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inkblotsandpapertrails · 4 years

Text

Heart of Stone {R.H.} [Pt 4]

Warnings: Mild Depictions of Injuries

Pairing: Racetrack Higgins x Reader

Description: You didn’t agree with your brothers much. You didn’t like how they treated people or handled emotions and etcetera. But you could all agree that the Delancey’s were a proud family. A strong family. You didn’t get close to people, you didn’t show emotion, you didn’t let anyone have power over you, no matter what, because that made you weak. Except for the pretty newsboy with the foghorn voice and smart jokes, apparently.

A/N: don’t you love panicking over not updating in a while so you anxiously post one segment of an unfinished chapter because you don’t think you can finish this chapter soon enough and then you finish said chapter immediately afterwards and look like an idiot? i sure do!

You stood outside the deli awkwardly in the sweltering heat of New York summer, first aid kit stuffed clumsily under your arm. You couldn’t help but feel panicked – sure, Medda had given you the address and everything, but it wasn’t like she knew you were part of the family whose whole livelihood was based around scamming, screwing over and beating up newsies.

You swallowed heavily and steeled yourself – maybe you weren’t a Delancey anymore, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be tough.

When you opened the door, you felt the temperature drop. It was probably just the cooling system, but still, it freaked you out. Every single newsie was staring at you. Some looked angry, some shocked, a few of the younger ones looked downright terrified.

“Hey.” You said awkwardly, raising your hand in a little half-wave before quickly shoving it back down. One newsie narrowed his eyes at you viciously, twirling his slingshot in his hands.

“Whadda you want?”

You looked away and cleared your throat, holding up the first-aid kit in lieu of an answer.

“I saw, um...” You murmured. “I just thought you might need help.”

A low murmur spread around the room as the newsies muttered to each other, their gazes flicking to you suspiciously every so often.

“I can go...” You said quietly. “I just, um... I thought you might want- I dunno. I’ll go. Bye.”

You turned stiffly and was about to open the door to leave when-

“Ey, [Y/N]!”

You spun around frantically to see Race waving at you from across the deli.

“Thank God ya got out okay!” Race grinned as he all but sprinted across the deli and took you by the hand. You swallowed heavily as he led you through the shop, chatting the whole way. “I meant to check in at Medda’s, but, um – well, some shit’s been goin’ down, let’s just say. You doin’ okay, though? Medda treatin’ ya good?”

Oh, you were supposed to respond now. Okay.

“Um – Yeah. I suppose. She, um... She feeds me a lot.”

Race threw back his head and laughed.

“Yeah, that’s Medda? Real motha hen, she is.” Race chuckled. You frowned – something felt wrong. His laugh felt too loud, his smile too big. He felt... Fake. “’Ey, Dave, where’s Les?”

A lanky newsie with circular glasses grabbed Race’s wrist.

“You are not letting that near a kid.” He hissed, shooting you a panicked glance. “You got no idea what them Delancey’s are like!”

You felt your skin crawl at the way he said the name ‘Delancey’. You used to be so proud of the name – it wasn’t your name by birth, but ever since your parents had dumped you on Delancey Street, you and your brothers had dragged yourselves out of the gutters and decided to take it anyways. Because no matter how hard people tried to stomp you down, you could take it and turn it into something great. That’s what being a Delancey meant.

You wondered when the name ‘Delancey’ stopped being a beacon of hope and started feeling like a chain wrapped around your leg.

“This one’s different.” Race said coolly, but you still noticed the way he shifted his stance a little so he was blocking you ever so slightly. The Delancey part of you wanted to feel insulted – the rest felt... Fuzzy, in a way. Like a soft blanket had been draped over you. It was weird.

It was interesting.

“Are you insane?!” The spectacle kid spluttered. “The first day of the strike, you said-!”

“I know what I said, and I changed my mind!”

The two newsies glared at each other fiercely, puffing themselves up in that way teen boys did. The way your brothers did before they started to beat each other into submission, no matter how much you screamed at them to stop.

“It’s okay.” You said quickly, stepping in between the two. “I shouldn’t’ve come, I’ll go.”

Race looked at you with confusion and something that looked dangerously close to disappointment.

“Wh- No, [Y/N], it’s okay, we want you here-!”

“I sure as hell don’t!” Spectacle kid snapped. A few newsboys murmured in agreement, refusing to look you in the eye.

“Hey, it ain’t like they’re the one who-“

“Race, it’s okay.” You said firmly. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble, and if me being here is going to do that, then fine, I get that. I understand. So just...” You shoved your first aid kit into his arms. “Take the kit, if anyone needs first aid they can come to you. You’re the second, right?”

Race blinked from you to the kit.

