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dotwendstay2011-04-20 05:03 pm
son-of-darkness.livejournal.com) wrote in dotwendstay2011-04-20 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
[Wednesday - 20/04/11]
Title: The Artful Dodger
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
son_of_darkness
Universe: Canon Dodger
Characters: Dodger ©son_of_darkness, Grey © creatore_magico
Timeline: A couple of years ago. Dodger has been homeless for about a year at this point.
Notes: Not edited.
Warnings: Homelessness and mentions of death. Nothing graphic.
Rating: PG?
Word count: 1,201
On the day his mother died, Michael was nineteen. They’d not been amazingly well off, but comfortable enough that Michael’s lack of a job hadn’t been too much of a strain. Truth be told, he’d been a mummy’s boy from the day he was born and Marjory hadn’t been relishing the day her little soldier would move out and leave her all on her own. So much so that she’d gone and died before he’d had the chance - a fact that Michael had managed to wring a small amount of wry humour out of.
Making the funeral arrangements had been ridiculously hard. It had fallen to him simply because he had no idea where the rest of his family were, or if they even existed. He’d never had a grandmother or grandfather to speak of, and his dad had left home when Michael was seven. It made sense that his mother had clung to him as tightly as she had, really.
Several of Marjory’s co-workers attended the funeral, and Michael found himself having to be the strong one. He had no one to comfort him, after all. Instead, he found a sort of strength in comforting others; handing out tissues, making toasts and offering to refill people’s glasses.
The question cropped up a few times: “Do you have any relatives you can stay with?”
To which the answer was always: “Auntie Bridget.”
There was no Auntie Bridget. It just saved lots of unnecessary pitying and paperwork. Michael would find somewhere - probably some sort of temporary doss, like the YMCA or a homeless shelter – and spend his time there looking for a job. How hard could it be?
Harder than he’d anticipated, actually.
He spent nine months in the YMCA, becoming increasingly more and more desperate and frustrated. There were no jobs and the little money he’d been left after his mum’s death was rapidly running out. As it tends to do. Pesky thing.
It had been four days after his eviction – “Your rent has gone unpaid for three weeks. This is your notice of eviction” – that he’d successfully managed to pull the wallet from a wealthy-looking businessman’s coat pocket. And another three days after that that he’d been caught trying to do the exact same thing.
Prison cells weren’t really as bad as people made them out to be, he’d thought. At least it was dry and warm. And they even provided you with breakfast. They’d taken his fingerprints and cautioned him, but he’d escaped without a criminal record.
Of course, the caution was taken as lightly as he supposed they expected him to take it, and within the fortnight he’d managed to lift over one hundred and twenty pounds in cash, a handful of sparkly, jewellery-type things, and two expensive-looking leather wallets. He clearly had a natural talent for this. He was like the Artful Dodger from Oliver. He’d always liked that guy.
After several months of sleeping in cardboard boxes, he found a run-down, boarded-up flat in Hackney. With a little bit of persuasion, he managed to pry the boards on one of the windows off and declared the place officially his. He had no idea how squatters' rights worked, but hopefully everything would pan out. It was a rather optimistic view for someone in his position to have, but he was an optimistic guy, and hey… things had worked out pretty well for him so far.
It was a bright, sunny day when it happened. Some time in mid-July, he supposed. Not having access to a calendar had turned date-guessing into a fun game. He was walking down the street, minding other people’s business, when there had been a commotion a hundred or so feet in front of him. A crowd was gathering. With an excited grin, he sped up and skirted around it, pretending to be interested, whilst actually helping himself to people's unprotected pockets. A wallet here, a purse or two there, a…
He stopped when he came to a small opening in the crowd and saw what was causing all the fuss. A young boy was sitting on the floor, looking dazed and being held up by a middle-aged woman who was fanning him and telling people to “stand back and give him some room”.
Michael saw the opportunity and had taken as if it were a giant fifty pound note with the words “to Michael, happy birthday, love God” written on it.
