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leading-manhattan · 17 days

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Jack's not surprised that the nightmares came for him. It was a damn miracle that he avoided them the night before and his luck never lasted long. The dreams are unrealistic yet no less terrifying. No matter how impossible they were the fear that came with them was still just as pungent. In the latest hellscape of his mind's creation he's being brought back down to that horrible cellar. He can feel the Delanceys' bruising hold on his arms as they drag him along and his struggles are ineffective as they laugh at his frantic attempts to get away. While he's led through the unfamiliar corridors they morph and twist into the dirt-caked hallways he's spent years of his life trying to escape. The Refuge was eternally embedded into his brain and no matter how hard he tried to shake it the wretched place continued to haunt him. It makes sense that it'd make an appearance here, Snyder and basements have never meant good things for Jack Kelly.

The long, narrow hallway mixed crudely between the Refuge and the World leads towards a lone door marking the end in more ways than one. The door is chipped and rotting, some disgusting blend of cracking wood and rusted metal, and it's been left slightly ajar. Something primal in Jack tells him that if he walks through that door he'll never walk out. Run, his mind wails at him, Run, run, it chants as he's brought closer and closer to his impending doom. No matter how hard he struggles the Delanceys' grip doesn't so much as budge and before he knows it they're only a few yards away from that horrible door. It creaks open further on its own accord, slow and deliberate, and even though the other side is a mass of pitch black Jack knows exactly who's waiting for him. He can hear the telltale tap, tap, tap of the cane against the floor taunting him.

Jack wakes up flailing and drenched in sweat before he can reach the door. He scrambles back across the rooftop until he knocks into bars of the fire escape and realizes that gone is the terrible hallway and in its place is the open air of the roof. His chest is heaving with gasping breaths even after he recognizes that it was all a nightmare. He curls up against the iron railing while he tries to catch his breath. "You's fine, Kelly," Jack mumbles into his knees, "Get over it." It's not that easy. He can try all he wants to command his emotions but he's well-versed in just how little control he really has over them. He wraps his arms around his legs and tugs them impossibly closer to his chest in a futile effort to keep himself from shaking apart. He's not proud of how viscerally nightmares effect him but he's powerless against their iron grasp. They exist to remind him of what he's suffered through and the horrors that lurk around every corner, crouched low in every back alley ready to pounce if he ever dares to let his guard down. The dreams are especially jarring now. Without the other newsies he was vulnerable, kids like them didn't survive on their own. It seems like with every passing moment Jack is becoming more and more aware of just how monumentally he's fucked up.

Usually around now Crutchie would stir, roused by the noise Jack's making or the lazily lightening sky, and he'd stumble his way over with a limp more pronounced because he hadn't had time to really wake up yet. He'd ask if Jack was okay but he'd never pry. Instead they'd just sit together until Jack felt steady enough to start getting ready for the day. Even though Crutchie never said anything he clearly could tell that the dreams clung to Jack. Crutchie'd just spend the rest of the day glued to Jack's side in a comforting show of support.

There's no Crutchie today.

Jack gets up.

He feels disgusting, layers of sweat and dirt stuck to his skin, but he's grateful he didn't undress any before falling asleep last night. His whole body is throbbing and he isn't sure he'd be able to get dressed if he had to. It's too early for the morning bells to have rung yet, the sun hasn't even peeked over the horizon and the sky was still gray, but Jack isn't sure he can stomach it if he stays up here and listens to them forget about him again. No, not forget. Cast aside. So instead he scoops up a few dimes from the shattered jar and he climbs down the fire escape, bypassing the window into the lodging house to instead descend all the way into the alley below. Each rung reverberates painfully through his body and by the time he's carefully lowering himself down onto the cobblestone he's panting from the effort.

This isn't the first time Jack's been beat to hell. Far from it, actually. He's used to how your whole body can feel like one giant bruise a few days after you got your ass handed to you. The first few days after are always the most painful. That doesn't change the fact that he feels like his ribs are trying to claw into his lungs or that his shoulder shrieks every time he moves his arm even a little. His back feels like it's made of fire and each step makes him feel like his legs are gonna give out on the next. He knew that Snyder and the Delanceys had worked him over pretty badly in the cellar but now he was really feeling it. He wishes he could stay curled up in the penthouse but he has more important things to do.

Jack kills some time by just wandering the streets. The circulation gates won't open up for about an hour but he would've driven himself crazy sitting around at the lodging house listening to his boys come together so easily without him. His limbs still feel frail as he shuffles down the sidewalks of Lower Manhattan but despite that he finds some peace in the quiet morning. In the gentle white light of the coming dawn Jack takes the chance to breathe for what feels like the first time since he strut into Pulitzer's office. For just a fleeting moment he's allowed to exist outside of the strike, outside of the newsies, outside of himself. For a moment he's just a kid taking a stroll and while he can't entirely shake the weight that lives heavy on his shoulders the world permits him this one second of relief.

It's over before he knows it, golden light finally spilling across the sky and filtering through the tall buildings of the city. That's all it takes for the weight of the world to crash back into him and he changes course for the circulation gates, dragging his feet in hopes to make the trek just long enough that he won't cross paths with any of the newsies today either. Jack doesn't want to see the way they'll look at him. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep a brave face again if he has to see their scowls and glares, distrust and betrayal thick in the air between them. Even just thinking of it makes his empty stomach churn unbearably.

The sight of the circulation gates is an unwelcome one but he still refuses to let himself stop, not even taking a second to gather himself before he slips through the already open gates and prays that maybe he can get through the day with little incident. He's relieved to see that his molasses pace paid off and the place is at least void of any stragglers. Just him and the rotten men more than happy to watch the newsies crash and burn. Wiesel and the Delanceys are sitting over at the distribution desk as always, watching with that same sick pleasure as Jack drags himself over to grab his papers for the day.

Jack feels disgusting as he digs the two dimes from his pocket, offering them compliantly. "Quiet lately, Kelly?" Wiesel quips but Jack just slides down the line without retort. He just wants to get through this, all the energy in him focused solely on surviving the day. But Jack's paid for his papers without his usual banter for the second day in a row and he should've known the Delanceys wouldn't let that slide.

Morris slams the slim stack of newspapers into Jack's chest and laughs when Jack scrabbles to grab them, gasping as the constant pain wrapped around his chest blazes. The blow easily rips the air from his lungs, bruised ribs flaring up in bursts of white-hot agony. "Who would've thought it was this easy to tame the famous Jack Kelly, eh, Oscar?" Morris jeers, chortling with his brother.

"You wanna see how tame I am?" Jack wheezes back through a clenched jaw, baring his teeth like the animal they wanted him to be. He could be an animal, he's had to fight like one to make his place in this world.

Oscar saunters up behind his brother, propping an elbow up on Morris' shoulder so they could both stare smugly down at Jack. "You're beat to hell and back, Kelly, you wouldn't stand a chance." Jack was well aware of that.

"I ain't scared of yous." Jack sniffs, tilting his chin up to paint an air of confidence he didn't really feel. He's pretty sure a strong breeze could knock him over but he'd never bow to the Delanceys.

"Yeah," Morris agrees far too easily, both Delanceys' smiles growing sinister.

"But you sure are scared of Snyder." Oscar nearly sings it he's so giddy to throw it in Jack's face.

Jack opens his mouth to refute it. He desperately wants to deny it but his nightmare is too fresh on his mind. Instead he cringes as images of the cellar and the basement clash in his head, both equally coated in blood and shadow. He can feel Snyder's looming presence over his shoulder, poised to strike, even though he knows the man is nowhere to be seen. The Delanceys cackle like hyenas and Jack sneers as shame bubbles up inside of him.

"If we'd known it would be this easy to shut you up we would've invited Snyder over a long time ago," Oscar chuckles, Morris beaming with a sick pride at his side. Jack tries to stomp down to spike of terror that pierces through him as he snatches up one of the paper bags and settles the strap across his chest. It was an empty threat, he knew that, but the idea is still so unsettling that the fear from his dream is stirring back up. He feels like a stupid little kid but not even the familiar spikes of anger are enough to drown out the terror clogging his veins.

"Fuck you," he throws back, shoving his papers into his bag and stalking off before the Delanceys could say anything about his sorry excuse of a come back. They'd found his weak spot and they all knew it but he would be damned if he just stood there and let them rub it in his face.