“Well – yeah, but I-“

He looked desperately at the kit and then at the newsboys, all busted and broken like wooden dolls. It was then that you started to realize just how young Race was – barely older than you, really, and clearly not the eldest boy in their group. He shouldn’t be in a deli bandaging his friends like a soldier bandaging his squadron in the barracks, he was just a kid, a kid that was so clearly out of his depth that it hurt.

“Excuse me?”

A soft voice broke you out of your spiralling.

The new boy – the one Weasel tried to rip off, the right hand man who was basically the brains of this whole operation, the one who had jumped onto a cart and yelled so bravely and rallied the newsies together – was now looking at you with the most painfully hopeful expression you’d ever seen.

His eyes were puffy. Red around the corners. His nose looked pretty sore. If you looked closely, you could see the tear tracks marring his cheeks. You wondered how old this strike leader even was.

“You know first aid?” He said quietly, but his voice pitched high with hope and desperation.

“Um.” You mumbled. “Uh – yeah, I’d patch up my brothers every time they-“

The spectacled boy shot you a fierce glare.

“I know first aid.” You finished lamely.

“Can you set broken bones?”

You fought the urge to gasp. How badly did the cops hurt these kids, how many kids got arrested, how many kids are rotting in the Refuge right now, how many kids are going to die because of fat old men denying them basic human rights, how many how many how many-?!

“If you need me to.” You shrugged, glancing at spectacle boy from the corner of your eye.

“Great.” The new boy beamed. “My name’s Davey. Follow me.”

New Boy Davey took you by the wrist and tugged you to the back of the deli. You wondered why it felt less fuzzy than it had with Race.

“Les?” Davey said quietly as he leaned under one of the tables. “Les, you can come out, it’s okay...”

A kid crawled out from under the table with his arm in a sling that had been crudely fashioned out of a table cloth. You winced in sympathy, your heart aching when he sniffled quietly into his sleeve.

“Hey, kid.” You smiled as best you could, leaning down so you could make proper eye contact. “What’s your name?”

The kid looked up at his brother with wide, frightened eyes. Davey smiled gently and placed his hand on the boys head. It almost covered him entirely. He was so small...

“Les.”

“Well, Les,” you said in a tone that hopefully didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “You must’ve been pretty brave fighting those bulls, huh?”

Les bit his lip and shifted on his feet.

“I didn’t fight all that much...” He mumbled. “They mostly jus’ wailed on me... Hurt me real bad...”

“Well, take it from someone who’s taken a few beatings,” you smirked. “It takes a lot of strength to get your arm busted and keep on going. You’re a tough kid.”

His lips twitched into a tiny smile.

“I guess I’m kinda tough...”

“Definitely tough.” You grinned. “Now I’m gonna need you to hold still for me, okay? ‘Cause I’m gonna take off this sling, and that’s gonna move your arm a little and it’s probably gonna hurt. So be tough, yeah? Your brother’s right here, you can go to him if it hurts too much, okay?”

Les nodded slowly, though he still looked a little reluctant.

“Okay...”

“Good kid.”

You dug through your kit and managed to find a roll of gauze and two pieces of cloth. You winced. Good, but not enough.

“Everythin’ okay?” Race asked.

“I don’t have enough stuff.” You muttered. “Should’ve brought some sticks, I should’ve known someone would have a broken bone-“

“Hey, hey, s’okay.” Race said quietly, rubbing his hand down your back in a way that made your body stand on edge for a moment – you weren’t used to touch like this. “We can find ya some sticks. Got any idea how long they gotta be?”

“Long enough to go down his forearm. Not super thin, thick enough to take up the middle of the arm.”

“Gotcha. What else?”

“Ice. It won’t take the pain away but it’ll take down the swelling and numb it up a little so that we can put the splint on without it hurting too bad.”

“Right.” Race whistled sharply and nodded at a redhead perched on a table. “Albert, c’mon! You take ice, I’ll get sticks – Jacobi’s gotta have some ice in the back, yeah?”

“Hopefully.” Albert shrugged, hopping off the table and following dutifully.

They came back in almost no time at all, depositing the supplies at your feet. The ice was fine and went straight into the cloth you’d set aside to hold it, but one look at the sticks told you they were far too dirty to be put near a wounded arm like this – god knew the last thing you wanted was the kid to get an infection. The boys had clearly grabbed the only kindling they could find, which was sweet, but it wouldn’t help.

“Hey, you.” You tapped the redhead’s shoulder. “You got a knife?”

Albert nodded, retrieving a flick-knife from his pants pocket.

“Perfect.” You handed him the sticks. “Whittle these down, go with the grain. If the kid gets a splinter on top of this, it’ll hurt like a bitch and be a pain to remove. And make sure there’s no sharp corners, we don’t want him in any more pain.”

“Bossy.” Albert smirked and shot Race a pointed look. “Beginnin’ to see why you’s so popular.”