He pushed into the crowd, making a show of being seen. “Excuse me, people,” he said, sliding towards the centre of the group. “Coming through.”
The woman and the boy on the floor both looked up at him and Michael rolled his eyes in an overly exasperated manner. “There you are,” he said, kneeling down beside them and placing the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead. “What did I tell you about taking your medication? You know you get these funny turns if you keep missing it.”
The boy blinked at him, but it was the women who spoke first.
“Is this a friend of yours?” she asked, and Michael nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m always telling him about this. His mum doesn’t like to let him out on his own. S’why I take him out, y’see.”
He turned back to the boy and gave him a grin. “Come on then, Jim,” he said, taking him by the arm and pulling him carefully to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”
“Um…” the boy started, but Michael pulled him from the crowd and down a side street before he could get anything else out.
“I’m not Jim,” the boy said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
Michael beamed. “Nope. I figured you weren’t Jim, but I thought, hey… worth a try. Could have picked Norman.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”
Michael sighed and his smile softened slightly. “You’re homeless, aren’t ya’?” he asked. The boy looked a little taken aback, but eventually nodded.
“Well, how about you come live in my flat with me?” Michael asked. “And by flat I mean run-down doss-house in Hackney. Your little fainting trick will probably come in really handy.”
“Are you homeless, too?” the boy asked.
“I just told you I got a flat.”
The boy blinked and Michael grinned. “Yeah, I’m homeless. So… what do ya’ say?”
The boy looked torn for a moment, but Michael’s friendly smile was clearly enough to convince him, because after a few moments he nodded and offered a small smile in return. “Okay. Thank you.”
Michael gave the kid’s hair a quick ruffle, before turning and signalling for the boy to follow. It would be nice to have someone else with him. Like his own little miniature gang. Fagin had had a gang, after all. And if he was the Dodger then it seemed only right for him to have one, too.
They’d made it to the end of the street before the boy spoke again.
“I’m Grey, by the way,” he said. “That’s my name.”
Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Grey was a name, now? Oh well…
“What’s yours?”
“Mi-“ Michael stopped and grinned. “Dodger,” he replied. “You can call me Dodger.”
Author:
son_of_darknessUniverse: Canon Dodger
Characters: Dodger ©
son_of_darkness, Grey © creatore_magicoTimeline: A couple of years ago. Dodger has been homeless for about a year at this point.
Notes: Not edited.
Warnings: Homelessness and mentions of death. Nothing graphic.
Rating: PG?
Word count: 1,201
On the day his mother died, Michael was nineteen. They’d not been amazingly well off, but comfortable enough that Michael’s lack of a job hadn’t been too much of a strain. Truth be told, he’d been a mummy’s boy from the day he was born and Marjory hadn’t been relishing the day her little soldier would move out and leave her all on her own. So much so that she’d gone and died before he’d had the chance - a fact that Michael had managed to wring a small amount of wry humour out of.
Making the funeral arrangements had been ridiculously hard. It had fallen to him simply because he had no idea where the rest of his family were, or if they even existed. He’d never had a grandmother or grandfather to speak of, and his dad had left home when Michael was seven. It made sense that his mother had clung to him as tightly as she had, really.
Several of Marjory’s co-workers attended the funeral, and Michael found himself having to be the strong one. He had no one to comfort him, after all. Instead, he found a sort of strength in comforting others; handing out tissues, making toasts and offering to refill people’s glasses.
The question cropped up a few times: “Do you have any relatives you can stay with?”
To which the answer was always: “Auntie Bridget.”
There was no Auntie Bridget. It just saved lots of unnecessary pitying and paperwork. Michael would find somewhere - probably some sort of temporary doss, like the YMCA or a homeless shelter – and spend his time there looking for a job. How hard could it be?
Harder than he’d anticipated, actually.
He spent nine months in the YMCA, becoming increasingly more and more desperate and frustrated. There were no jobs and the little money he’d been left after his mum’s death was rapidly running out. As it tends to do. Pesky thing.