He stomps back through the streets, his righteous anger and the underlying embarrassment that fueled it the only things keeping his steps steady as he storms through Manhattan to start hawking at his usual spot. He just needs to keep going, persevere and push through until he can meet up with David to split whatever meager earnings he can manage with this small stack of papers. He'll toss the rest into the emergency jar again and maybe if he's lucky he'll be able to scrounge something up for dinner before he rinses and repeats. That's the only motivation he has to pry himself off the cold roof each morning; he has to make it up to them. If nothing else Jack needs to make sure that his boys know how sorry he is, that he's just as angry with himself as they are.

Jack's step falters when he sees a familiar head of dark hair at his usual corner, the determined fire falling away the second that David's eyes meet his. He had expected David to keep selling with Race or maybe one of the other boys. He hadn't expected to see much of David at all after their confrontation. Jack swallows thickly, willing his legs to start moving again when David's cold gaze flicks away and he continues to call out feeble headlines like he'd never seen Jack at all.

Jack fumbles as he pulls out a paper of his own, clumsy fingers trying to separate the different editions while he fails to pull himself together. He's being ridiculous. He hasn't even known David that long. He shouldn't care how coldly the other man looks at him, it shouldn't matter how disappointed and angry David is. It shouldn't crush Jack's heart the way it does. He throws his arm up into the air, waving around a newspaper like a white flag, and screams whatever hyperbolic headlines that come to mind.

David doesn't so much as turn his way.

Because David is there the morning drags by. Jack is hyper aware of David's every move no matter how far apart they get. Even when David is a few blocks down by the street corner Jack startles every time he hears the other boy call out a headline, stumbling over his own words and fumbling more than one sale when he gets distracted. It's a long and torturous day of selling and Jack is nearly ready to sob in relief when he finally sells his last pape. He's grateful he didn't buy in bulk like he did yesterday.

David finished selling before Jack did, which was unusual in its own right, but David had stuck around to wait for Jack to finish. Jack only hesitates a little before he makes his way over to where David has made himself comfortable on some stairs in front of a shopfront. "Where's Les?" Jack asks when he's close enough, forcing a smile to spread with some imitation of ease across his face.

"He's with Race," David replies curtly from where he's sat stiffly on the steps. Despite the fact that he was sitting Jack still felt like David was staring down at him. David digs into his pocket and pulls out his earnings, impatiently gesturing for Jack to join him on the stairs so they can divvy up the money and go their separate ways. Jack obeys without a second thought, practically collapsing onto the steps and biting back a sigh of relief when his aching legs finally get a break.

They haven't made much. Even combined the coins don't amount to anything special. "Shouldn't we wait for 'im then?" Jack muses. If they were going to split their earnings then it would be smart to wait until Les could add whatever he made into the mix. Maybe David really did catch on yesterday and he was just making the job easier for Jack, having Les sell separately so they could keep all of what he made instead of letting Jack count it out himself.

"No, Racetrack is keeping whatever Les earns." David sighs, shooting Jack an irritated glance.

Jack blinks, "What? Why?"

David sighs again, "You guys need the money more than we do." Jack opens his mouth to protest but quickly quiets when David raises a hand to silence him, "With the strike and the raised prices newsies are barely making a fraction of what they usually do. So far Les and I are still bringing in enough to be okay, especially with my mom and sister picking up odd jobs where they can. We're fine, but you guys aren't." It was equal parts David just stating fact and David trying to forcefully remind Jack of just how important this strike was. It was obvious that David still wanted answers, trying to dig them up no matter how clear Jack made it that he had no intentions of sharing.

"We'll be fine," Jack argues. It’s a weak argument even to his own ears but he does his best to project his usual bravado into it regardless.

"Yeah, once we win the strike," David agrees tersely. He wouldn't back down either.

Jack shrugs, not bothering to come up with a response to that, and skillfully counts out the coins between them. It's a lot harder to split the earnings fifty-fifty with David watching so intently and such a small amount to work with but he snatches up his share the second he's finished in hopes that the swift movement will be enough to keep David from noticing. He bounces to his feet just as quickly, wincing as his whole body protests, and shoves the money into his packet. Jack looks down at David where he sits visibly startled by Jack's swift movements and his rush to make an exit, "I'll see you tomorrow, David," Curiously, David makes a face. His nose wrinkles in clear disgust when his name slips off Jack's tongue but Jack turns on his heels and slips into the crowd before David has a chance to even open his mouth.

That's the first part of Jack's two-step plan complete for the day. Step two is dump the rest into the emergency savings and then once again he'll be left to figure out just what to do with all the time left in the day. Jack never thought he'd be without the other newsies like this so he never had to worry before about just how much of his life revolved around them. He spent every day surrounded by them, spending time together during every second of spare time he had, and now that they wanted nothing to do with him he had no idea what to do with himself. They didn't want his help, they didn't even want him, and he's so lost without that purpose to guide him. Who was he supposed to be if he wasn't the leader of Manhattan? What was he if he wasn't a newsie?

He doesn't want to linger on those questions, he doesn't know what answers he'll come up with if he manages to find answers at all, so he focuses only on weaving around the bustling bodies filling the streets and making his way back to the lodging house. It requires more attention than it typically would. Usually he'd twist and dance around the people with grace, flitting around each passerby like it was something he was born to do, but every time he shifts his body finds a new way to complain and every time he's jostled by an elbow or a shoulder his vision blurs with the fresh spark of pain.

Jack's covered in a fresh new sheen of sweat and grime by the time he makes it back to the lodging house just a measly three streets over. He's never felt so dirty and rotten in his life. What an accomplishment that is; he's sure Snyder would be proud of himself if he knew where his efforts had landed Jack this time. Looking at the building in front of him Jack desperately doesn't want to go inside. Call him a coward but he wanted to avoid any more confrontation. He never wanted there to be a confrontation to begin with. Not here, never here. They fought and roughhoused and argued but very rarely were they genuinely cross with each other and even rarer was it for Jack to be at the center of it all. He hated this. He deserved this.

He glances over towards the alleyway he'd left from earlier that morning but with the way his whole body shook with fine tremors he knew there was no way he would make it up that fire escape. Not with how his shoulder was screaming at him and how his legs felt like pudding. He'd sooner fall to his death than actually make it to the roof and that wouldn't do anyone any good. Probably.

A ball of apprehension settles in his chest as he looks back to the front doors. Well, it didn't look like he had much of a choice now, did it?

Jack tries to steel himself as best he can before he enters the lodging house, shoulders back and head held high despite how desperately he wanted to crumble into pieces. The second he steps through the doors he's met with the loud chatter of boys off to his right in the cramped common area. It's not much, just a bunch of open space, but they make the most of it. No one acknowledges him and Jack wonders if they even realized he was there as he heads back over to where Kloppman is stationed. Kloppman glances up at him, offering a soft smile in greeting, and Jack digs the coin out of his pocket and counts out enough to pay for two more days. It leaves only a pitiful amount for the savings jar but he'll even it out again when he can.

"What's this, boy?" Kloppman asks curiously, finally taking notice.

"Just payin' you back what we's owe you is all." Jack sniffs, pushing the money pointedly across the counter.

Kloppman stares back for a few beats, "You eating?" He asks instead of taking the coins.

Jack shrugs, "Enough." He grins, hoping that he can sell the picture he's painting. And Jack is an artist, a damn good one, so Kloppman only shakes his head and accepts the payment with a cautious glint in his eyes. As long as Kloppman lets Jack keep paying off their debt than it doesn't matter how much of Jack's bullshit he believes. "Don't worry about me, Kloppman," Jack reaches up and flicks his hat, smile still painfully fixed in place, "You oughta know by now I don't go down easy." It's enough of a reassurance it seems to chase the suspicion from the old man's gaze so Jack takes it as a win and turns on his heel to flee upstairs.

He doesn't make it far before Racetrack's voice calls from across the room, "Hey," Race yells before Jack can even get close to the staircase, "Yous got a visitor!" He doesn't sound fond of having to play the messenger and when Jack looks over to ask what the hell Racer's talking about he suddenly realizes why they were all huddled together to begin with.

About of dozen or so of his boys are sat around, scattered about on the floor and leaning against the walls, and in the center of it all was Katherine herself. Jack realizes with a sudden clarity that he hadn't actually expected to see her again. It's especially unsettling that she's in one of the only places he's ever had the chance to call home when he certainly didn't want her here. Her sharp eyes scan him over and it's never felt as violating as it does now.

"The hell are you doin' 'ere?" Jack huffs, grabbing onto that ever-present anger that's kept him upright and holding on tight.

