A/N: Considering it's two minutes or so after one A.M. and I'm exhausted, sorry if this isn't very good. I was determined to finished it before I went to bed. Also, the end is somewhat of a paraphrasing (hopefully, a good one) of the 'inspired by' quotation below. Sorry. It's just a scene from the movie that I loved and had to have it in here! Thanks for reading!
Oh, and I just bought the movie off of Ebay! Yay! Now, I can watch it (and get the correct quotations from it, verbatim) whenever I want! Sweet! lol. I am such a nerd... My friends/Honors World History teacher will never let me live this one down! XP
Disclaimer: Don't own "Oliver Twist" (will own the DVD soon, though! Yay!)/Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens (who rules), Disney, and ABC do.
This chapter was inspired by:
"There's something I've realized… It's not a game anymore, Dodger."
Dodger looks at him, searches his no-longer-innocent eyes, and knows the truth.
"Never was a game, mate. We just thought it was."
For once, Dodger had shucked both his hat and famous brown jacket, sporting beneath the cover-up a surprisingly neat-looking brown vest, white dress shirt, and set of matching brown slacks. Both articles of clothing hung from one of the bedposts.
He and Oliver were alone that night; well, except for Fagin, who paid them no mind as he muttered to himself in his corner of the room. Sitting on the floor in front of the fire, Dodger poked the flames absently with the coal turner—the same with which Sykes had almost killed them—as Oliver sat in the armchair beside him.
Dodger wasn't used to the silence that filled his home. The other boys were always so loud, so rowdy, and the quiet was almost a thousand times more deafening than the noise. They were out somewhere, probably to one of the special bars around town which served to minors, getting just drunk enough that they'd be able to snatch up a buzz and still find their way home.
But, of course, the Dodger hadn't gone with them. They'd complained for a while, tried to get his goat, but the eldest of them wouldn't be swayed for anything. They knew why, too. The answer was right beside him.
Oliver himself was beginning to nod off, the heat from the fire and easy night taking their toll. That's not just it, Dodger thought, observing the way Oliver's head rested sideways on his left shoulder and the rest of his arm hung at an almost horizontal angle off the arm of the chair. And he was right. It wasn't.
The nightmares were getting worse and worse. Sometimes, the boy's screams would get so bad that Fagin would bellow in his croaky voice to have the boy woken up, occasionally even throwing in a threat or two when he was particularly riled, and the Dodger would always have to bite back a plea for mercy before doing as he was told. That was something he could never do, something that would surely send Sykes on a blackmail-happy tirade.
The kid barely slept anymore because of the frequency of the night terrors, and because his worry had begun flooding his veins long ago, Dodger watched his nearly-sleeping friend with the barest hint of hopeful anticipation showing on his face. However, the expression faltered when Oliver straightened, raised his head, and stared determinedly into the fire, breathing deeply. Dodger frowned and inaudibly sighed. So close…
Setting down the fire-tending instrument, Dodger stood and cautiously made his way over to his friend, standing in front of him with head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed nervously.
"Oliver?" he breathed, not sure he dared to get any louder.
Then, heart beating faster, he took in the boy's dazed look, complete with glazed eyes and pale features, and became very afraid. Kneeling before him, Dodger rested a firm hand on Oliver's knee and pressed an anxious, slightly sweaty palm to his forehead. No fever, thank Jiminy, but…but what if he—
No, he wouldn't. Dodger wouldn't let him die.
The boy before him exhaled disjointedly, and the older male pulled away, not bothering to push back the tears in his eyes when it was just them. Oliver had seen it before, anyway.
It may have been either the firelight or blinding tears or both, but upon looking again, Dodger swore the boy suddenly looked much worse than he had five seconds ago. "Dodger," Oliver squeaked shakily, the tears in his eyes constricting his throat and making the weathered thief's neck hairs stand on end, "I—I can't sleep, Dodger. I can't."
Hearing his best friend sound so broken, so desperate, Dodger physically felt his heart clench. Could the poor child never catch a break?
"Why not, Oliver?" he asked gently, stroking the younger boy's light brown hair. Salty tears leaked and cascaded down the twelve-year-old's face, and Dodger could only catch them with his dirty fingers and try to suppress the growing pit in his stomach.
