Fic: Dance, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maraudersaffair
Dec. 10th, 2007 03:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
taigne.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
small_giftsTitle: Dance
Author:taigne
Written for:maraudersaffair
Rating: PG-13
Prompts: An AU inspired by the song Mr. Bojangles by Bob Dylan
Summary: “I met him in a cell in New Orleans, I was down and out,
He looked to me to be the eye of age as he spoke right out,
He talked of life, he talked of life…” – Mr. Bojangles – Bob Dylan
Any other notes, warnings, etc.: Huge thanks tosuch_heights for the beta. AU, mention of charcter death, OMC point of view.
Dance
I thought I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t put my finger on where exactly. The cell was plenty big enough to hold the two of us and not get cosy. Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve been looking so closely at a fellow criminal, not knowing why they’re in here, but I figured it couldn’t be anything too violent or he’d be in a solitary cell, not here with inoffensive me.
Certainly didn’t look violent, charity shop clothes and an old, line-worried face. I’d have guessed he was in his sixties, but once he started speaking the cigarette-harsh voice was full of fervour, his bright amber eyes intense and lively with passion and humour in turn.
I don’t think he’d spoken to anyone in a long time. Maybe he thought it was alright because I was a writer. It was. Though he said he’d been here in the US nearly 35 years, he still retained a few British vowels, I noticed, when he first told me of the ‘root’ he’d taken across the States, with his companion. He said it was his dog at first, but the way he talked I soon realised he was either much more kinky than I wanted to believe of a man his age, or he was covering for the fact he had a male lover. He had had one, perhaps. Sirius, as he called this dog, wasn’t bailing him out right now. I assumed it was a false name. Clever though, the Dog Star, man was obviously educated. And false too was the ridiculous name he’d given me after a moment’s thought; Mr Bojangles.
He was polite, asking every now and then if I minded his continuing the story. I didn’t, there was no way I’d sleep with the stimulants in my system and a drunk alternately roaring and retching noisily in the next cell. There was an urgency in Bojangles’ voice as he told me his tale, like he needed to be heard.
It started at his boarding school, his first friends, and when he got his dog. At first I was worried that it’d be a dreary and full of woe for his lonely young self, but then he started telling me about the mischief he and his new friends’d gotten up to. If he hadn’t been laughing so hard at the telling that tears formed in his eyes, I might have doubted that this thin and previously sombre looking man in his worn, scuffed shoes and badly fitting pants, could have done such things. I grinned too, as they seemed to appear there with us through his words when he caught my eye so fixedly across the cell. Sirius shone brightly, and I knew I was taking the star thing too far, but I could feel the intensity of him, of Bojangles' feelings for him, hidden so deeply from the world, from where he sat over on the little bunk, when he spoke his name.
And then the tale turned darker. Sirius ceased to shine, became the egomaniacal self-serving rich-boy for Bojangles that he always had been for many others in school. He spoke of barely healed wounds and leaving school, of wanting so much and getting so little. I sympathised, as an unemployed uninspired novelist, with his struggle to find a calling, or rather find someone to accept him into his chosen profession. Again, the police force didn’t strike me as something he would do, would want, but Sirius had taken to that, there were fewer obstacles in his way, his fortune might have helped, I didn’t know.
Why was he following Sirius still, after such betrayal? I had felt Bojangles’s pain and yet he was casting than aside, for what, had Sirius changed since then? It didn’t look like it to me. I didn’t ask for fear for breaking the spell.
There were troubles back then, in England. Bojangles drew back into himself as he relived the fear and suspicion of the time. I nodded like I knew what he was talking about, I supposed it was the IRA or something, perhaps he was part Irish? I couldn’t interrupt his flow as he tried to explain without giving away any details; criminal contacts and vigilantism and secrecy. I suppose a prison cell isn’t an ideal place to admit to crimes of the past. He made only oblique references to ‘his kind of people’ not being well liked, the deaths of close friends and false accusations flying.
But something had snapped then, he said, and he had a moment of clarity, before he devoted himself to his one remaining friend, his Sirius.