Katherine glares back at him, picking herself up from where she's folded elegantly on the floor and meeting his gaze with the same deft confidence she always paraded around with. At least now Jack knows just who she got it from. "We need to talk about the next step of the strike, of course," Katherine says matter-of-factly as she dusts dirt from her skirt. She visibly falters, her eyes briefly drifting to the floor before she pulls herself together to meet his gaze again, "And I wanted to see you." She admits. A brave thing to do surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys but none of the newsies start whistling and hollering the way they usually would have.

"Yeah, well," Jack sniffs, tilting his head and projecting as much bitter indifference as he can, "I ain't wanna see you. I don't make a habit outta meetin' up with liars."

Katherine looks briefly offended before she scoffs. "I didn't lie," she bristles.

Jack rolls his eyes, gripping the strap of the newspaper bag he still hasn't returned so tightly that his nails dig into his palm and his knuckles go white. "Oh, what'd'ya want me to call it? You just purposefully hid the truth from the rest of us, is that it?" Katherine is satisfyingly cowed by his rebuttal, eyes flicking back to the floor. Good. Who does she think she is coming in here and telling him to his face that she'd never lied to him? He'd asked her name and she'd given him a pseudonym. She intentionally hid her identity from them and in doing so she'd allowed her father— her father— one more piece of ammunition against him. He supposes he shouldn't be wondering who an heiress thinks she is. She knows exactly who she is and she never once expected to face the consequences of her actions, did she? No, it was Jack who had to do that for her.

"That's not fair," Katherine hisses after a brief silence, stepping away from the boys to shorten the distance between them. The boys drift along after her, curious and not at all ashamed of it. She doesn't close the gap but she stops just a yard away with the newsies still spread out behind her. Jack felt like he was a single man fighting against an army.

"Life ain't fair," Jack snaps back, hoping that the way his shoulders shake comes across as anger and not pure, hopeless exhaustion.

"Are you seriously going to give up after everything?" Katherine switches the topic quickly, pulling the conversation in a more favorable direction instead of admitting that Jack was right. She'll make a damn good journalist, he'll give her that. It obviously ran in the family.

"I'm not givin' up," Jack wishes the boys would stop fanning out. They were shuffling around, keeping their distance so that it wasn't suffocating while slowly but surely encircling him and Katherine. He felt like he was being herded by a bunch of predators, cornered in a way that made him instinctively want to bare his teeth and snap his jaws. "I just know when I's beat." They were beat the day they were born but he'd never stopped fighting then, had he? Soft murmurs surround them but Jack can't hear them well enough to decipher the words through the blood rushing in his ears.

"It isn't over yet-" Katherine tries to insist. "Yes it is!" He doesn't quite yell but it's enough to stop Katherine in her tracks. "Yes it is. At least for me." He couldn't do it. He lost. He couldn't risk taking a single step out of line. Not when Pulitzer clearly knows that the way to get Jack to back down is to threaten the boys. To threaten David. Not when Pulitzer was willing to bring Snyder and the Refuge into the fight. The very idea makes his blood freeze in his veins.

"We need you," Katherine says.

"No you don't," Jack rolls his eyes.

"You are impossible, Jack Kelly," She snarls, stomping her foot like a petulant child and still somehow looking absolutely stunning. "You are so ready to give up on these boys because of what? A little slap on the wrist? You won't even try to fight for them?" Katherine gestures to the gathered newsies around them and Jack feels exposed trapped in the circle of bodies. It feels like they're drawing closer, boxing him in, and the air suddenly feels thick and heavy.

Jack scoffs, "We both know I wasn't givin' up on nobody." He can't believe she'd accuse him of that. She'd been there. She watched her father dangle his boys' safety over his head the same way she just watched as he had Jack dragged away to make sure it was understood how sincere the threat had been.

"They wouldn't have had any reason to arrest anyone but you-" Katherine has the audacity to sound frustrated with him, clearly starting to reach her wits' end, but Jack is too tired and hurt and starved to sit back and let her tell him how the world works. She's never really had to live in it, after all, she had no right to lecture him.

"I couldn't risk it!" Jack finally screams, the building tension firing out of him like a shot. His voice easily sends the room into a deafening silence that echos in his aching bones. "You think people like them give a damn if we's done anythin' wrong?" Jack laughs incredulously and he can see the concern starting to blossom across the surrounding faces but he just can't find it in him to fucking care anymore. "You think I deserved it every time theys nabbed me? They can do whatever they want to kids like us and I ain't throwing my boys to the wolves." He snarls.

"What are you talkin' about?" Race pipes up, stepping up and looking between Jack and Katherine with a furrowed brow, clutching his cigar between his fingers.

Katherine startles, staring at Jack with pure disbelief, "You didn't tell them?"

"They ain't need to know." Jack insists. He can feel his legs shaking and he needs to sit down but he can't see a clear way out.

"Know what?" Finch cuts in with exasperation.

"What? Don't want us to know the dirty little details of how Pulitzer bought you?" Race murmurs, voice drenched in bitterness and betrayal.

Katherine stares at Jack with an expression that Jack can't discern. Some of the fire has drained out of her but the way she looks at him now makes him feel like some train wreck she just can't manage to tear her eyes away from. Maybe that wasn't too far from the truth. "He didn't," She says slowly.

"Don't," Jack tries to sound angry but he's just so fucking tired. His voice comes out raw and pleading and he can feel the fury he's tried so hard to latch onto start to slip through his fingers.

"What do you mean?" Specs presses, shooting Jack a concerned glance before returning his attention to Katherine.

"Pulitzer didn't buy him. He threatened you. All of you. That's why Jack spoke out against the strike at the rally," She explains and it's like once she's started she can't stop. She doesn't turn away from Jack while she speaks and he can't find it in himself to look away from her while she spills his secrets like they meant nothing. "Pulitzer told Jack that if he didn't call off the strike then he'd have the rally flooded with police. That he'd have as many newsies as they could grab carted off to the Refuge if Jack didn't comply." It's only when she finishes that Jack tears his eyes away and glares daggers into the dirty floor freshly coated in the muck that the newsies brought in after a day of selling.

"Why didn't he come say anythin'?" Racer presses and Jack can hear the pleading note in his voice, begging for answers that he's been deprived of from the only person who seemed willing to give them. Jack knows that the younger boy must have taken Jack's betrayal personally, more so than even the others, and his heart hurts listening to his brother practically beg for some sort of explanation. Jack doesn't say anything, he keeps his mouth shut and stands there in shame as Katherine tells them just how pathetic he'd been. How pathetic he is.

"Pulitzer had him thrown in the cellar." Katherine says it so bluntly. Somehow even though the words are spoken with a sympathetic undertone it sounds so harsh. "He said it would give Jack time to think about it."

The room echos with a round of scoffs and snorts of laughter devoid of any humor. "Yeah," Race drawls and he sounds so lost, "I'm sure he did."

"How's a bunch of stuffy office lackeys lock Jack up? And why do you knows all this?" Jojo demands inadvertently drawing everyone's attention back to the conversation at hand. Jack really wishes that there wasn't so many bodies blocking his escape.

"Ah, well," Katherine hums, "Those Delancey boys were there, and the man who runs the Refuge. Warden Snyder." She confesses, conveniently glancing over Jojo's other question but no one seems to notice after what she's just dropped on them.

"Snyder?" Albert mutters in a soft, horrified tone. That's all it takes for the room to break out into a new round of shouting and disbelief.

"Next time I see the Delanceys I'll drive my fist through their faces!"

"If they think theys can just beat on one of our own they got another thing comin'!"

"If Pulitzer thinks that's all it'll take to stop us-!"

"Those bastards!"

"She's Pulitzer's kid." Jack doesn't raise his voice but a hush quickly falls over the room once more. "That's why she was there." He lifts his head to stare at Katherine, feeling listless and defeated. "I think you should go." It's not a suggestion.

Katherine looks ready to fight, fists at her sides and jaw clenched, but the tension drains out of her before she even opens her mouth, "Okay," She agrees but of course that isn't the end of it. "This isn't the last you'll see of me but I understand if you need some time." She keeps her head high and exchanges a few soft goodbyes before she makes her way out of the lodging house with grace and dignity. Jack wishes he could follow after her if only so he didn't have to deal with the aftermath of their very public argument.

"Jack,"

"Don't," Jack pleads for the second time in less than an hour. His eyes drift shut and he wants so badly to just climb up to the penthouse and curl up for the rest of the day. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He doesn't want to have this conversation. "Please."

