Dearest To Me, My Dear|(Fagin/Open) INACTIVE

[edie]

There was nothing at all to do. She’d already arranged a narcotic induced love union, left the happy couple more than free to couple upon that park bench they’d seemed oh so keen on; consequentially, had no more to gift at the present. Theft? Aheheh no. The lesson was afixed quite stuck like for the time being, wouldn’t attempt that ‘til she’d improved her picking choosing slipping grabbing darting, or it fell from her ‘membrance completely. Whichever came first, only natural, oh yes. And the very old in-out-in-out was simply out, ever never never in, of the question. Time being at the very wee least, but thank Christ for that anyways.

Which was why, upon leaving the loving lovers with use of the park, as her manners kindly prompted her to do, the girl had started wandering aimlessly. Which left her quite unbusy and utterly. A bother, really, since a busy Puck was a mostly happy Puck, she’d decided in-her-considerable-experience-being-one-of-both-kinds.

Tried humming a vague children’s song, as means of entertaining herself, but songs made her wish to dance, and dancing made her feet wish to trip, and tripping made her skin want to scrape. So’s that ended poorly, with a pout and a sucking of blood. Didn’t even know any songs properly, anyways.

Fin fin finally. Here was something, something familiar and very much so filled with activities, she’d bet preciously on that: Mister Fagin’s store. The girl beamed, pleased with her luck at coming upon the place so suddenly. Magic, had to be, oh yes indeed. She pulled the door open carefully, closing her eyes so as to properly enjoy the jingle jangle jingle of the bells on the handle.

“Mister Fagin?” Puck called out cheerfully, absentmindedly licking at her injured palm again. “T’is Puck, sir. Are you home, or if this isn’t home, then hereabouts?”

[fagin]

It had been a slow day. Hardly anyone in at all. But even so there Fagin sat, at his desk, busily scribbling away in his tattered old notebook as though his life depended on it. Maybe he was trying to write a novel? Maybe he was learning a new language and writing down definitions? A diary, perhaps? Who knew? It wasn't as if there was anything at all to write about the shop today that he hadn't already written.

James Scott, Pair of pearl Earrings, Wanted $50, Will Return in One Month, $5 interest, Greenwhich

Victoria Walmsely, Old VCR, Wanted $100, Knocked down 2 $70, Back in a Week, $2 interest, Brooklyn

He guessed he should probably keep better records, but then again what was the point? He wasn't technically liscened (so the police couldn't find him) so he could do as he pleased. He hoped.

The sudden jangle of the shop's doorbell suddenly started him from his thoughts. He dropped the pen in alarm and looked up, before relaxing somewhat as he saw who it was.

He had dealt with this particular young lady before; she was a superb thief, in Fagin's humble opinion. Other than the occassional little business deal the pair of them had had little to do with each other, therefore Fagin found it a bit unusual that Puck had chosen to come in for a visit. But company was company, especially on such a day as this.

"I'm here, my dear, and here is home," he replied with a small smile, getting up from the desk and moving over to where Puck stood, ushering her further inside. "Come in, my dear, come in. What might I do for you?"

It was as he drew closer that he noticed her injured hand. He tutted good naturedly and shook his head, muttering something dissaproving to himself in Polish.

"Dear dear," he said, looking into Puck's face again. "Been through the wars, have you? I'll get you a plaster for that, or similar..."

[edie]

“The wars?” Puck repeated, crinkling her nose at the word word word. “T’wasn’t a war that caused my injury, oh no sir. Well. ‘Less you consider a brawl with the. Um. Pavement a war. Which I s’pose it could be, indeed.”

Shook her head, as if to clear out the nonsensical bits currently tumbling out of her mouth. Then giggled, and told the respectable old gentleman, “Figure of speech, sir, t’was all you meant, I see that now. Beg yer pardon, sir. Seems I might be too much myself today, eh? But a bandage might do me quite well, if you could manage it, Mister Fagin sir. Please-and-thank-you either way.”

The girl looked ‘round the shop, crowded and packed together tight tight tight with the former belongings of persons. Quite nice, really; the earlier owners tired of their possessions, regrettable and all other sad things, but people like Mister Fagin took the objects in, so’s other persons could take them home. Like this snowglobe, for a-purely-hypothetical example. Had a wee little snowman family all trapped inside it, wearing hats and mittens and other nice wintery clothing. Poppa Snowman, Momma Snowman, and the two Baby Snowmen. How lovely, how sweet, how she wanted to smash it ‘gainst the corner and watch the little buggers fall to the ground. Though that would anger Mister Fagin, she was sure of that, and where would she be then? Bored, that’s where.

So she simply picked it up, and gave it an idle shake. T’was possible hip Josiah and hip Oona had made a new baby to replace her. Looked around and saw little Robin wasn’t there anymore, shrugged their shoulders and went ‘oh well’, moved on and raised a better child. One who didn’t want to speak to flowers or live in trees. Hmm. Hadn’t considered this before, and wasn’t sure she liked it now that she was, not one bit.

“Mister Fagin,” the girl asked, still staring at the swirl twirl whirling of the utterly false snow. “What’s the point of a family, anyhow? ‘Sides the ‘hip hip hooray, we’re all related’ angle.”

[fagin]

Fagin nodded at Puck's words about the bandage and scuttled over to his desk, ransacking the drawers for the first aid kit he was certain he kept in one of them. As he searched he listened to Puck's contemplations and, having at last loacted the small green box and procured a bandage, made to rejoin her with it and in doing so become part of the conversation again.

He had to admit he was surprised at her question, but then it seemed everyone he met on the streets came from a broken home, or at least had family problems. Can't live with them, can't live without them.

"Well," he said, offering her the bandage and afterwards turning his gaze to the snowglobe as well. "I won't pretend I'm an expert in these things, my dear, nor that I can tell you all that much about the matter. But I will say I think a family is more than just, as you say, all being related. There's something about it that just..."

He tailed off, not sure where he was going with this, memories of his own family suddenly flooding his mind. To distract himself he tried to finish what he'd been saying coherentley.

"I'm afraid I can't really answer that question, my dear," he said, with a slight sorry shrug. "I guess it's something you need to work out for yourself."