"It hurts too much, Dodger," Oliver whispered, and the seventeen-year-old's face went white. "He's there, every time, and it's dark, and I can't get out." Dodger knew exactly what he was talking about—the kidnapping—and he only listened to the rest for his friend's benefit. "And you, you're there, too." The boy's eyes lit up the smallest bit, and a tiny, like flare went off within Dodger. "But…but you're trying to help me. You're calling out, running to me, but something's holding you back. You—" his voice cracked, "—you're hurt, Dodger, whenever I turn around. You're bleeding, beaten; you've been shot—" The tears fell rapidly, cutting off his words when he obviously had more heartache to divulge, but he let it go for now. He was so tired that he really didn't care anymore. He was quiet, suffering, for a few minutes, but he regained his voice enough to relay the worst of it. "And Sykes—we're at Mr. Brownlow's, and—" he pursed his lips, needing only a second more, "—I never meant to hurt them, Dodger…"
He broke even more completely now, entire face a sea of shiny wetness and red pain. The boy's voice shook so badly that Dodger took a good fifteen seconds to decipher the last phrase, but when he did, he very nearly let his own tears go.
"Oliver," the hand coursing through the short brown hair was trembling, "Oliver, it will be all right." Gingerly picking the boy up, one arm fitting in the bend of his legs and the other cradling his thin shoulders—dear Lord, he swore if the lad didn't start taking care of himself…—he collapsed into the chair.
The boy responded to the comfort immediately, tightening his grip on the older boy's neck and burying his face into his shoulder as he cried. Chin resting atop the boy's hair, Dodger held him tightly, wishing he could do so much more than he already was. "Oliver, I promise. You'll be fine." Dodger vowed he would be, no matter where he himself was when this was all over. And for Oliver's sake, he prayed that was soon.
Seeing the boy was not going to calm for a while, Dodger chose to wait it out by being there and rubbing his back consolingly. Letting himself get lost in his thoughts was only too easy in this despicable silence—that is, the silence apart from Oliver's sobs.
So, Oliver dreamed of both his kidnapping and the forced steal from Mr. Brownlow, eh? Somehow, he'd known those would catch up eventually, grimly figuring long ago that they were the subjects of his nightmares. And to think he was in them, making things all the worse for Oliver… It was times like this when Dodger wondered why he'd ever been born.
Dodger awoke hours later, looking around with bleary eyes for any sign of life or morning. No sounds were heard, meaning even Fagin had gone quiet at last, and it was pitch dark outside. Dodger snorted inwardly. The other boys must have been even more desperate for a tune-out than he was.
He sighed softly. It was all so real now.
Several minutes later, he was given a reply. "Isn't it, though?"
Surprised, Dodger glanced down at Oliver, his brow furrowed in confusion. Had he said that aloud? The momentary embarrassment was worth it, though, as a smile formed on the young boy's lips.
"Yes, you did." Abruptly, his face took on a serious, pensive look. "And…I…" he started choppily, "…can you feel it, too, then?" He looked up into Dodger's face, and his dark cloud gathered charge. "Yes..."
"What are you on about, Oliver?" Dodger asked anxiously, putting his palm to the boy's forehead again, sure he had gone mad while they'd dozed. Reaching up, the twelve-year-old gently removed his hand and grasped it strongly, eyes hard.
"Don't you see, Dodge?" No, idiot, of course he didn't. "No matter what Sykes says, no matter how Fagin tried to persuade us, the world isn't ours to toy with." His eyes burned with haunted, eye-opened intensity. "It never was." His tone was almost metallic, so sharp and defined. "We aren't playing anymore."
Now, Dodger understood, as did the identity of Jack Dawkins buried within. "We haven't been for a long time, have we? You're right. Really, we…" this part was particularly hard to get out, "…we never were."
~Anything that wanted Oliver would have to go through Dodger first.~
A/N: Sorry if this wasn't up to par with the others! I felt...different while writing this one, and as stated up-top, I'm exhausted, so...tell me what you think of this one's flow when compared with the others', please? Thanks! Rock on!