Race doesn't pay him any mind, "Me and Jack are gonna have a talk, alright? Keep everyone else out for a little bit." He addresses the room, not even acknowledging the overlapping murmurs of agreement as he steps up to Jack and places a hand on his shoulder. It's Jack's bad shoulder, because that's just his luck, and he can't stop himself from wincing and flinching away from the gentle pressure. Race looks at him with sympathetic eyes, "They really wanted to gives you some time to think about it then, huh?"

Jack huffs a bitter laugh, "Yeah."

"Come on," Race moves to lead the way and the rest of the boys part easily to make a path. They all stare at Jack with caring eyes that Jack hadn't expected to see directed at him any time soon. He follows after Racetrack numbly, dead on his feet as he heaves himself up the stairs. The mask he's worn to convince everyone he was persevering was cracked after Katherine so carelessly laid out his dirty laundry and the anger that's been fueling him all this time has flickered out. All that's left is exhaustion, pain, and shame. It's nearly impossible to keep himself from collapsing while the colossal defeat tries to drag him down.

He stumbles after Race into the boarding room and allows himself to collapse into the first bunk he can reach. The tremors that have wracked his body for days don't relent even as he's finally able to relax. Jack carefully lowers himself down onto his back, wincing when the flimsy mattress presses against the welts and contusions from Snyder's cane. Race lowers himself onto the bed beside him, sitting down at the foot of the bunk as softly as he can to avoid jostling Jack. Race is kind enough to give Jack a few minutes to just breathe, settling into the new position and letting the pain fade back into a steady thrum that Jack could almost ignore if he tried hard enough.

"What happened, Jack?" Race implores, eyes wide and sincere and softer than Jack's seen them in days. So Jack tells him. He tells him about going in to Pulitzer's office, tells him about Katherine, about Snyder, about that damn deal. Tells him that the cellar was more than a timeout while keeping all the dirty details to himself. He paints the picture in broad strokes, leaving all the finer work absent and sharing only a vague idea. He doesn't want to talk about what happened down there. After days of feeling so alone and so, so scared Jack finally just lets it all bleed out of him.

"Theys beat me, Race," Jack chokes back a sob. He can't cry now or else he won't be able to stop and he can't break down right now. They both know that he doesn't just mean physically. Jack's always been good at taking a beating. Despite that he's never stopped being soft. He can take anything the world throws at him but when it's the people he cares for caught in the crossfire he shatters. He's supposed to be stronger than this. He's the leader; they need to be able to trust him to take care of dozens of kids and yet he can't even keep his eyes dry for Christ's sake. Though, he supposes, he threw trust out the window back at the rally.

"Why didn't you say somethin'?" Race sounds so sad and Jack hates it. Racetrack was such a bubbly and witty guy to hear him so upset and small makes Jack feel so vile. It's so fundamentally wrong and it was Jack who did this to him.

"What was there to say," Jack grits his teeth against the lump forming in his throat, trying desperately to swallow it down and blink away the tears rapidly filling his eyes, "I ain't proud to say they won, Racer. You's all right to be pissed with me."

"We's still pissed with you, Jack, but this is different. It sucks what you did but we'd've understood if yous just told us," Racetrack insists easily, scooting a bit closer until he was pressed into Jack's side. "You didn't have a choice."

"Yeah I did," Jack argues.

"No you didn't," Racetrack shakes his head, fiddling with the cigar still settled between his fingers. "No one would've expected you to do anythin' else in this situation. He threatened all of us and then threw you in a basement with the Spyder. We may not like it but there wasn't really anything else that could've happened." And while that doesn't necessarily make Jack feel any better the weight that's been crushing him still somehow feels just a small bit lighter.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispers up at the top bunk hanging over them.

"Yeah," Race mutters, "Me too." They just sit in silence after exchanging those gentle apologies, pressed together and just soaking in the company that they've deprived themselves of. Jack basks in it, the warmth of Racer's hip against his ribs the only friendly touch he's had in far too long. He just takes this time to breathe and enjoy the comfort of his brother at his side. It's not long enough when Racetrack shifts, leaning over so he can properly look Jack in the eyes, "How hurt are you?"

"Nothin' broken," Jack promises, "Some pretty bad bruises and a welt or two but I'm alright." He knows better than to tell Race that's he's fine. Not after the near-breakdown he just had in front of the other boy and especially not when Racer knew that he'd had some one-on-three time with Snyder and the Delanceys. Race doesn't really look convinced but Jack continues before he has a chance to pester him more about it, "I swear to you. They busted me up but I's okay. Couldn't risk makin' it too obvious they nabbed me right before the rally, I guess."

The logic is sound enough that Racetrack relaxes some but he still doesn't look happy. Jack supposes that that's fair. He's just grateful that Racetrack doesn't seem adamant about poking and prodding at him. He'll live but that doesn't mean he doesn't still hurt. "It took you a while to get up the stairs," Race still wasn't as eager to drop the subject as Jack was.

"Yeah, well, been workin' harder than usual." Jack shrugs, groaning with a grimace when his shoulder slides across the mattress. Bad idea. He doesn't need to look at Race to see that the concern has returned full force.

"Yeah, I saw you give Davey more than yous agreed yesterday." Well, shit. Race is staring at him, not even bothering to pretend like he didn't just call Jack out on his shit. Jack doesn't need to wonder why Race hasn't said anything until now. Racetrack was pissed, furious with Jack in a way that he's never been before, and he'd probably thought it served Jack right to cut his profits like that in a futile attempt to make amends.

"You didn't tell 'im, did you?" Jack hopes not. That would mean that David had to know that Jack did the same thing again today. Jack isn't sure how David will respond to Jack's deception but he's sure it isn't positively. David would've been pissed with Jack for pulling something like this before everything with the rally but now? David would probably be outraged for a multitude of reasons.

"Nah, Dave would've said somethin' to you if I did." Racetrack assures and he's right. They didn't call David Mouth for no reason and since the start of the strike David's inability to stay quiet has only gotten worse. There's no way David would have let Jack get away with it again if he'd known, he would have chewed Jack out while he split their earnings himself. "You been eatin'?" Jack's forgotten how perceptive Racetrack could be.

"I'll live," Jack says in lieu of an answer. Racetrack takes it for what it is.

"Will you? With how you's actin' I doubt you'll make it to the end of the week." Race huffs, his irritation flaring when it becomes clear to him just how moronic Jack's been acting while they've been estranged. "The hell were you thinkin'? When's the last time you ate somethin'?" Race was working himself up now and Jack was just too drained to do anything more than watch.

Jack very nearly shrugged again before he remembered how much it hurt last time, "I've gone longer," He says in hopes to calm Race. Instead Racetrack throws his hands up in frustration and Jack just barely suppresses a flinch.

"Will you just give me a straight answer, Kelly," Race snaps, turning a glare in Jack's direction that makes his stomach drop uncomfortably. He wasn't too fond of Racer looking at him like that after everything that's happened. "That could mean anywhere from a few hours to a few days." Precisely.

Jack knows there's not much point to it but he's trying his best to avoid worrying Racetrack as much as possible. They may have been fighting before this very moment but it makes Jack squirm when people fuss over him. He hates the way Race looks at him with this hopeless uncertainty whenever he feels like he needs to take care of Jack but he just doesn't know how. Jack is supposed to take care of him, not the other way around, and he doesn't want to put that responsibility on anyone's shoulders if he can help it.

"Alright, fine," Race huffs, peeling away from Jack and pushing himself off the bed. "You don't have to tell me but I'm gonna go grab you somethin' to eat." He's clearly still not happy about it but he's also decided that he's fighting a losing battle. Jack winces, cringing slightly when Race turns to send him a hard look, "What?"

"Ah, maybe," Jack pauses, pushing himself into a sitting position with a low groan. He grins at Race sheepishly, raising his good arm to rub at the back of his neck, "Maybe don't grab anythin' too solid, yeah?" He's not sure he could stomach it. Both with how empty and shriveled his stomach feels and with how the residual anxiety and dread from this whole ordeal is still churning nausea in his gut.

Racetrack's expression softens and he nods, "Yeah, course." And with that he makes his leave, slipping out the door and leaving Jack alone again. The vacant bunks don't feel taunting like they did before and even though he's without company he doesn't feel so crushed and discarded like he did that morning. It's not perfect and he's still drowning in guilt and despondency but things seem like they might be starting to look up and he holds onto that.