‘I was walking away, from him. I hadn’t seen him for days. I felt so cooped up that night, I had to get out. It came over the radio in a café where I’d stopped to get out of the rain. Explosions, at James’s house, near Pete’s.’
His other friends from school. I couldn’t imagine how that felt, or how he could have hesitated to get there, to find out if his loved ones were alright. It was obvious he felt guilty for that hesitation, that he’d almost ignored the broadcast, almost assumed it was nothing to do with him. But he still felt for Sirius, despite their problems and his depressed suspicions that Sirius was more James’s companion than his.
Something, I supposed his feelings for his friends, for one friend especially, made him go to the terrible scene. He was vague when describing the run in with the police force as they tried to take Sirius away.
‘He had been faithful, completely, ever since that first betrayal. I just forgot that for a while. It hurt to know so surely what must have happened then, to know that my friends were gone forever, and it was Peter’s fault. Attacking officers of the law, I was never going to be forgotten, not given what I am. There was no time for explanations, no going back. And Sirius’ howling as he broke down, I can still hear it, so anguished, so hollow. They were closing in on us, so many, and I had to protect him. I had to.’
He knew in that instant that he had no choice but to leave that world, get out, get away. I could feel his turmoil during the hard, harsh months that followed, he so desperately wanted things to go back how they were, to work out differently. I could feel him almost give in. But he screwed up his bitterness and desperation and ploughed on. It led to his emigration, with his dog, to New York at first, then all over the US and eventually to this cell we were sharing so nicely.
I did interrupt there, as he looked away, concentrating on breathing in and out, to ask him what he was in for. Anything to break the tension. His head snapped up, a twinkle in his pale eyes. Then he rose, taking a step back into the corner of the cell, positioning his feet at right angles in those falling-apart shoes.
And leapt forward into an almost tap-dance.
I sat, mesmerised as he took off, spun in the air and landed with grace, with strength that belied his years. There was the tired look removed from his face as he beamed, laughed at his own jumping and hop-stepping. Mentally, I adjusted my approximation of his age down to the 50’s at most. A regular Fred Astair, he was. But there was a strangeness to the way he held his arms, slightly out, as if he wasn’t dancing alone. I gave in to the urge to clap when he’d finished. He was bowing low, his shirt, that had come loose from his belted trousers, hanging almost to the floor.
With a smirk, he told me of his arrest, for loitering and busking without a permit. Some uppity restaurant owner had complained about his being too scruffy for their clientele to be forced to watch. He didn’t sound bitter as he tucked in his shirt, calmly accepting the fact, and I thought he perhaps believed that sort of person actually was better, more worthy to have a say in who was on a street corner, than him.
Sitting down again, invigorated by his dancing I guess, he continued his tale, his travels in this new world, Massachusetts and beyond. Somewhere in the middle he got confused, I think, or maybe he realised I wasn’t going to kick up a fuss at his nonconformist behaviours. There had been mention of girls earlier, in the recounts of his school days. This dog metaphor, his ‘faithful friend’ Sirius, it was confirmed to me then, was a man. He’d defended Bojangles from a group of thugs in a dingy alley round the back of a little café-bar when they’d stopped in Carolina.
There had been five to their two, and I didn’t need details of what the two had been doing in that alley to understand the reason behind the assault. What a pleasant introduction to the homosexual world. I winced in sympathy as he dropped in casual details of being overwhelmed, beaten, kicked repeatedly as he lay on the cold, hard ground, until Sirius managed to regain the upper hand and again he seemed to take it as acceptable. Or maybe he liked the pain. He was interesting, that I knew for sure.
His voice was getting more than a little hoarse by now. He’d been talking for something like three hours, baring his little show in the middle. The next patrol the sergeant made, I asked for water, and we got some in cheap plastic cups, nothing we could do any damage with there. I told Bojangles that I’d like him to go on, if he’d like to tell it. He nodded.
He got less linear, telling me snippets of his wanderings around America, how Sirius had first encouraged him to dance, when they’d seen a ballet dancer in the street, their money running low. With coaxing, Bojangles would dance with him in the privacy of the cheap motel where they were staying. And he would play piano, the few songs he knew, when they stopped in out-of-the-way bars and honky-tonks once they got down South. Later, once they had a little money he’d play the guitar they bought. He’d taught himself from a battered old book that came in the case. And over time his objections wore down and he let Sirius teach him to dance, whatever the non-conventional style was that Sirius had made for himself.
