If Bill ever suspected that Fagin had something to do with him and Nance, he'd have been split in two. On the one hand, he would've wanted to run away from the whole thing, spurn Nancy or do whatever he had to in order to keep from the old man's grasp. He didn't want any part of those machinations (never mind that he himself had long been a part of them, though he'd never recognized it, never could see it that way).

On the other hand, she was Nancy. And he can hardly think of a time when just a glance from her hadn't meant something. Can hardly remember what it was like when she wasn't around, and as soon as she'd gotten old enough to catch his attention, well. She was different from anyone he'd met, always surprised him in ways no one could, and always, always made him feel welcome. Made him feel more like himself.

As she does now. Her forehead against his is more reality than he'd had all those years she was gone. Brings him back to the man he is, close to the man he can be, sometimes, with her. (He doesn't think about the difference, doesn't recognize it, and doesn't realize his anger's further away when she's so near; he only knows he feels more steady with her. Centered.) His own hand is at her waist, and right now he feels he could sit like this forever, her hands on him, just the two of them, and never mind all those wretched dreams.

"I know it. I know it. All these years... You're the one thing I've got. The only thing that matters."