He still feels oddly vulnerable in the empty room so Jack waits a couple minutes after Race leaves to make sure the other isn't going to reappear any time soon before peeling himself up off the bed and stumbling over to the window. Getting up onto the roof is an event and one of his legs gives out halfway up the ladder but he makes it up without any new bruises. Personally, he considers it a victory. The afternoon heat isn't nearly as sweltering as it'd been the day before and a gentle breeze drifts through the air, chilling Jack's sweat-soaked skin. He settles himself down on his bundle of blankets, sitting up against the edge of the roof and allowing the tension to finally bleed out of his body.

#|| circulation gates #| jackie |#| davey |#| racer |#| lodging house |#jack kelly #david jacobs #racetrack higgins #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #newsies live #newsies broadway #newsies #livesies #angst #hurt/comfort #// injury

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breathingfiredragons · 6 years

Text

Stick Around, Kid

“It ain’t like that, Jack!” Bruiser said, more forcefully this time. “Don’t shout about things you don’t understand. It ain’t just ’bout some kid who beat you up. Brooklyn’s one of the most powerful cities in the world. We need to be on Colon’s good side. If he wants the kid, he can have the kid. We ain’t gonna stand in his way.” “Colon’s got no claim to the kid! The kid ain’t a newsie, and he ain’t from Brooklyn,” spat Jack. “Colon don’t even need to know he exists!” ~~ Where Jack brings a sick beggar boy back with him, and is unprepared to deal with the consequences that has. Prequel to 'In Sickness and in Doubt'. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/11965272 ) (to clarify, as his name is never mentioned, the 'kid' is Crutchie, and this is before he got his limp).

“Christmas mobs cause massive fight in department store! Vicious fightin’!” shouted Jack, waving his paper high in the air. “You heard it here, folks!” an elderly woman bought from him, dropping an extra coin in his hand and murmuring something about the holidays.

People were always more generous during this time of year. Something about the guilt and temporary bout of religion made them give more. Not that he minded - it was nice to have a treat now and then. Besides just getting a treat, now that he was older he’d have to contribute to the Christmas dinner that Bruiser and the rest of the guys put together for the little kids. A few extra coins here and there piling up for a month, and sometimes they could even afford a goosegoose.

Of course, people’s occasional kindness was balanced out by the horrible weather. It was cold and dreary, wet and miserable. Jack could barely feel his fingers, even in the oversized jacket that he’d dug out of some rich person’s trash. It had stopped snowing for a bit, but the roads were still covered a few feet deep. He could barely walk without dragging his feet and taking comically large footsteps.

By sheer luck, he managed to sell all of his papers before dark. God was real after all. Less lucky was the fact that he’d nearly managed to wander into Brooklyn while selling. He technically was still in Manhattan, but only for a few more blocks. Any further and Bruiser would somehow find out and have Jack’s head (Bruiser was real big on territories and who could sell where, for reasons that Jack didn’t quite understand yet).

Unsure of how he’d even ended up as far as almost-Brooklyn, Jack grudgingly made his way towards the bunks. He needed to stop wandering and find a specific spot to sell. Or at least that’s what Bruiser kept saying. Bruiser was really fond of giving Jack advice that Jack was less fond of following. Well, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to follow it so much as he just forgot. Often.

It had started to snow again, and Jack swore. With his luck, there would be a blizzard and he’d be trapped outside again. Bruiser had told him not to go so far away, so he wouldn’t look for very long. It would be entirely Jack’s fault.

Not that he’d get lost. He was fully capable of ignoring a little snow.

“Penny for change?” a small voice croaked out from what had seemed to be a large pile of snow at the corner of an alleyway. “Can anyone spare a penny?”

As he turned around the corner, he found the source of the voice. A small boy, all skin and bones jutting out at odd angles, with blond hair and a dirt covered face. He was shaking, and a large purple bruise covered his left eye. “How old are you, kid?” Jack asked.

The kid looked relieved that Jack was actually talking to him. “Thirteen.”

Oh. So not as young as Jack thought. Only a year younger than him, if he was telling the truth. The kid could pass as ten if they put him in bigger clothes, maybe he could take him back…

Before Jack could say another word, he felt his feet be ripped out from under him as he fell backwards into the snow. “Wha-” a sharp pain bloomed in his jaw, while something else dug into his chest. Before he could so much as raise his hands in defense, he’d been robbed of his hat and the coins in his pocket, and the kid was running down the street.

“Come back here!” launching to his feet, he darted after the boy.

The kid wasn’t very fast, but he clearly knew the area well. He’d dart down an alley and appear twenty feet further.

He took a turn down the block, and then they were in Brooklyn. Jack stuttered to a stop for a moment, before shaking his head and continuing. He’d get his earnings back, boundaries be damned.

The kid dove into another alley, and this time he didn’t emerge.

Swearing, Jack kicked the wall before heading back home.

“You got robbed?” Bruiser repeated. “Who did it?” Jack mumbled a response and Bruiser grabbed his chin, twisting it so he could better look at the already bruised skin. “Can’t understand you, kid, speak up. Who hit ya?”

“Some beggar kid,” spat Jack. “I woulda caught him, but he went into Brooklyn. Knew the land well enough to lose me.”

Bruiser paced back and forth for a while, taking his hat off and twisting it between his hands. “Was he a newsie?”

“I don’ think so. Looked like he was near dead, freezin’ to death on the streets,” said Jack.

“You lost to a near dead beggar on the streets?”

Jack flushed with embarrassment, and dug his shoe into the ground. “He was a damn good fighter. Had me pinned down and robbed before I could even blink.”

Bruiser was silent for a while, leaning up against the wall. “Listen, kid, here’s what you’re going to do. You hearin’ me? Gotta listen carefully. Don’ tell anyone about this. I’ll lend you money for tonight’s rent, but ’side from that you gotta tell everyone you sold today. Got it?”

Jack nodded silently, holding back the burning question on his tongue: why?

“I ain’t gonna find you a new hat. Ask ’round, see if anyone has extra. Maybe Kloppmann does. That’s your problem,” again, Bruiser paused. Jack wondered if maybe he was done, maybe he’d get off without a scolding, when Bruiser spoke again. “The Brooklyn kid who robbed you...if you see him again, let him be. Don’ go lookin’ for a fight. But if he tries to steal from you again…don’t let him take anything. I don’t wanna hear about you losin’ to anymore street rats, you understand?”

Jack nodded silently. Tell people he sold. Get his own hat. Leave the Brooklyn kid alone. Don’t lose any more fights. Easy enough.

Except.

“You don’t want me fightin’ the Brooklyn kid ’cus of Colon, right? But we don’t know he’s a newsie. So what does it matter?”

Sighing, Bruiser ran his hands through his hair. “Just in case. Colon ain’t taken to kindly to other people who rough up his own. If the kid’s one of Colon’s, we don’ want anything that happens to him on our hands. Get it?”

Mind whirring, Jack nodded. “I got it.”

The next day when he went out to sell, Jack tried to backtrack to where he’d sold the day before. It was even colder now, and barely anyone was on the streets. The people on the streets weren’t likely to stop and buy the paper. At least he had a purpose, something to keep his mind off of the fact that he couldn’t feel his toes or his fingers, and that the new kid, Race, had lent him an extra hat that was a few sizes too small.

“Pape! Government scandal shakes the nation! Read it here, folks!” the actual story was about some secretary who’d had an affair with another woman, and was on the back page, but they didn’t need to know that.

The day drug on. It only seemed to get colder. Barely anyone bought from him, and those that did tipped lousily. The possibly Brooklyn kid didn’t show, and he didn’t have any of his few regulars over here. All in all, it was an epic failure.

Deciding to call it quits early, Jack stuffed his last few papers into his shoes for extra warmth and shoved his hands into his pocket. He’d heard a story once about a girl who had to sell matches in the cold, and she died after lighting them all in an effort to preserve her warmth. Still, before she died she was transported to the most wonderful places, full of food and heat.

Jack felt a little bit like that. But instead of fantastical feasts, he got newspapers in his shoes.

Suddenly pausing, Jack rotated to face an alleyway. Maybe he’d heard something, or maybe it was something he saw in the corner of his eye. But all he knew was now he was walking into the shady alleyway with his hands squeezed into fists, praying he wasn’t about to get jumped. “Hello?”

Something mumbled to his right, but all he could see was snow.

“Hello?” he tried again. “Is someone there?”

Underneath a decent amount of snow, completely still save for his fluttering eyelids, was the boy from yesterday.

If possible, he looked even worse. His lips were chapped and bloody, and his skin had taken on a translucent tone. He looked like Jack could easily snap him in half.

“Jesus Christ!” Jack quickly bent down so he was at level with him, and brushed off the snow that had accumulated. “Are you alive? Can you hear me?”

