A/N: HELLO, MY ADORING FANS!

crickets chirp

Alright then, hello people who have most kindly reviewed! You guys are the cats pyjamas. You are the bees knees. You are, one might go so far to say, the blue bottle's elbows.

And between you and me, that is saying something.

Disclaimers: You know what I don't own? The new Rayman game. Neither do I own Oliver Twist. It belongs to Charles Dickens. I don't think the Rayman game does though.

Jack Dawkins, known to his more intimate friends as the Artful Dodger, woke up and realised he was horrible, painfully, achingly, tummy-grumbling, mouth-watering hungry.

This was not the sort of 'hungry' that would go away after a couple of minutes listening to the other boys breathe. No, this was the sort of 'hungry' that would be cured only by getting up, slipping through the room, and having a quick rummage around what Fagin called the pantry.

He yawned, remembering to kick Charlie swiftly in the side, then rolled over smoothly when the other boy's fist came shooting out at his head. He had done this the first night that Charlie had arrived. Somehow he had never broken the habit. Still rolling over as Charlie's booted foot aimed a kick at him, he let out a little squeak as he ran out of bed to roll off and ended up on thin air.

"OW!"

"OW!"

Dodger's head shot up. He had never studied Science, thought it was a load of rubbish, but he knew for a fact that the floor shouldn't be yelling at him. And he definitely knew that the floor shouldn't be as soft as that.

Eyes darting around to make sure no-one was awake, he scrambled back up on the bed, Charlie having stopped thrashing around, and blinked down at the Thing at the side of the bed.

"Charlie," He mumbled, shaking Charlie gently by the shoulder, "There's a Thing at the side of the bed."

"Wha -?" Charlie's eyes, bloodshot from his first try of gin last night (a result of a squabble with some of the older boys) opened slowly and blinked twice, "You're dreamin', Dodge. Go back to slee –" He got no further before letting his eyes drift back closed.

Dodger rubbed his fists into his eyes, waited until he was feeling a considerable amount of pain, and convinced himself that he was not dreaming. Then he lowered his head and peered back over the side.

There was a small but rather irritable looking face glaring up at him.

Dodger gulped.

This proved that he was not, as such, dreaming. And that there was, in fact, a Thing at the side of the bed.

"You could watch out, you know," The Thing snapped, "You're heavy. And I don't suppose you would enjoy me waking you up by dropping on you when you were sleeping….."

Dodger resisted the urge to groan. Not only was the Thing real, but it had all the nagging capacities of his mother.

The boy made a face, "Wait there, please," he told the Thing, and turned back to shove Charlie.

"Charlie," He whined, "There is a Thing at the side of the bed, and now it's scolding me."

Charlie's hand came as a complete surprise to him, hitting him sidewise on, "Go 'way Dodge."

"It's there!" Dodger insisted, kicking the boy twice, and swatting him in the face for good measure, "It's down there, and it's scolding me!"

Charlie's only answer was an angry swear and a fist ploughed into Dodger's stomach.

"It's alright for you," Dodger grumbled, rubbing his already aching stomach, "It's on my side of the bed," He grabbed Charlie by the scruff of the neck and hauled him upwards, ignoring the string of curses, "Look for yourself!"

Master Bates elbowed Dodger in the ribs and looked over the side of the bed, "That's not a Thing, Dodge, that's a girl." He managed to yawn, before crashing his head into the pillow again.

Dodger scowled. This was even worse than a Thing. You could battle a Thing. You weren't even allowed to hit girls.

"Are you really a girl?" He asked the little face.

"Course I am," The face told him, "Got the dress, don't I?"

Dodger looked over the side and concluded that yes, the red thing that covered the girl was a dress.

"Nancy's is nicer than yours," He told her.

The girl poked her dress, "How come?"

"Yours had more rips and tears in it. Nancy's is neat, and it has purple frills at the bottom of it."

"You shouldn't be looking down there," The girl reprimanded him severely, straightening out the dirty skirt, "And I have purple and black stockings. That's almost the same."

"It ain't. They got holes in 'em, look," Dodger pointed at the girl's legs, whose purple and black stockings did indeed have a few holes.

The girl scowled at him again and covered up her legs with her skirt, "You shouldn't be lookin' down there neither," She blinked up at him, "Who's Nancy?"

"A girl. Older than you. She's prettier too," Dodger told her bluntly, "I'm gonna marry her when I grow up."

"Poor her."

Dodger ignored the girl's obvious snub, "Who're you, anyways?"

"I'm the girl that Fagin thought could make a living thievin'."

"Girls don't thieve."

"Yes they do. I do."

"Yeah, but not here. They don't stay here. They go and live in pubs and stuff."

"Not me," The girl yawned, "Fagin said I could stay here. He said other girls have done too. I'm not old enough to live in a pub."

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

Dodger mentally cursed. Great. A year younger than him. He was going to get lumbered with showing her the ropes for sure, "What's your name then?"

"What?"

"You can't stay somewhere without a name. People wouldn't know what to say. You'd be ignored."

The girl wrinkled her nose up at the logic, "I'm Lettie Hackdown."

"I'm Jack Dawkins. All my friends call me the Artful Dodger."

"Why?"

"Cos I can dodge the traps at the first sign of trouble."

"I mean the first part."

Dodger shrugged, "My mother said I was silver-tongued. Could get anyone I wanted to listen to what I said and do what I want."

The girl folded her arms, "I won't do what you want."

Dodger stuck his tongue out at her, "I can't help it if you don't follow the Laws of Nature, can I?"

Lettie shrugged, wrapping her arms around her body, "Got n'ything to eat?"

"What?"

"Food. To eat. Fagin didn't give me any," The girl scowled, "Mama said to wait for someone with food."

"We have food," Dodger told her, sliding off the bed and landing in a pile next to her, "Want some?"

"I don't know where it is."

Dodger fumbled slightly, limbs still tangled, "If you help me up."

Lettie held out her hand, and the boy reached for it. It was small and warm, and he could feel the pulse underneath her glove.

They didn't let go of each other when Dodger got up. It seemed only natural.

Aw! Does the fluff and cuteness not make your heart soar? Or is it just me?

Probably me.

Meh. Anyway, thankyou guys for the kickass reviews! Kudos to you all! I don't even know what that means!

Thanks to:

jumanji (Ta very muchly) touchnotthecat (where did your fic go? I came back to fanfiction and it disappeared!) Queen of Badgers (funky name. Black and purple socks rock. I want some!) and Hannah the Fly (I enjoy writing Fagin. He's the coolest!).

You've read the fic. Seen the disclaimers. Read the list of thankyous. You see the review button.

You know what to do.