rainshaded

lilypeters decided Wallace needed a travelling companion; I supplied Henry, and this co-authored fic is the result.

The year is 1912 and the pickpocket Wallace Englehorn is determined to travel to New York to find Lily Barlow. This is Part Twelve of Far Away, though it can stand alone: Wallace's story so far can be found here.

Title: Consider Yourself
Storyline: Far Away
Prompt: Tea Theory [Prompt Twelve]
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: “You’re not weepy and prone to fainting fits like Twist, are you?”

"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully.
"I think I know that," replied Oliver, kicking up. "It's a thief; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself.
"I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else."
-Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, Chapter Eighteen

Wallace Englehorn, though he liked to boast that he could beat up the Artful Dodger—if the Dodger was real—was currently posed like his fictional rival. He lay languidly in the alcove of an abandoned building that smelled of rotting wood. Potential pickpockets and pickpockets themselves kept to alleys, so this was the best place to find a friend.

A boy, a few years younger than him, Wallace guessed, soon appeared. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly, and was either a very good actor or a very stupid toff.

“Who do you think you are?” Wallace asked, not bothering to hide his laughter. “You’re either stone drunk or failing to be the Artful Dodger. Which is it?”

The boy stopped and frowned, looking around for the source of the mysterious voice.

Wallace was enjoying this, for he loved playing mental games with people. “Follow the bad smell, you idiot. I ain’t going to come sauntering up to you like a respectable gentleman, Heaven forbid!”

The boy wrinkled his nose. "You expect me to be able to follow one bad smell in this place?"

“Well, you have two choices,” Wallace replied, grinning. “You can follow the smell of my unwashed body or the smell of the rotting wood. Pick one. Personally, I’d pick the wood if I was you.” Lord above, he was actually having fun!

"Oh, hello!" the boy smiled, having spotted Wallace. Wallace gave a lazy wave.

“I declare, you’re slow! That took you at least a minute,” he giggled. “I do hope your intellect proves to be sharper.”

"And just why would you be interested in my intellect?"

“Smart people make the world go round. Why do you care about me?”

"Did I say I did, street boy?"

“What the hell did you just call me?!” Wallace asked angrily, but not moving. “You want to get along with me, you don’t call me street boy. Those of us with dignity are known as pickpockets!”

"And who says I want to get along with you? Pickpocket."

“Ooh, you have morals! Never heard of those!” Wallace gasped mockingly. “Pickpockets get places, money, lodgings, food… Of course, I could just leave you to your own devices and then where would you be?”

"In Fagin's gang. Yes. I've read Oliver Twist."

Wallace narrowed his eyes. “You’re not weepy and prone to fainting fits like Twist, are you?”

The boy gave a dismissive snort. "We had to study it in English and I hated every word. I mean, I'd say the average Victorian orphan had about as much of finding their family as I do."

“You go to school?”

“I did.”

Now it was Wallace’s turn to snort. He got up and walked casually over to the boy. “You’ll recognize this speech then. Got food?”

"It's mine," the boy insisted.

“I was expecting a ‘no’…” Wallace said thoughtfully. “What about money and lodgings? Do you have either?”

"It's mine," the boy repeated.

“If I were to offer you the chance of a lifetime, what would you say to that?” Wallace asked coolly, circling the boy now and smirking.

"You don't know my life story.”

“Being a pickpocket interest you? Traveling? Helping a kid find his…friend?” he finished hesitantly.

"Kid?" he repeated, looking Wallace up and down. "Friend?"

“She is not a prostitute!” Wallace answered hotly. “Oh…” he trailed off, remembering that he was still wearing the British officer’s uniform. “Don’t ask about the uniform.”

"So, 'kid' who is not a British officer, where's your 'friend'?”

“America, New York.”

The boy laughed.

“Are you laughing at me? Do you think I’m crazy?” Wallace asked. The boy’s query hadn’t angered him, but his laughter certainly had.

"Oh, you're crazy all right. But no crazier than me."

Wallace exhaled with relief, sticking out his hand. “Wallace Dorian Englehorn, kid. Feel like traveling with me for awhile? Being a pickpocket makes you a better person.”

"Henry Michael Seatter, pickpocket," Henry replied, grasping the proffered hand.

“Consider yourself my new friend, then,” Wallace said, grinning. “Let’s go get food,” he continued, striding up the street. “There’s this theory I heard about tea calming a person down…”

"Don't you have coffee in Victorian times?" Henry hurried to keep up.

"Eleven years goes by like that, doesn't it?" Wallace snapped his fingers.