When the kid didn’t respond, Jack pulled him out from the drift. He was disturbingly light.

Bruiser said to leave well enough alone, but if he left him out here in the cold like this, he’d probably die…

Scooping him up with ease, Jack stood up and made for the lodging house. He’d barely made it ten feet before the boy’s eyes opened. “No!” he was probably trying to scream, but his voice was so hoarse it barely made any noise. He wrestled his way out of Jack’s grasp and fell to the ground.

“Kid! What the hell! I’s trying to help you!” Jack grabbed at the kid, only for him to take a swing at Jack.

“I ain’t goin’ back! You can’t make me!” the kid crawled as quick as he could, but he wasn’t getting far.

“I’s not taking you back to...where ever you’s running from!” Jack didn’t try to grab the kid again, instead bending down to his level. “You’s gotta trust me, or you’ll freeze out here tonight. You ain’t lookin’ too well.”

“You...Snyder didn’t send you?” said the kid apprehensively.

Jack felt his blood run cold. “Snyder? As in the Refuge? Never. Look, kid, I don’t wanna hurt you. You’s sick, and all I’s gonna do is take you back to the other newsies. Can you tell me your name?” the kid remained silent, staring at the ground. “Look, kid, I need something to call you.”

“No, you don’t. What’s your name?” asked the kid.

“Jack. Jack Kelly,” Jack offered a hand, which the kid took with wide eyes.

“Jack Kelly? You’re the Jack Kelly? Holy shit! I-I’s heard all about you!” the kid seemed to be filled with a whole new energy. “You’s the one who escaped from the Refuge on Teddy Roosevelt's carriage!”

Jack felt his face burn, and he self consciously rubbed the back of his neck. “You’s...you’s heard about that? Is they still talkin’ about that at the Refuge?”

“Is they still talkin’ about that? Of course they’s still talkin’ about that! You’s a livin’ legend!” suddenly the kid doubled over in a fit of coughing, and Jack noticed red spots on his shirt when he finished.

“How about you come back with me to the lodgin’ house. We can talk more there,” Jack tugged at the kid’s arm, and he followed reluctantly. They walked a bit in silence until he finally said: “So how did you escape the refuge? Don’t tell me the spider just let you go.”

The kid seemed to be a lot more tired now. His burst of energy was over, and he was just trudging alongside Jack again. “Tied a sheet to the bed, tossed the end out the window, and took off like a shot. He ain’t even noticed I was missin’ until I reached Brooklyn,” he paused, looking back up at Jack. “I know it ain’t as epic as your story but...I’s not there anymore.”

“Place is awful. Damn it straight to hell,” muttered Jack.

“One day Snyder’s gonna get what’s comin’ to him. One day Snyder’s gonna die, and he’s gonna go to hell and pay his dues,” the kid was nodding eagerly, like it was the most exciting thing in the world.

How the kid could so quickly bounce from grey and tired to eager and hopeful was beyond Jack. It almost hurt him to have to set him straight.

“You’s so sure about that? Hate to be the one to break it to you…” Jack bit his lip, trailing off. “Ah, never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“What? You gotta tell me. Can’t just start a conversation like that without finishing!” the kid pulled on Jack’s jacket.

“It ain’t a good thing, kid. I was just gonna say that bad people don’ usually get what they deserve. Nah, they get fancy parties and all the food they’d ever eat,” Jack put an arm around the kid, pulling him closer as he tried to ignore the waves of heat he could feel coming off the kid in spite of the cold. “Bad people usually end up with happily ever after. But at least we can make a penny off of them!” he tried to end with a smile, but the kid didn’t share it. Rather, he looked like he was deep in thought.

They walked in silence again for a while, until Jack turned a corner and could see the lodging house in the distance. By this point, the kid had returned to a more reclusive mood, barely responding to Jack’s attempts at starting conversation. Now and then he’d flash Jack a smile, and by God if it wasn’t the brightest smile that Jack had ever seen. He looked like he had sunshine itself trapped in there. It was hard to tell that the sick boy who he was taking back with him was the same boy who’d beaten Jack up the other day and given him the shiner that had developed on his eye.

“We’re almost there, kiddo, hang on,” Jack murmured.

“I’s fine! It’s nothin’. I’s walked twice this distance before, and didn’t even break a sweat!” he bragged.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” nodded Jack.

Race must’ve seen him coming, basically dragging the kid at this point, because he ran out to meet them halfway. “What’s goin’ on? Who’s the kid?”

“I ain’t a kid! I’s thirteen!” protested the kid. Race looked back and forth from him and Jack, looking excited.

“Is he gonna die? He looks like he’s gonna die,” Race said all too eagerly.

“Jesus Christ, Race, he ain’t gonna die. If y’wanna help so bad, go get Bruiser,” Jack waved his free hand. Race scrambled back to the lodging house, yelling a ‘sure thing’ behind him.

“Didn’t realize you had so much authority here,” the kid commented.

“Not really,” said Jack. “Just more than Race. I’s been here longer than him.”

“How long has y’been here?” asked the kid.

“Since I left the Refuge. So what, maybe...I dunno, four years? I came here when I was ten, and them older guys like Bruiser were all over me. Little kids sell better. I’s been trained since then to be the best at what I do,” Jack puffed out his chest proudly, smirking towards the younger boy.

“Yeah, right,” he laughed, but it quickly turned into a cough. They stopped walking entirely as he hacked up what seemed to be his lungs into his sleeves, spotting red again.

“Jesus, kid, you’s really sick,” noted Jack. “You aren’t contagious, are you?”

The kid shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. I’s-I’s always sick like this. Ain’t ever died before.”

Not that Jack wanted this kid to die, but he kind of hoped he hadn’t done all this work practically carrying him here for nothing.

Bruiser was waiting for them right outside the lodging house. He studied the kid carefully, trying to place him. He could be one of Colon’s, and if he was they’d need to send him back as soon as he was well.

The kid flashed a smile towards Bruiser, the same award winning smile from earlier, but it’s marred by the fact that blood stains his teeth. “This is the guy?” confirmed Bruiser, all business.

“Yes, sir,” Jack nodded. Old habits die hard.

“Take him to Poet, she’ll fix him up quick enough. Then come meet me in my office,” Bruiser said.

Poet was one of the only girls who stuck around. Sure, there were always a few here and there that would stay with them for a few months, but none of them were eager to live with boys permanently. Except Poet. With mousy brown hair, copper eyes, and dull freckles, Jack didn’t personally think she was much of a looker. But who knows, Bruiser certainly did.

“So you’re the homeless bum who managed to beat up our Jack,” Poet said as she looked over the kid.

“Poet!” Jack flushed. “You can’t-”

“Oh, shush,” she stuck a hand out to the kid’s forehead. “Shit, you’s hot as hell. How long you been sick?”

“Sometimes I think that I’s never not sick,” he grumbled. Poet raised her eyebrows, so he continued on: “Maybe a week or so? I’s been coughing for a lot longer than that, though.”

“How long you’ve been coughing? Do you remember?” he shook his head. “Alright. I’m gonna go find my book,” Poet had a book full of medical advice that she loved to flip through whenever she was ‘treating’ somebody. Always kept it hidden in her bunk so nobody else could look at it. Said that it made her feel important. “You stay here.”

Which left Jack alone with the kid again.

The kid was covered in grime and soot. He’d clearly been living on the streets for a while, and been in a few fights. He had faded bruises all over his arms and his face. Which is probably why he knew how to fight so well, and how he took Jack out so quickly.

“Here,” said Jack suddenly, grabbing a pail of water and a cloth from Poet’s station. “Clean yourself off, you look like death.”

“Thanks.”

Jack stood there again for another moment, until he remembered Bruiser’s orders to meet him after dropping the kid off with Poet. “You good here? Bruiser wants to see me…”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! Go ahead. Do whatever you need,” said the kid.

“Of course. Thanks,” Jack internally cursed a bit. Why did he thank the kid? The kid needed to thank him. He saved that kid’s life!

Maybe.

“So I says leave well enough alone, and you brings him back to the lodgin’ house,” summed up Bruiser. “That sound about right?”

Jack nodded sheepishly.

“Glad we got that cleared up. Lemme know if you need another reminder of you’s bein’ stupid. Next is what we’s gonna do with him. Has he told y’if he’s from Brooklyn?” Bruiser asked.

“He ’scaped from the Refuge, that’s all I got outta him. Dunno if it was Brooklyn before that, or…” he trailed off.

