A/N: Sorry this is so very late! I've been so busy with school projects, homework, other writing projects, etc., that I'd actually quite forgotten about this (though thinking about it every now and then)! So sorry! Thanks so much if you've stayed with me! lol. Hope you enjoy this one!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens, Disney, and ABC do.

This chapter was inspired by:

Dodger watches Oliver as he sits with Nancy, the girl trying and failing—once again—to get him to eat.

He worries.

Oliver's sudden loss of weight and sickly behavior made sense, unfortunately; the boy hadn't eaten more than an apple and a piece of toast—and even then, he'd done so with haunted eyes—since his involuntary return to Fagin's place a week ago.

He hadn't been sleeping well either, tossing and turning and occasionally crying out as he was assaulted with nightmares, no doubt reliving the horror he'd suffered and continued to suffer during and after his kidnapping.

Such was taking place again tonight, just now.

In the bunk above his, Dodger fought—as always—the urge to go to him, to wake him and to hold him as a twelve-year-old boy should be cherished. Instead, knowing it could mean something far worse than nightmares for them both if that snot-nosed canary of Sykes' were spying on them, he could only squeeze his eyes shut and clench fistfuls of his thin sheets to keep from verbally damning the man who had caused all of this.

He hated Sykes, hated him so intensely that he couldn't be sure if he wouldn't go right mental the next time he saw the man. Dear Lord, the foul devil deserved much less, much worse, than Hell, of that the Dodger had absolutely no qualms.

Gritting his teeth when another of Oliver's hushed cries pierced the air, Dodger knew they would make it through this night as they had all the others. And then…and then it would be morning, and he would be able to breathe again. They both would be.

Burying his face into his pillow, Dodger tried to breathe deeply, breathe past the large lump in his throat and the tears that struggled to be set free. In a few short hours, it would be morning.

Morning…

This morning, like all the others, had everyone seated at the main room's table, eating the scraps they'd saved from the previous day's pick-pocketing for breakfast. Everyone, that is, except Oliver. But that was nothing new.

Every morning but this, as Sykes had said he'd had some business to take care of and his girl had been told to stay home, Nancy had futilely tried to feed Oliver while Fagin and his employer had talked their usual rot. Even knowing she would have done it anyway—she had told him she would be his Mother, after all—Dodger was enormously grateful to her for tending to Oliver when he himself couldn't, when Sykes had finally had enough of his 'fussing' days ago and kicked him out to 'work for his keep.'

The other boys had learned long ago that the seat beside Oliver was reserved for Dodger, and they didn't mind his protectiveness toward the boy so long as they could snicker amongst themselves when out of earshot—anything more than that, and they knew Dodger would be on them faster than Sykes himself, sober or inebriated whatever.

This early day, then, found the two as they always were: sitting so closely that their arms brushed constantly, their hair—and Dodger's hat—swiping the sides of each other's face numerous times.

And yet, compared to the carefree take on their relationship in the past, there was the stark contrast of a rapidly starving Oliver and an increasingly concerned Dodger.

Eyeing the younger boy warily, the Dodger let his eyes roam across the pale, gaunt face and swallowed slowly, almost too afraid to breathe. He looked so small, so weak, almost devoid of the spirit that had first drawn the Dodger to him in the London Square all those months ago, and the chief thief couldn't face it.

If Sykes could get to Oliver like this, could make him so miserable that he barely possessed the will to keep himself alive anymore…

No… Oh, please, no…

Dodger remembered suddenly the day they'd met, how innocent, kind, and tough the kid had been—and still was, apart from the tough aspect—for one newly on his own with nowhere to go, and he clenched his hands into white fists as his face twisted in an onslaught of fury.

As this occurred, he was dimly aware of the other boys across from him; the younger ones were scared, some shoulders shook with fear, while the older ones feigned an artificial bravery.