You frowned at his remark. You’d hardly describe yourself as popular in general, especially not with the newsies. Still, apparently his comment deserved a firm punch in the arm from Race, because that’s exactly what Albert got, much to his discontent.

“Hey, c’mon, man! I’s just statin’ the obvio-“

“Are you going to keep distracting me, or are you going to shut up and let me work?” You huffed, fixing him with a sharp glare. Albert grinned and lifted up his arms in mock surrender, and you couldn’t help but feel your agitation fade away a little. The laid back and teasing nature of the newsies bond felt... Brotherly felt like too much of a word. But wasn’t that what brotherly was supposed to mean? Friendly, fond, kind? That had never been what ‘brotherly’ was to you – at least, not with your brothers...

You shook your head and set to work on Les’ arm quickly enough – Race held the ice over his arm carefully while you undid the sling and set his arm into a splint with the newly whittled sticks and your roll of gauze.

“Okay...” You murmured quietly as you knotted the new, clean sling over Les’ shoulder. “Done.”

“Perfect.” Davey breathed a sigh of relief. “And that’ll heal fine?”

“All I can do is set it. He’s gonna need to keep it rested and make sure not to move it if you want it to heal properly.”

Les nodded obediently and shot you a wide smile.

“Thank you!”

You couldn’t help but melt a little. The kid had been so brave, barely even whimpering when you pressed the sticks against his wounded arm. You removed his hat to ruffle his hair, then put it back on him backwards just to make him laugh.

“You were real brave, kid. And, um.” You turned to Race and Albert awkwardly. “Thanks for your help.”

“Ah, ain’t no problem!” Albert grinned before Race could say anything. “Anythin’ for a pretty thing like you, right, Racer?”

Race stomped on his foot, hard.

“Man down!” Albert cried dramatically. “Mutiny! I’m hit! Save me, doc!”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at their antics, a noise that made Race beam with delight.

“I think you’ll be just fine. Besides, I should probably be going now.” You tipped your hat at the newsboys and tried not to grimace at how loose it was. Morris had given it to you a while back; he’d shoved it on your head while you were walking home in January and muttered about how only an idiot walked around in the dead of winter without a hat. You compared that small show of affection, one that had meant so much to you at the time, to the newsies’ shows of affection – they showed their love for each other easily, slinging arms around each other, strong-arming each other into hugs, stuff like that... They didn’t have to hide their love behind insults or cruel words. The hat still meant a lot to you – you just wondered why your brothers, the people who were supposed to be there for you, had to constantly act like they didn’t love you at all.

“Been a pleasure.” You said quietly as you righted your hat back on your head. You tried not to make your disappointment too obvious – the last thing you wanted to do was guilt trip the newsboys into letting you stay. “And, um.” You gave Race an awkward punch to the shoulder, a far softer punch than any of the others your brothers had given you, or the ones you’d given them. “Nice seeing you, Racer.”

Race shot you a small smile. He reached up to thumb the spot where you hit his arm, and for a moment you worried that you’d hurt him, but the touch looked more... Fond than anything else.

“Actually,” a small voice piped up. “Could ya take a look at my wrist real quick? I can move it, but it’s real swollen, and it really hurts-“

“Yeah, and the cut on Finch’s arm’s lookin’ real messy-“

“Romeo’s eye’s still busted-“

Somehow, you wound up being shoved around the room, tending to each individual newsie and their injuries. While you had gained some of the newsies trust when you tended to Les and his injuries, some of the more sceptical newsies (specifically Specs) watched you cautiously. The part you should’ve found most annoying was Race hovering over your shoulder, glaring at any newsie who tried to stare you down or scare you away. You tried not to focus too hard on why you found it endearing instead.

“Okay,” you said slowly as you finished dabbing Romeo’s black eye. You tried not to dab at it too hard – god, you hated cops. They’d started leaving you and your brothers alone ever since your uncle took you in, and for a moment, you’d started to let yourself believe they’d changed. But no. They were the same people who’d drown you and your brothers in the gutters and throw you around in the Refuge. “That should take the swelling down.”

“Or...” Romeo grinned despite his busted eye. “My nana used to say kisses always made stuff hurt less. Care to give it a try?”

You snorted and flicked his forehead.

“No thanks, pal. And word to the wise – maybe don’t bring up your nana when you try to woo someone.”

“So close...” Romeo sighed and leaned back against Specs, who had been hovering behind him ever since you’d begun fixing up Romeo’s eye. Specs smiled and ruffled his hair fondly and oh. You blinked at Specs in surprise, and you could see panic begin to colour his features. You shot him a quick smile. He paused for a moment, looking at you carefully, before relaxing and returning the smile, albeit more nervously.

“Alright.” You clapped your hands together, which surprised yourself – you’d never been so loud or confident around your brothers before. “We all good here?”

“I got a problem, doc!” Albert grinned, waving his arm in the air. “Busted lip, might need someone to kiss it better for me!”

