan to assist the American embassy in Berlin with a sensitive task: monitoring German re-armament and assessing popular support in Germany if Hitler made a declaration of war. Throughout the fall, the focus had been on whether President Roosevelt should pursue a personal meeting with Hitler, a plan that was ultimately scrapped. Ambassador Bingham was growing more and more concerned and was in constant contact with his U.S. counterparts across Europe. As a young deputy military attaché, Hogan was consolidating intelligence from all of them for a meeting with the British Defense Ministry. One thing was obvious to Hogan: European governments were underestimating Hitler's willingness to carry out the expansionist plans he had laid out in Mein Kampf.
It was no good trying to eat; he was too restless. It was after one o'clock in the afternoon, and Hogan's eyes had been staring at paperwork since eight o'clock in the morning. He stood up again and stretched his back. He needed to walk. It was the only way he could think, but his office was too small, so he pulled on his galoshes and grabbed his coat to head outside. He put it on and shoved his keys and wallet in one pocket. As he was buttoning up, he peered out the window again, and his eyes settled on a small figure standing under a tree. He squinted; could it be? He jutted out his chin and focused harder. Yes, he decided, that might be him. He tucked what remained of his sandwich into the other coat pocket and headed down the stairs.
Hogan stepped out into the wintry air, down the broad marble stairs, onto the sidewalk, and across the street to the park in the middle of the square, where he found the figure again.
It was him, the same ragged boy who had fallen in front of him and skinned his knee badly several months earlier. He had found Hogan's wallet too—OK, maybe "found" wasn't the right word. The newly minted Captain had never been sure. But the kid came back with it, and that was what mattered. He was running with a bad crowd; Hogan had figured that out when a group of ne'er do wells jostled him on the sidewalk, probably trying to pick his pocket. The boy had been running to catch up with them when he fell.
Hogan stood for a moment and looked. The kid was shivering. His coat was swimming on him and letting in a breeze through the sleeves. He wore a newsboy cap but had no scarf and no gloves, and he was wearing shorts. Those crazy English, Hogan thought as he walked toward him. They really needed to try letting boys wear long pants.
"Hey," Hogan called to the boy as he approached the middle of the park. "Remember me?"
The kid took one look, and his eyes grew wide. He took off to run, but his boots were no match for the icy rain that was slicking up the sidewalks. He slipped and landed hard just as Hogan caught up with him.
"Hey, hey, get up," Hogan said, hauling him back onto his feet by the back of his coat; he could feel it was much too thin for the weather. "Don't run. I remember you."
The boy just stared. "Wh-wh-what do you wwant from me, then?" he spat out. "I ain't took nuffin'."
"I don't want anything from you," Hogan said firmly, keeping a hand locked down on the kid's skinny shoulder. "I'm just checking to see why a kid like you is standing out here in the cold rain when I'm pretty sure you ought to be in school."
The boy's eyes grew wide. "Are you a tr-truant officer?"
"No. Don't you remember me? I'm an Army officer. U.S. Army, that is. Did you hurt yourself again?" He pulled the boy's hands toward himself to inspect them. He had cold fingers and scraped palms.
"Blimey, a Yank! Do you know any c-c-cowboys and Indians?" The boy quickly pulled back his hands and tucked them into his pockets. He gave Hogan an expectant look.
"Not really. I'm from Connecticut. It's not exactly the Wild West. Look, it's cold out here. And you haven't answered my question."
"Oh," the boy replied, sounding deeply disappointed about the cowboys and Indians. Then he waved a hand dismissively. "I'm n-not hurt. Off with you, then."
"Excuse me?" Hogan replied. The nerve of this kid.
"You heard mmmme. I'm an Englishman. I have m-my rights, and one of my rrrights is not to be attacked in the streets by c-columnists." He pushed a hand with several fingers outstretched toward Hogan and pulled it back as he spoke like it was attached by a string. Then he splayed his fingers wide across his chest, letting his hand rest there.
A colonist though he was, Hogan let "columnists" pass without laughing. "What are you, eight years old?" he countered.
"Eleven, as if it's any of your b-business," the boy replied with another flip of his hand.
Hogan gave him a hard, skeptical look, and the boy seemed to be just a bit chastened.
"Well, I'll be eleven in a mmmonth," the boy corrected himself, then rolled his eyes. "Why am I talking to you? You could be lying to me. You could be a p-peeler."
Hogan watched the kid's hands fly as he answered. He had a quirky way of gesturing, with a very un-English amount of movement, as if each of his fingers had a mind of its own. It was taking everything in Hogan's power to keep a straight face.
"I don't know what a peeler is, but I'm not lying. I'm a captain—look. These are my insignia," Hogan said. He showed the boy his bars. Hogan wasn't sure why he was talking to the kid, let alone why he was explaining himself. He was concerned, of course, and he was curious and amused. But he was also drawn to him for reasons he couldn't explain.
The boy's eyes went wide, and his hand went deep into his pocket as if he was searching for something. He gazed down. "Yeah, I remember you," he said quietly. Then he looked up, and the brashness was back. "You're the one what knocked me d-down and tr-tr-trod on my arm," he said, emphasizing each verb with a jab of his finger.
"I didn't knock you down—you fell right at my feet. If I didn't know you got hurt, I would have bet you did that on purpose."
The boy smirked but said nothing.
"Listen, is there a reason you're standing here wet and shaking?" Hogan asked. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Of course, there's a rrreason. There's always a reason. I wouldn't j-just wait here wivvout a reason," the boy replied haughtily.