It had been four days after his eviction – “Your rent has gone unpaid for three weeks. This is your notice of eviction” – that he’d successfully managed to pull the wallet from a wealthy-looking businessman’s coat pocket. And another three days after that that he’d been caught trying to do the exact same thing.
Prison cells weren’t really as bad as people made them out to be, he’d thought. At least it was dry and warm. And they even provided you with breakfast. They’d taken his fingerprints and cautioned him, but he’d escaped without a criminal record.
Of course, the caution was taken as lightly as he supposed they expected him to take it, and within the fortnight he’d managed to lift over one hundred and twenty pounds in cash, a handful of sparkly, jewellery-type things, and two expensive-looking leather wallets. He clearly had a natural talent for this. He was like the Artful Dodger from Oliver. He’d always liked that guy.
After several months of sleeping in cardboard boxes, he found a run-down, boarded-up flat in Hackney. With a little bit of persuasion, he managed to pry the boards on one of the windows off and declared the place officially his. He had no idea how squatters' rights worked, but hopefully everything would pan out. It was a rather optimistic view for someone in his position to have, but he was an optimistic guy, and hey… things had worked out pretty well for him so far.
It was a bright, sunny day when it happened. Some time in mid-July, he supposed. Not having access to a calendar had turned date-guessing into a fun game. He was walking down the street, minding other people’s business, when there had been a commotion a hundred or so feet in front of him. A crowd was gathering. With an excited grin, he sped up and skirted around it, pretending to be interested, whilst actually helping himself to people's unprotected pockets. A wallet here, a purse or two there, a…
He stopped when he came to a small opening in the crowd and saw what was causing all the fuss. A young boy was sitting on the floor, looking dazed and being held up by a middle-aged woman who was fanning him and telling people to “stand back and give him some room”.
Michael saw the opportunity and had taken as if it were a giant fifty pound note with the words “to Michael, happy birthday, love God” written on it.
He pushed into the crowd, making a show of being seen. “Excuse me, people,” he said, sliding towards the centre of the group. “Coming through.”
The woman and the boy on the floor both looked up at him and Michael rolled his eyes in an overly exasperated manner. “There you are,” he said, kneeling down beside them and placing the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead. “What did I tell you about taking your medication? You know you get these funny turns if you keep missing it.”
The boy blinked at him, but it was the women who spoke first.
“Is this a friend of yours?” she asked, and Michael nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m always telling him about this. His mum doesn’t like to let him out on his own. S’why I take him out, y’see.”
He turned back to the boy and gave him a grin. “Come on then, Jim,” he said, taking him by the arm and pulling him carefully to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”
“Um…” the boy started, but Michael pulled him from the crowd and down a side street before he could get anything else out.
“I’m not Jim,” the boy said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
Michael beamed. “Nope. I figured you weren’t Jim, but I thought, hey… worth a try. Could have picked Norman.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”
Michael sighed and his smile softened slightly. “You’re homeless, aren’t ya’?” he asked. The boy looked a little taken aback, but eventually nodded.
“Well, how about you come live in my flat with me?” Michael asked. “And by flat I mean run-down doss-house in Hackney. Your little fainting trick will probably come in really handy.”
“Are you homeless, too?” the boy asked.
“I just told you I got a flat.”
The boy blinked and Michael grinned. “Yeah, I’m homeless. So… what do ya’ say?”
The boy looked torn for a moment, but Michael’s friendly smile was clearly enough to convince him, because after a few moments he nodded and offered a small smile in return. “Okay. Thank you.”
Michael gave the kid’s hair a quick ruffle, before turning and signalling for the boy to follow. It would be nice to have someone else with him. Like his own little miniature gang. Fagin had had a gang, after all. And if he was the Dodger then it seemed only right for him to have one, too.
They’d made it to the end of the street before the boy spoke again.
“I’m Grey, by the way,” he said. “That’s my name.”
Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Grey was a name, now? Oh well…
“What’s yours?”
“Mi-“ Michael stopped and grinned. “Dodger,” he replied. “You can call me Dodger.”