Then he laughed to himself, commented on how randomly freak-show it was, a dog dancing. He’d had various complaints about cruelty to animals, on how they were intelligent creatures and shouldn’t be put to work. Bojangles said Sirius was indeed an intelligent dog, and so if he chose to spend his day dancing, it was up to him. It was a self-imposed penance, he said, that Sirius would degrade himself like that. The dog sometimes made more, depending on the crowd, and Sirius could hide that way, not talking to Bojangles for days. I wasn’t sure how to interpret that particular part of the metaphor, so I gave a non-committal laugh.
Then, after a few increasingly sordid tales, of smoky back-rooms and too much whiskey, the tale stopped suddenly.
‘Twenty years’, he said. ‘Twenty years might be enough.’
Twenty years ago, Sirius had died. Drink, Bojangles said with a stony face as tears ran down his narrow cheeks, was an evil thing. Sirius hadn’t known what hit him. That was perhaps the only good thing he could think of, because he gave a chuckle at that, wet and half-strangled. I felt an urge to hug him as tears fell silently, but there were things you didn’t do in a prison cell. I stuck with ignoring the tears, wishing that I didn’t feel the urge to add my own. It seemed an unfair and abrupt ending to the story, though it obviously hadn’t been an ending for Bojangles, still here twenty years later. I couldn’t ask for any more then, and we got a few fitful hours sleep.
When they released us the next morning, giving back our few possessions along with reprimands, I found they’d rifled my wallet. I should have known they would, they had the last two times, too. I was twenty bucks down today. Could have been worse. Bojangles frowned at that, shook his head and muttered under his breath. I got some small satisfaction when the thieving cop’s desk chair collapsed under him as we left the drab building.
We’d been up most of the night but it didn’t matter, I had nowhere to be today, as usual, other than in front of my computer in my crappy little room, staring at the blank page. I blinked a bit in the sun, working its way across the sky. Glancing at Bojangles and saw he looked about the same, tired and worn as the shoes on his talented feet, moving into the new day. I wondered where his guitar was now.
I commented I could kill for a cigarette, and Bojangles said he gave up the fags, no good for him. Then he gave that self-deprecating chuckle and admitted that mostly he danced for drink these days, but at least it was something to remember Sirius by. He was headed for the honky-tonk bar across town, less likely to be disapproved of there, he smirked. I figured I’d go with him, get some exercise for once. We didn’t speak as we walked, he’d shared his story with me, there was nothing to tell after Sirius. I supposed once he’d given him his life, in that moment of clarity, there was no taking it back.
We parted ways at the entrance to the bar open to the pre-lunch faithful crowd. I knew then it would be alright for me to write down his story, though he’d never asked. Knew that I needed to, and felt a little guilty perhaps, for giving him that way out. I would remember for him, Sirius and his grief and long frustrating life. Bojangles certainly hadn’t told me all that for his health. He didn’t dance for his health either. I wished him silent luck that he’d jump and twirl and click his heels all he was able.
A regular smiled at his approach. ‘You back with some dancing for us today Mr Bojangles?’
Perhaps it wasn’t such a ridiculous name after all.
Author:
taigneWritten for:
maraudersaffairRating: PG-13
Prompts: An AU inspired by the song Mr. Bojangles by Bob Dylan
Summary: “I met him in a cell in New Orleans, I was down and out,
He looked to me to be the eye of age as he spoke right out,
He talked of life, he talked of life…” – Mr. Bojangles – Bob Dylan
Any other notes, warnings, etc.: Huge thanks to
such_heights for the beta. AU, mention of charcter death, OMC point of view.Dance
I thought I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t put my finger on where exactly. The cell was plenty big enough to hold the two of us and not get cosy. Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve been looking so closely at a fellow criminal, not knowing why they’re in here, but I figured it couldn’t be anything too violent or he’d be in a solitary cell, not here with inoffensive me.