"Uh huh," Hogan said. "And the reason is?"
"I'm waiting for me old man," the boy replied. "He should have been here by now." He looked anxiously up and down the street, then turned on a brazen expression. "What about you?" he asked Hogan. "Why are you out here b-b-bovvering me?"
Hogan shook his head, finally laughing. "Me? I just needed to clear my head, kiddo." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his sandwich. "Here. Want some?" he asked. "It's turkey."
The boy's eyes grew wide. "What, like Christmas turkey? Blimey." He looked at Hogan hungrily and bit into the sandwich as soon as Hogan handed it over. Hogan took out his half, crumpled up the wax paper it was wrapped in and tucked it into his pocket, and started eating.
The boy, meanwhile, devoured his sandwich and threw the wrapper to the ground.
Hogan stared for a moment and then looked squarely at the boy. "Pick that up," he said quietly.
The boy stared back and opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He searched Hogan's face and then bent down to pick up the paper as if he was impressed with the man's air of authority. But not that impressed. He deposited it into Hogan's coat pocket, to the young Captain's complete surprise.
Hogan slapped his hand on the pocket—his wallet was still there. "You have your own pockets, you know," Hogan said, gesturing at the boy's coat.
"They have holes in them," the boy shrugged. He grinned up at Hogan, prompting him to feel for his wallet again. At that sight, the boy shook his head disapprovingly and made a tsk-tsk sound.
"Wh-when you do that, you're sh-showing a thief exactly where you put your valuables," the boy said with a nod of his head. "You ought to b-be mmmore careful."
"You're a real smart-aleck, you know that?" Hogan said.
The boy shrugged again. "J-j-just a pr-professional courtesy, as me old man would say. Where is he, anyway?" He craned his neck as he looked up and down the street. "They was supposed to be done by now," he muttered as the icy drizzle sent a shudder through him.
"It's freezing out here, kid – what's your name, anyway? We can wait inside." He gestured toward the embassy. Even through layers, he was starting to feel the bone-chilling effect of the bitter weather, and he could only imagine how wet and cold the skinny little kid felt.
"He told me to wwait here. I have to wwwait here," the boy insisted. Hogan could see the anxiety building as the child bit his lip and jumped up and down in place to get warm. Then they heard church bells, a single chime from a nearby church, following by a single chime from a few streets away.
"It's half one," the boy said with a bit of a whine creeping into his voice. "'E should be d-done by now! Where's my Dad? You don't think the coppers… oh, blimey!"
"Can we find him?" Hogan asked.
"Where would we go, down the bleeding Bridewell? We can't! We can't ask after him! I don't have no money to get 'ome." He was getting agitated now, his cool, bold attitude seeming to wash away with each pelt of icy rain.
"Do you need help getting home?" Hogan asked.
The boy scoffed. "No. I'll think of something if… Oh, there he is! Dad! Dad! Wait for me!"
The man was on the corner, impatiently gesturing at the boy. He was no better clothed than his son.
"Thanks for the sandwich, mate," the boy said to Hogan. Then he reached into a pocket, extracted something, and tossed it to Hogan. It landed in his hands with a jingle. His keys.
"You need to be more careful," the boy said.
"I'll do that," Hogan said, a smirk on his face. "What's your name again?"
The boy attempted a sound, then stopped. He thought for a moment, then grinned. "You can call me Jack Dawkins," he said, clear as a bell. Then he gave Hogan a crisp open-palm salute, like he'd been watching the soldiers at the palace, and ran off.
Hogan watched the small figure retreat from view, scampering after his father, who never slowed down long enough to ask after him. He thought of his own father. James Hogan would have stopped to ask his boy Bobby if he was OK. He would have pointed to the stranger and asked who he was. He would have marched up to him and shaken his hand for troubling with his son. He would have held his little boy's hand as they walked away, and even though Bobby might have felt a little embarrassed because nearly 11 was pretty grownup, he would have held on out of pure relief.
None of that happened. All Hogan saw was a little boy trying to keep up. He hoped the kid wouldn't fall and skin his knees again.
He shook his head and walked back to the embassy. Jack Dawkins, hm? That name was familiar, like he'd read it in a book somewhere. He'd have to think about that. At least if he ran into him again, he'd know what to call him.
Notes:
This story sat in a folder for five months while I tried to figure out what to do with it, and I posted it on AO3 over a month ago but was hesitant to post it here until another author encouraged me to do so. (Thank you, Snooky-9093).
It doesn't really fit in my headcanon, although it does tie to an event in my headcanon where a very young Captain Hogan met an even younger Peter Newkirk for the very first time on the streets of London. I started working on it in response to 27twinsister's hurt/comfort challenge on AO3. I know the scenario is far-fetched. I mean, not one, but TWO prewar meetings between canon characters, one of whom is a child? But what the heck. It's fanfiction.
This story links up to a few other stories of mine. Hogan's first meeting with Newkirk was a thread running through A Minor Problem. Newkirk's difficulty in saying his name (a common challenge for those of us who stutter) is the subject of Mistaken Identity. And Hogan's prewar exploits in London are part of both A Minor Problem and a one-shot that I am now planning to expand called Berlin Bound.
The name young Peter Newkirk gives at the end is from Oliver Twist - it's the Artful Dodger's real name. My beta pointed me toward a wonderful passage in that book that inspired Peter's haughty comments about his rights as an Englishman—he's full-on imitating the Artful Dodger. I liked the idea that Peter would know the book well enough to know that detail and that he would already be sly and elusive at the tender age of 11.
The "Bridewell" is a lock-up at the police station.