"Dodger," a quiet, slightly hoarse voice coughed, and the seventeen-year-old gazed down into the hazel eyes of his best friend. A tiny, bony, dirty hand taking his under the table, Dodger's fingers were carefully pried from continuing to make white crescent marks on his palm, and the blood quickly rushed back into the now-freed flesh. Squeezing, Oliver offered his protector a small, wry smile, and Dodger breathed deeply.

Understanding his friend's intentions, Dodger glanced up at his other fellow pickpockets and tried to grin in an apologetic, reassuring manner. He must have succeeded—or failed pitifully and the blokes were just taking pity on him—because a few did their best to reciprocate in kind.

Turning his attention from them abruptly, Dodger focused again on Oliver. Peering back into the boy's eyes, he saw that the momentary strength the twelve-year-old had found to help Dodger had melted into weakness once more.

Fearing very much for his sanity upon comprehending the amount of rage he felt toward Sykes, not to mention his mass anxiety over the growing concern of Oliver's physical health, the Dodger quieted and determinedly cut up the best of the piece of untouched ham on his plate—honestly, how could he eat when his closest friend was feeling so low?—and dropped it onto Oliver's plate. There was a slapping sound as the just-drying meat fell onto the cheap tin platter.

Apparently having been lost in his thoughts, the sound caused Oliver to immediately snap up and gasp softly, cringing and gripping the table's edge as leverage; it was as if—Dodger felt his stomach churn—as if he were expecting to be hit…

Eyes wide and countenance pale, the seventeen-year-old found himself frozen, staring hollowly at the vulnerable figure of his best friend. He'd meant to help the boy, not scare him.

And there he discovered the root of the problem.

A sudden shiver removing him from his stupor, he cautiously laid a tender hand on Oliver's shoulder. Frightened eyes flickered upward to meet his, and as the younger boy's whirring mind registered the goodwill and concern brewing within the older male, he relaxed. No danger would touch him with Dodger there.

Passion swelled in Dodger's chest, and he prayed he would be able to uphold such a level of trust. Looking inwardly, though—and here was where the doubts arose—dear Lord, who was he kidding?

He had already broken it.

When this was all over—and though Dodger wouldn't know it for a good many months or so afterward—the majority would say Sykes, not him, per se, was the one to bring the most intense suffering to the Twist boy. Convinced of the truth he all but knew to be true, however, there was such self-loathing assaulting his heart that he didn't know how he was still alive.

But then, calm, confident eyes still fixed on Dodger, Oliver put forth a smile.

There was his answer.

Oliver knew what he had done; he had given up the boy's location, agreed to help Sykes in the kidnapping, held the gunny sack into which he'd been put. But he also knew that Dodger had been coerced into everything, knew that he had fought until he had been given an impossible ultimatum.

Oliver still trusted him, still believed in him above all else, and Dodger was unbelievably grateful.

Ignoring the stares he was getting from the other boys, there was a certain, almost gentle set to Dodger's jaw as he leaned over the twelve-year-old's plate and began to dice up the ham. Feeling Oliver's curious eyes on him, Dodger worked faster, and he was done within seconds.

Spearing a few of the smaller pieces on the boy's fork, which he took from beside the plate, Dodger held it out to him. Blush showing through the grime on his face, Oliver gazed at him with wide eyes.

Dodger laughed. "Well, if you're not going to eat by yourself, I figured I might help you along." Gesturing toward his friend's mouth with the still-full fork, Dodger pleaded with his eyes, and Oliver could not object.

Opening his mouth, he closed it once the metal was inside and began chewing the second Dodger removed it. The meat tasted heavenly, especially after being without food for so long, but just as he was about halfway through chewing, a nauseous feeling began to rise.

Dodger, seeing his best friend looked a bit green, stopped for a moment and set down the fork, watching concernedly as he set a hand on Oliver's back. The feeling passed, and Oliver, after waiting a few moments to be sure, nodded to Dodger and was fed again; he attributed the wave of queasiness to the dark side of being too depressed to eat for several days.

~Dodger wouldn't let him waste away.~

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Again, sorry for the delay! (Happy Spring Break!)