Certainly didn’t look violent, charity shop clothes and an old, line-worried face. I’d have guessed he was in his sixties, but once he started speaking the cigarette-harsh voice was full of fervour, his bright amber eyes intense and lively with passion and humour in turn.
I don’t think he’d spoken to anyone in a long time. Maybe he thought it was alright because I was a writer. It was. Though he said he’d been here in the US nearly 35 years, he still retained a few British vowels, I noticed, when he first told me of the ‘root’ he’d taken across the States, with his companion. He said it was his dog at first, but the way he talked I soon realised he was either much more kinky than I wanted to believe of a man his age, or he was covering for the fact he had a male lover. He had had one, perhaps. Sirius, as he called this dog, wasn’t bailing him out right now. I assumed it was a false name. Clever though, the Dog Star, man was obviously educated. And false too was the ridiculous name he’d given me after a moment’s thought; Mr Bojangles.
He was polite, asking every now and then if I minded his continuing the story. I didn’t, there was no way I’d sleep with the stimulants in my system and a drunk alternately roaring and retching noisily in the next cell. There was an urgency in Bojangles’ voice as he told me his tale, like he needed to be heard.
It started at his boarding school, his first friends, and when he got his dog. At first I was worried that it’d be a dreary and full of woe for his lonely young self, but then he started telling me about the mischief he and his new friends’d gotten up to. If he hadn’t been laughing so hard at the telling that tears formed in his eyes, I might have doubted that this thin and previously sombre looking man in his worn, scuffed shoes and badly fitting pants, could have done such things. I grinned too, as they seemed to appear there with us through his words when he caught my eye so fixedly across the cell. Sirius shone brightly, and I knew I was taking the star thing too far, but I could feel the intensity of him, of Bojangles' feelings for him, hidden so deeply from the world, from where he sat over on the little bunk, when he spoke his name.
And then the tale turned darker. Sirius ceased to shine, became the egomaniacal self-serving rich-boy for Bojangles that he always had been for many others in school. He spoke of barely healed wounds and leaving school, of wanting so much and getting so little. I sympathised, as an unemployed uninspired novelist, with his struggle to find a calling, or rather find someone to accept him into his chosen profession. Again, the police force didn’t strike me as something he would do, would want, but Sirius had taken to that, there were fewer obstacles in his way, his fortune might have helped, I didn’t know.
Why was he following Sirius still, after such betrayal? I had felt Bojangles’s pain and yet he was casting than aside, for what, had Sirius changed since then? It didn’t look like it to me. I didn’t ask for fear for breaking the spell.
There were troubles back then, in England. Bojangles drew back into himself as he relived the fear and suspicion of the time. I nodded like I knew what he was talking about, I supposed it was the IRA or something, perhaps he was part Irish? I couldn’t interrupt his flow as he tried to explain without giving away any details; criminal contacts and vigilantism and secrecy. I suppose a prison cell isn’t an ideal place to admit to crimes of the past. He made only oblique references to ‘his kind of people’ not being well liked, the deaths of close friends and false accusations flying.
But something had snapped then, he said, and he had a moment of clarity, before he devoted himself to his one remaining friend, his Sirius.
‘I was walking away, from him. I hadn’t seen him for days. I felt so cooped up that night, I had to get out. It came over the radio in a café where I’d stopped to get out of the rain. Explosions, at James’s house, near Pete’s.’
His other friends from school. I couldn’t imagine how that felt, or how he could have hesitated to get there, to find out if his loved ones were alright. It was obvious he felt guilty for that hesitation, that he’d almost ignored the broadcast, almost assumed it was nothing to do with him. But he still felt for Sirius, despite their problems and his depressed suspicions that Sirius was more James’s companion than his.
Something, I supposed his feelings for his friends, for one friend especially, made him go to the terrible scene. He was vague when describing the run in with the police force as they tried to take Sirius away.
‘He had been faithful, completely, ever since that first betrayal. I just forgot that for a while. It hurt to know so surely what must have happened then, to know that my friends were gone forever, and it was Peter’s fault. Attacking officers of the law, I was never going to be forgotten, not given what I am. There was no time for explanations, no going back. And Sirius’ howling as he broke down, I can still hear it, so anguished, so hollow. They were closing in on us, so many, and I had to protect him. I had to.’