“It’d look pretty good for us if he was Brooklyn. We send him back to Colon all healed up and he owes us one,” Bruiser looked pretty proud of himself for thinking that one up. “Yeah. It’d be pretty great to have Colon owe us one for once.”

“Sure would, but I don’t think he’s a newsie,” said Jack.

Bruiser’s face dropped. “Oh. That’s shit. Still, I’ll send word to Colon, see if he wants to claim him.”

“Claim him? What, like he’s some item being bartered away?” Jack said ferociously.

“It ain’t like that, kid-”

“Like hell it ain’t like that! You can’t treat him like he’s just-just an item!”

“Colon’s got no claim to the kid! The kid ain’t a newsie, and he ain’t from Brooklyn,” spat Jack. “Colon don’t even need to know he exists!” with that, Jack stormed out of the room, ignoring Bruiser’s shouts and the fact that he may have just lost everything he’d taken so long to gain.

So stuck in his head, Jack didn’t notice as he ran straight into the kid in question. “Sorry!” the kid shouted as he fell to the floor. “I’s just-” he swallowed. “I’s just trying to find you. And I found ya. Hello,” he gave an awkward wave.

Jack studied him carefully. He was probably eavesdropping, knowing they were talking about him.

There was no reason for him to be treated any differently than any of their other recruits. Except for the fact that he was possibly from Brooklyn. If he was from the Bronx, or Woodstock, it wouldn’t be an issue.

It’s like the kid read his mind. “I ain’t from Brooklyn, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just happened to-” he broke off, coughing viciously into his arm. He was still spotting blood. “Happened to be in the area. Like you.”

Jack didn’t respond to that. Instead, he just said: “You should get some rest. Don’t want to go through all of this trouble to have you dying on me.”

The kid nodded, and started making his way back to where Poet was.

“So what’s the deal with the new guy?” Race asked, appearing from out of the blue as soon as Jack entered the room. “Is he gonna die?”

“Why don’t you ask Poet?” replied Jack dryly.

“Can’t find her anywhere. If you ask me, that’s a sure sign that he ain’t doin’ so hot. Not if she ain’t leavin’ his bedside,” reasoned Race.

“Why you so obsessed with death, kid?”

“I ain’t obsessed. But it’s interestin’. I overheard Bruiser talkin’ to someone about sending a letter over to Colon,” Jack’s eyes narrowed, with Race clearly noticed, as he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “We’s startin’ a game of poker, wanna join?”

“That depends, you improved your poker face anymore?” Jack smiled.

“Hey! I tell ya, I gotta list of who owes me money a half mile long!” insisted Race, punching Jack in the arm.

“Yeah, and a list of who you owe three times that,” said Jack. The pair made their way to the table, and he tried his best to put the new kid out of his mind. Most likely he’d go to Colon, and they’d part ways as unlikely friends.

“Colon doesn’t want him,” Bruiser said, lighting his cigarette. “Says he ain’t one of his. Poet says he’s gonna be better real soon. You need to talk to him, see if he’s gonna stay with us.”

“Why me?” asked Jack.

“You’s the one who brought him in. You’s gotta take responsibility for what’s yours,” Bruiser shrugged. “You think I got to where I am by lettin’ other people do my work for me? Nah. Jack, you ain’t an idiot. You gotta know that I want you in charge of Manhattan when I’s gone,” Jack hadn’t dared to hope that that’s why Bruiser liked him so much. Why he wanted to spend so much time with him. “And when it comes to shit like this? You’s gotta take life by the balls and do things yourself. That kid out there beat the shit outta you, Jackie. Trust me when I say he’s someone you want with you.”

Jack nodded, his heart swelling. Bruiser thought that he would make a good leader. That he could handle Manhattan.

Here’s the thing - when Jack showed up at the newsies’ door demanding a job and rent to last him the night, Bruiser was the one who covered for him then. It was Bruiser who trusted him enough to give him some of his pay without barely speaking to him. It was Bruiser who taught Jack everything that he knew. It was Bruiser that Jack sold with until he was good enough to sell on his own. The first time that Jack got into a fist fight with the Delanceys, Bruiser was the one who patted him on the back and stitched him up, telling him where to aim next time.

Bruiser was the closest thing that Jack had to family, and his believing in Jack meant the world to him.

Jack ran through the lodging house at top speed, not stopping to answer questions, opting to instead just shout “I’s in a good mood, that’s all” behind him as he ran. By the time he reached the room where the kid was staying, he was out of breath with the biggest smile on his face.

“Hey, kid-” he stopped. The kid was asleep on a cot, buried under a few measly excuses for blankets.

“Don’t bother him,” Poet whispered from the doorway. “He hasn’t been doing so hot. Just now starting to make his way to recovery,” Poet always sounded different than others when she talked. Jack had always chalked it up to her being a girl - the newsies were mostly guys - but now that he thought about it, she sounded more like the richer folks they sold to. Her accent had always been different, but right now she sounded like she was talking slower, carefully choosing how her words would sound. “Why don’t you come out here with me, Jackie?”

Poet and Bruiser had always had a bit of a thing. They’d flirt on and off, hang out together. They’d even kissed a few times, maybe done more than that. They were best friends. When Bruiser got stabbed by some asshole on the streets (who was never identified) Poet stayed by his side until he made a complete recovery. It was the only time Jack had seen her yell at the younger kids. She usually reserved that anger for the bums on the street who made lewd comments and groped her.

“What’s with ya, Poet? You seem upset,” said Jack.

“I ain’t - I’m not upset. Just thinking, that’s all,” she corrected. “What’s got you so excited to speak to the kid?”

“Bruiser sent me. Told me to ask if the kid’s plannin’ on staying with us or goin’ back to the streets,” Jack said.

“Well, I hope he’s planning on staying longer. He’ll be up and moving soon, but if he goes back out there he’ll probably die,” Poet said it so nonchalantly, Jack had to do a double take to process what she said.

“Die? He ain’t just - just gotta cold or somethin’?” well, he was coughing up blood.

Poet almost looked excited. “I figure it’s either Bronchitis or Pneumonia. They’re very similar, you know. Hard to differentiate with my book. But either way, he’s likely to die if he goes out in the cold again so soon. Add onto the fact that he’s extremely underweight and starving...let’s just say it would be best for him to stay here.”

Jack smiled. The kid seemed pretty cool, when he wasn’t beating Jack up. Had some sense of humor, and despite his going to the Refuge the kid had the brightest smile Jack’d ever seen. Bright enough to light up an entire room. Sure, he beat the crap out of him when they met, but could Jack really blame him for that? He’d do the same, in that position. “Good. I’s glad to hear that.”

“I can tell,” Poet replied, twisting the ends of her hair.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“Hm?”

“You’s all distracted. Staring at nothin’, twistin’ your hair,” Jack motioned with his hands. “Is it a girly thing I ain’t gonna understand?”

Poet chuckled. “No, no, it’s just-” she was interrupted by a groaning in the kid’s room. “Shit, I should-”

“Nah, it’s alright. I’s gotta talk to him, anyways. Go find Bruiser and tell him what’s eating you,” Jack liked to pride himself on knowing his friends well. If Poet was upset about something, she wasn’t going to talk to Jack about it. No, the only person she’d even consider discussing it with would be Bruiser.

And off she went.

The kid was sitting up on his cot. “Jack!”

“Kid! Good to see you’re not dead!” that was always a pleasant start to a conversation.

“Yeah, I’d like to think so,” the kid smirked.

“You feelin’ better?”

“Yeah! Ain’t coughed up any blood today, so...that’s a bonus. Poet tells me that I’s gonna make a full recovery.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard. She says it’s best you stay here for a few days and then...it’s up to you.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“You think...you think you’s gonna stay here?”

“Is I allowed? I’d hate to be the one to intrude on your living situation, and I ain’t got no money to pay for rent. I ain’t got a job.”

“Well you wanna live here, you gotta be a newsie.”

“A newsie?”

“Yeah. Y’know, we sell the papes. Screamin’ on every corner of the street-”

“Yeah, I know what a newsie is.”

“Ah. So how about it? Trade you’s life of crime for a hat and a stack of papes just itchin’ to be sold?” Jack had sat down on the cot beside the kid. There was half a foot between them, close enough where he could feel the kid’s still lingering body heat coming off him in waves.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.” Jack spit into his hand, and stuck it out. Without hesitation, the kid did the same.

