A/N: It's about seventeen minutes till three in the morning, so I seem to be acting strangely through these A/Ns or don't catch everything, it's because I'm really tired. lol.
This is an expansion of a scene in the movie where the books given to Oliver by Mr. Brownlow are tossed into the fire by Sykes and Dodger tries to fish them out. I liked it very much, even Bill's threatening of him, so I was inspired to write an episode of what could have happened, but luckily didn't.
Disclaimer: I do not own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. They belong to Charles Dickens and 'The Wonderful World of Disney' (Disney Productions or ABC?).
"Most importantly," Fagin stopped walking and looked the battered boy in the eyes as he was forced to stop beside him. Even from his seat on the hearth, Dodger could see Oliver's swollen, discolored eye, and there were many more injuries under his clothes that were unable to be seen. He felt sick all over again. "Did you peach?"
A determined light encompassed the young boy's eyes, and his older friend was proud.
"No." The old man held his gaze for numerous more moments before nodding; the answer would do for now. Dodger was mildly bewildered, but pleased at the same time, to see Fagin impressed.
Suddenly, the silence in the abode was shattered. Having no further use for him if he hadn't sung, Bill Sykes stalked over to the boy and harshly shoved him to his left. Dodger leaped up and caught him, steadying him with careful hands on his shoulders. Helping him to the hearth, they situated themselves next to each other, one arm staying around Oliver's shoulders as his best friend glared at Sykes.
There was a malicious expression on the man's face, and even Nancy gripped the armrests of the chair in which she was sitting.
"Where are the books, Fagin?" Looking a bit confused at the crow, the older of the men turned and went into his private room, coming back out a few seconds later with the two, rare, twine-bound books Mr. Brownlow had entrusted to Oliver. Dodger felt the boy stiffen next to him with a gasp, and the arm encasing his shoulders tightened.
Ripping them from Fagin's hands, Sykes kept his eyes on the lad, a malevolent grin on his face as he flicked his arm outward, sending the books hurtling into the heart of the fire before anyone understood what was happening. When the initial shock wore off, the volumes were already burning steadily.
Dodger reached for them desperately, carefully so as not to burn himself, but not really caring if he did; after all, this was for Oliver, not him. The pages of both books were black and quite obviously unreadable, and the hard covers were in the same state; the books were falling apart, turning to ashes faster than he could attempt to grab them, and he didn't have the heart to tell Oliver that they couldn't be salvaged. Anyway, everyone could see.
"What do you think you're doin'?" There was no debating who had spoken; there was only one man on the face of the Earth who could make a room so silent and so cold with only six words.
He said nothing to Sykes's unspoken threat or the way he stomped over and got in his face. He merely averted his eyes and continued to try to save what was left of the priceless objects.
Beside him, Oliver watched him in horror, eyes wide, face pale, and breath taken. Dodger shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be risking everything just for him. Didn't he know that he didn't blame him for the kidnapping, that he knew him well enough to see he hadn't done it by choice? Didn't he know he forgave him? Didn't he know he trusted him with his life?
That was just it, though. Dodger did blame himself for Oliver's present appearance, did feel incomparably guilty for having helped in his abduction, did hate himself for everything he'd done to inadvertently hurt the boy since bringing him into this mess all those months ago.
All the same, Oliver needed this to stop. He knew what could happen if it didn't, and he knew he wouldn't be able to handle the consequences.
Dodger felt the small, warm hand on the crook of his arm, and he very nearly froze. He'd missed that lately, yearned for it over the course of a little over twenty-four hours, but not in this way.
Oliver knew his futile plan, wished for his friend to stop before he got himself hurt; unfortunately for him, Dodger had always been a stubborn boy, and the setting of his jaw and sharpening of his eyes proved that as he went on like nothing had happened.
Sykes, meanwhile, did not appreciate being ignored so blatantly. He grabbed the coal-turner from its stand next to the hearth, its end still red from being left in the core of the flame for too long, and raised it high above his head.
Knowing what was going to happen, Dodger instinctively flexed away, back toward Sykes and front facing the heat of the fire. He had never been more afraid of such a simple thing as pain, and he wondered if he could possibly have underestimated it.
He waited for a count of five. He waited for the stinging, for the blisters, for the pain.
It never came.
He didn't look up. The psychotic sadist was probably reveling in the fear radiating from him.
Except…what was this? He was abruptly made known to a warm, all-including mass cloaking him, guarding him, and he didn't remember its coming.
Opening his tightly shut eyes, he wasn't sure what to do. Was this one of Sykes's tricks? Did the man want him to turn around in order to maim his face and chest in the name of some sick routine of his?
No, that couldn't be it. No matter how smart Sykes was, his pride was his real flaw. He had to win at everything he did, even if that should be by dishonorable means; knowing this, he would have been long dead by now. Something—namely, this mass—must have stopped him.
Feeling a tight pressure bunching up his coat on the right side, he tentatively reached back with his hand; he couldn't know for sure whether Sykes hadn't been waiting for this type of bait. Yet, what he felt was a hand, and a small one at that, clutching his jacket for all it was worth, and he immediately understood.
With a start, he spun to face the room's population, impressively wrenching Oliver from his back with one hand and holding him in the air by the back of his shirt to get a good look at him. The little, scrawny ruffian was lucky to be his best friend; if he wasn't, he would have knocked him into next week for doing something so stupid as throwing himself over Dodger to shield him from the blows.
Seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with Oliver's hazel eyes steadfastly piercing his, he turned him around. If there was anything short of a perfectly healthy back-end to be found, he swore Sykes would meet a not-so-early grave. Never in his life had the Artful Dodger felt so enlightened and sick at the same time.
His worries and irrational threats were quickly doused, however, as the twelve-year-old's spinal area and other such places checked out flawlessly. Spinning the boy once more to face him again, he let himself smile gently in relief as he carefully placed him on the floor.
As Oliver settled comfortably against his chest, they both looked up at Sykes. They wanted to know why he hadn't struck them. They had only done the natural thing and protected one another, after all.
He was staring at them, countenance white and red simultaneously—frightened and raging at once. He shook with his anger and sweated with his fear, and the boys could not bring themselves to believe they had caused this monstrosity.
"I'll get you. Either both of you or one, but I will get you." He breathed darkly; his voice was shrouded in years of the carried-out assassinations brought on by rough living, and they had no doubt he meant every word. While both glowered in response, Dodger rested a hand on Oliver's shoulder.
By her arm, Sykes yanked a green-looking Nancy from her chair and fled, uncaring that Fagin was yelling obscenities at him for almost murdering his best pickpocket.
Meanwhile, Oliver and Dodger were all right. Hugging the boy tightly, the weathered thief could find no fault in relishing in the boy's safety. If the adolescent had gotten himself hurt or killed while protecting him tonight, he wouldn't have known what to do with himself.
~Without Oliver, he was nothing.~