He knew in that instant that he had no choice but to leave that world, get out, get away. I could feel his turmoil during the hard, harsh months that followed, he so desperately wanted things to go back how they were, to work out differently. I could feel him almost give in. But he screwed up his bitterness and desperation and ploughed on. It led to his emigration, with his dog, to New York at first, then all over the US and eventually to this cell we were sharing so nicely.
I did interrupt there, as he looked away, concentrating on breathing in and out, to ask him what he was in for. Anything to break the tension. His head snapped up, a twinkle in his pale eyes. Then he rose, taking a step back into the corner of the cell, positioning his feet at right angles in those falling-apart shoes.
And leapt forward into an almost tap-dance.
I sat, mesmerised as he took off, spun in the air and landed with grace, with strength that belied his years. There was the tired look removed from his face as he beamed, laughed at his own jumping and hop-stepping. Mentally, I adjusted my approximation of his age down to the 50’s at most. A regular Fred Astair, he was. But there was a strangeness to the way he held his arms, slightly out, as if he wasn’t dancing alone. I gave in to the urge to clap when he’d finished. He was bowing low, his shirt, that had come loose from his belted trousers, hanging almost to the floor.
With a smirk, he told me of his arrest, for loitering and busking without a permit. Some uppity restaurant owner had complained about his being too scruffy for their clientele to be forced to watch. He didn’t sound bitter as he tucked in his shirt, calmly accepting the fact, and I thought he perhaps believed that sort of person actually was better, more worthy to have a say in who was on a street corner, than him.
Sitting down again, invigorated by his dancing I guess, he continued his tale, his travels in this new world, Massachusetts and beyond. Somewhere in the middle he got confused, I think, or maybe he realised I wasn’t going to kick up a fuss at his nonconformist behaviours. There had been mention of girls earlier, in the recounts of his school days. This dog metaphor, his ‘faithful friend’ Sirius, it was confirmed to me then, was a man. He’d defended Bojangles from a group of thugs in a dingy alley round the back of a little café-bar when they’d stopped in Carolina.
There had been five to their two, and I didn’t need details of what the two had been doing in that alley to understand the reason behind the assault. What a pleasant introduction to the homosexual world. I winced in sympathy as he dropped in casual details of being overwhelmed, beaten, kicked repeatedly as he lay on the cold, hard ground, until Sirius managed to regain the upper hand and again he seemed to take it as acceptable. Or maybe he liked the pain. He was interesting, that I knew for sure.
His voice was getting more than a little hoarse by now. He’d been talking for something like three hours, baring his little show in the middle. The next patrol the sergeant made, I asked for water, and we got some in cheap plastic cups, nothing we could do any damage with there. I told Bojangles that I’d like him to go on, if he’d like to tell it. He nodded.
He got less linear, telling me snippets of his wanderings around America, how Sirius had first encouraged him to dance, when they’d seen a ballet dancer in the street, their money running low. With coaxing, Bojangles would dance with him in the privacy of the cheap motel where they were staying. And he would play piano, the few songs he knew, when they stopped in out-of-the-way bars and honky-tonks once they got down South. Later, once they had a little money he’d play the guitar they bought. He’d taught himself from a battered old book that came in the case. And over time his objections wore down and he let Sirius teach him to dance, whatever the non-conventional style was that Sirius had made for himself.
Then he laughed to himself, commented on how randomly freak-show it was, a dog dancing. He’d had various complaints about cruelty to animals, on how they were intelligent creatures and shouldn’t be put to work. Bojangles said Sirius was indeed an intelligent dog, and so if he chose to spend his day dancing, it was up to him. It was a self-imposed penance, he said, that Sirius would degrade himself like that. The dog sometimes made more, depending on the crowd, and Sirius could hide that way, not talking to Bojangles for days. I wasn’t sure how to interpret that particular part of the metaphor, so I gave a non-committal laugh.
Then, after a few increasingly sordid tales, of smoky back-rooms and too much whiskey, the tale stopped suddenly.