“We’s gotta call you somethin’. What’s your name, kid?” the kid was silent, messing with the end of his shirt again. “Don’t wanna tell me? That’s fine. We could come up with a nickname for you. Like Race. His nickname’s Racetrack, because he’s always betting on the races. It’s like he’s gotta nickname for a nickname!” Jack laughed, and the kid let out a weak chuckle. “So how’s ’bout it? Got any ideas?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t worry, I’s got plenty,” Jack scooted back a bit so he could get full view of the kid’s appearance. His hair was sticking up in a thousand different ways, and his arms had indentations from the blankets. His collarbones were jutting out sharply, and his legs were wrapped around each other. “How’s...Scruffy?”

“Scruffy?!”

“Yeah! You look’s kind of scruffy. With you’s hair, and...I dunno, it just fits.”

“There’s no way you’re calling me Scruffy.”

“Fine. What’re your hobbies?” asked Jack.

“Excuse me?”

“Hobbies! What are they? Like...Poet likes to write, so we call her Poet. Bruiser likes to fight, so we call him Bruiser. You’ve got any hobbies?” Jack poked the kid’s arm.

“Not really. Unless lying on the street and starvin’ is a hobby,” the kid joked.

“Nah. Maybe...Scrappy?” he shook his head. “Scabber?” nope. “Burner?” nope. “Jesus, kid, why you gotta be so damn picky?”

“We’s talkin’ about more than just a name,” the kid wrapped an arm around Jack and stretched another in front of them like there was a magnificent view. “We’s talkin’ about my legacy. When they tell stories about me, I don’t want them talkin’ about no Scrappy! Nah, it has to be something epic. Something that fits.”

“Well you ain’t got any hobbies, you ain’t got any particularly defining physical features, except them ears,” the kid laughed. “Unless you got a better idea, I guess we’s gonna have to keep callin’ you kid, for now.”

“Kid’ll have to do.”

“I’s not upset, Poet,” Bruiser was saying.

“You look upset. I was just telling you because-” Poet sounded strained.

“I gets it, Poet. I’s-I’s happy for you,” Bruiser did not sound happy.

Jack and the kid were sitting on their bunk bed, trying very much to not eavesdrop on the loud conversation that was happening through the door by them. The kid was on the top bunk, almost folded in on himself. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and his arms were wrapped tightly around him. Jack was on the bottom, hugging his pillow.

“Thanks. I just...I’m leaving tomorrow night. I won’t be back,” she said.

“Never?” Bruiser asked.

“They live in California, it’s not like I could come back for a day,” there was a decent amount of silence now. Enough for Jack to wonder if the conversation was over, or if they’d moved on to...other activities.

“I’s...I’s tryin’ to understand, but I can’t get it. You ain’t-you ain’t gonna be able to get an education! Sorry, Poet, it ain’t gonna happen!”

“What the hell, Bruiser?”

“You ever hear ’bout a woman doctor?”

“Bruiser, maybe if you ever read the papes you sell so well you’d know we’ve got one right here in New York. Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell,” said Poet. “I didn’t come here to ask your permission. I came here to say goodbye. If this is how you’s gonna be, I’s just gonna leave,” Poet sounded like she was crying.

Bruiser sighed. There was more silence.

“Maybe it’s just time. I’s been thinkin’ as well...I’s 23. That’s pretty damn old to still be sellin’ papes. I could goes with you, get a job out west...how hard could it be?” Jack felt his heart all but stop. He had to shove his fist into his mouth to keep his cries from escaping. Bruiser was leaving? Like it was nothing, he’d just drop everything and go to California.

He’d talked about Jack being in charge one day. Jack didn’t think that it would be so soon. There were so many people who were older than him, more experienced.

If Bruiser left, if Poet left...Jack would be all on his own.

“Bruiser...I can’t ask you to give this up, to leave all of your family behind,” Poet said.

“Poet...you’s my family. I ain’t need anything else but that,” tears were streaming down Jack’s face. He couldn’t breathe. He needed air, space, something.

Scrambling up from his bed, Jack raced to the window, tossing it open. The fresh air wasn’t enough, he need more. He needed to escape.

There was a fire escape outside the window. Jack looked behind him to make sure nobody was following him, and then climbed out the window onto the landing of the fire escape.

The cold was bitter, numbing Jack’s skin already. He was regretting his decision a bit, but adrenaline was pumping and he couldn’t stop now. The ladder to the roof was icy, and he kept having to brush off snow with his bare hands. By the time he got to the top, he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.

It was dusk. The sun cast an orange hue throughout the city, and illuminated the silhouettes of nearby buildings. Snow dusted everything, shaping the world around him. It glistened like diamonds, covering all the darkness and dirt that Jack knew what there. Despite the freezing temperature, it looked soft enough to the point where Jack could just fall into it and be safe. Like it could embrace and surround him, and never leave him.

“Jack?” a voice called from the ladder, startling Jack from his thoughts. It was the kid. He was struggling up, both due to the snow as well as the blankets filling his arms. “Jack, it’s pretty cold up here. You could use one of these.”

Jack silently took the blanket from the kid, wrapping it around himself and trying to massage some warmth back into his hands.

“It’s a lovely view, ain’t it?” commented the kid. “I’s never gonna get tired of it. The skyline, with the sun and the snow…”

Yeah, it was beautiful. Another day he might’ve drawn it from the window. Maybe one day he’d come up to the roof himself to paint it.

“When I’s…when I’s a kid, way younger, I used to have a roof like this. Small apartment, barely ’nough room for the three of us. But it hadda roof that put everything else to shame. I’s go up there, and sit. Like a-a penthouse. A penthouse in the sky,” the kid sighed. “Course it ain’t gonna last forever, nothin’ does. Soon enough my ma she-she died alongside what was gonna be my little sister. Things kept changin’ and-and soon enough I never see that roof again,” Jack could feel his sideways glance.

“You shouldn’t be up here, you’ll catch your death,” muttered Jack. “Last thing we need is you’s getting sick again.”

“I feels fine, Jack,” the kid scooted closer to him. “Do you wanna...wanna talk about anything?”

Jack was silent.

“I don’t wanna push or nothin’, but you seemed awful upset about what Bruiser said. You seem awful upset. You says...you says you’ve been here a while?”

“Yeah,” that’s one way to put it. “They’s my family. Only family I got that eva’ gave a damn. And now they’s just-they’s just up and leavin’ like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like I don’t matter at all to them. Not enough to keep them here,” Jack scoffed. “Y’know, Bruiser talked to me ’bout maybe having me be in his shoes one day. I thought-I thought he’s meaning in a year or so. Turns out he’s talkin’ around a week.”

“Y’know what, Jack, lemme tell you something. You’s gonna be just fine. You’s gonna do a great job, no matter what. I just gotta feelin’,” smiled the kid.

“It ain’t just that. Bruiser, Poet...they’s my family. They picked me up when I was nothin’, and took me to where I am now. I loves them more than I loves my own flesh and blood. How’s I supposed to live without them? How’s I supposed to go on knowing they ain’t cared enough to stay with me? I hate them,” Jack spat.

“No, you don’t. You’s angry at them for leaving you. For movin’ on. I can’t say I’s blamin’ you, Jack-” the kid coughed into his elbow, struggling for breath. Jack pulled him a bit closer.

“Kid, they’s the only family I got,” whispered Jack.

“You’s gonna make more family. Besides, you got all’a these boys here who’s your family. You says that you loves them. Prove it. Let ’em move on,” the kid squeezed Jack’s hand.

“You thinks you could do the same thing, if it was someone you cared about? If your family wanted to leave you behind and never see you again, would you let ’em?” asked Jack.

“I hope I could. But I’s pretty selfish. I think you’s better at lettin’ people go than I am,” he shrugged.

“I gotta be,” Jack looked over to where the kid was huddled. Now that he’d started to calm down a bit, he realized just how excruciatingly cold it was. And the kid was still skin and bones, just barely at the point of recovery. Feeling that familiar maternal instinct that was buried somewhere deep inside him kick in, Jack said, “C’mon, kid, let’s get you inside before I’m haulin’ your body around again.”

“Alright,” he chuckled. “I’s meaning it, though. You’s gotta family here. You’s not gonna be alone when Bruiser and Poet leave.”

“Yeah, alright kid.”

“Charlie.”

“Hm?”

“My name’s...I’s Charlie.”

“Oh. Well...it’s nice to meetcha, Charlie.”

Jack smiled.

#jack kelly #crutchie #jackcrutchiefanfiction #newsies #newsies 1992 #racetrack higgens #newsiefanfiction #insicknessandindoubt #prequel #jackcrutchie fanfiction #jackcrutchie #pre injury #crutchie doesn't have his limp yet #and he's not called crutchie at all in this

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