‘Twenty years’, he said. ‘Twenty years might be enough.’
Twenty years ago, Sirius had died. Drink, Bojangles said with a stony face as tears ran down his narrow cheeks, was an evil thing. Sirius hadn’t known what hit him. That was perhaps the only good thing he could think of, because he gave a chuckle at that, wet and half-strangled. I felt an urge to hug him as tears fell silently, but there were things you didn’t do in a prison cell. I stuck with ignoring the tears, wishing that I didn’t feel the urge to add my own. It seemed an unfair and abrupt ending to the story, though it obviously hadn’t been an ending for Bojangles, still here twenty years later. I couldn’t ask for any more then, and we got a few fitful hours sleep.
When they released us the next morning, giving back our few possessions along with reprimands, I found they’d rifled my wallet. I should have known they would, they had the last two times, too. I was twenty bucks down today. Could have been worse. Bojangles frowned at that, shook his head and muttered under his breath. I got some small satisfaction when the thieving cop’s desk chair collapsed under him as we left the drab building.
We’d been up most of the night but it didn’t matter, I had nowhere to be today, as usual, other than in front of my computer in my crappy little room, staring at the blank page. I blinked a bit in the sun, working its way across the sky. Glancing at Bojangles and saw he looked about the same, tired and worn as the shoes on his talented feet, moving into the new day. I wondered where his guitar was now.
I commented I could kill for a cigarette, and Bojangles said he gave up the fags, no good for him. Then he gave that self-deprecating chuckle and admitted that mostly he danced for drink these days, but at least it was something to remember Sirius by. He was headed for the honky-tonk bar across town, less likely to be disapproved of there, he smirked. I figured I’d go with him, get some exercise for once. We didn’t speak as we walked, he’d shared his story with me, there was nothing to tell after Sirius. I supposed once he’d given him his life, in that moment of clarity, there was no taking it back.
We parted ways at the entrance to the bar open to the pre-lunch faithful crowd. I knew then it would be alright for me to write down his story, though he’d never asked. Knew that I needed to, and felt a little guilty perhaps, for giving him that way out. I would remember for him, Sirius and his grief and long frustrating life. Bojangles certainly hadn’t told me all that for his health. He didn’t dance for his health either. I wished him silent luck that he’d jump and twirl and click his heels all he was able.
A regular smiled at his approach. ‘You back with some dancing for us today Mr Bojangles?’
Perhaps it wasn’t such a ridiculous name after all.
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Date: 2007-12-14 12:21 am (UTC)Good job! Very original.
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Date: 2007-12-15 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-14 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-14 03:56 am (UTC)"‘Twenty years’, he said. ‘Twenty years might be enough.’"
Aww... ;__; that's completely heartbreaking.
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Date: 2007-12-15 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-14 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-14 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 02:46 pm (UTC)Very clever.
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Date: 2007-12-15 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-16 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 04:04 pm (UTC)(oh and much icon love, for Thewlis' hands!)
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Date: 2007-12-16 05:04 pm (UTC)But there was a strangeness to the way he held his arms, slightly out, as if he wasn’t dancing alone.
Yes. I like to think that he's including Sirius in his dance, even if he's dead (that part was very cruel of you, you know ;)).
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Date: 2007-12-20 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 07:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 01:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-30 01:14 am (UTC)The idea that he tells his story to this stranger while sitting in a jail cell totally just breaks me. To think Lupin has been alone for twenty years, going through the US, poor and aching for his friend. Wow. Then when he was harassed for being with Sirius. Just so right, so true. I really love this, have I said that already?
I imagine Lupin sounding a bit like Bob Dylan, his voice harsh but still musical and endearing. This really affected me. Thank you so, so much!
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Date: 2007-12-31 11:21 am (UTC)I'd never really read the lyrics before, even though I liked the song, so thanks for drawing my attention to them. I had no idea it was so poignant and lonely, but the lyrics really struck a chord with me so I went with what sprang to mind when applying them to the boys.
Lupin really could sound like Dylan, now you mention it, that's a funky image. I'm usually a bit of a purist when it comes to accents, but Lupin having mostly fallen into an American accent didn't jar with me given the time spent :)