“Hey!” Romeo wailed from behind you. “That’s my move! Specs, he stole my move!”

You rolled your eyes and packed up your first aid kit.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You said dryly, handing him back his knife. “But if you keep on jabbering like that, you may need to have that tongue amputated.”

“Yeah, Al.” Race huffed, swatting Albert upside the head. “Shaddup, will ya?”

“Yikes, tough crowd!” Albert snickered. “C’mon, Racer, don’t act like you wouldn’t-!”

“I said shaddup!” Race snapped, slapping his hand over Albert’s mouth.

You scoffed at their antics and decided to take your leave – the newsies, though they were still in low spirits, were certainly less quiet and more lively than they had been when you’d come in, and you’d patched them up as best you could. As much as you wanted to stay – as much as that strange, awkward part of you that you didn’t quite understand kept begging to be near Race and talk to him and maybe hold him properly instead of just punching his arm and no stop it stop it, you had done what needed doing and there was no reason for you to stay. After all, these weren’t your people.

You had gotten to the door unnoticed when Race grabbed you by the wrist.

“Hey, ya leavin’?” He asked, his smile still wide as ever, but his eyes a little less bright. “So soon? Y’ain’t even had lunch, yet.”

“Medda’ll have food for me.” You said sheepishly. Why was his hand so warm? “I don’t want to overstay-“

“Aw, c’mon! It’s a public space, y’ain’t overstayin’!”

You bit your lip awkwardly. God, you wanted to stay, but you knew you couldn’t – these weren’t your people, these were newsies, they didn’t like you, they didn’t want you here, you were just performing a service and if your brothers found out they’d – they’d...

You were jolted out of your spiral by a flurry of orange bursting through the door.

“Evening, boys!” Sang a reporter you recognized. She definitely didn’t work for the World, she wasn’t there enough to work there, but you’d seen her around a few times when you had started your workplace training. She even got called into Pulitzer’s office once, which was weird for a reporter who didn’t even work there.

A small murmur of acknowledgement spread through the deli.

“Oh, would you look at these glum mugs?” She said in a tone that bugged you. Of course their mugs were glum, they’d just been pelted into the ground. They were hurt, injured, most likely homeless with no family – something this obviously wealthy woman had never experienced. You forced yourself to shake it off – she was clearly a friend, and you had no right to judge if someone was being unfair to the newsies, what with everything your family had done. “Could these really be the same young men who made front page of the New York Sun?”

And just like that, it was as if a switch had been flipped. The boys leapt to their feet and swarmed around her to get a glimpse at the newspaper, all of them grinning ear to ear and laughing in delight. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy – how was it so easy for this woman to swoop in and make them all smile? She clearly hadn’t known them that long, so how was she able to cheer them up and be open with them with no struggle whatsoever? She made it look so easy – how could you even begin to do that?

“Check me out, fellas!” Race grinned, leaping onto a table. “I’m the king of New York, baby! I’m famous!”

“Call me when ya rich.” One boy snorted.

“Aw, ya don’t need money when ya famous!” Race waved him off. “Folks give ya whatever ya want, gratis! The next time I go to Sheepshead, they’s gonna be givin’ me my own personal box! Mush, you could get some new shoes, matchin’ laces, too! And Finch-“

“A haircut!” Finch cried. “A proper barbershop one, not my ma with her sewin’ scissors!”

“A haircut?” Another newsie scoffed. “If I’m famous, I ain’t gettin’ no lousy haircut – I’m gettin’ a watch, solid gold, and a chain to twirl it with! Try that on for size!”

Soon enough, all the newsies were chiming in with what they’d get now that they were famous, all more outlandish than the last. They were dancing around, cheering and celebrating, their wounds all pretty much forgotten about. You frowned up at where Race was engaging in a playful spoon fight with a small newsie – how had he done that? Just used a few pretty words and silly jokes to make all the newsies think that they were okay, that everything was fine, that they hadn’t-

That they hadn’t already failed.

You grit your teeth and marched out of Jacobi’s deli. You couldn’t believe it. For a moment, you’d thought you were the one in the right – that you’d had this brilliant revelation and seen the light, all thanks to stupid Racetrack Higgins. And now, all you could think about was your fight with Oscar.

“What, you think just because some newsie tells me a few jokes I’m gonna side with them over my own family?!”

“I think you’re a dumb kid mooning over a boy who lies for a living. And if you’re not careful, he’s gonna use that skill on you.”

You clenched your fists. You’d been right not to trust him that first day. He was a newsie, a lying newsie, a stupid handsome charming liar that actually made you believe you could be something more than a kid whose parents left them in a gutter and had to crawl their way out by themself.

You were better off with your brothers. You were better off living and dying under Uncle Wiesel’s hand. At least then, you hadn’t had any expectations.

“Hey, [Y/N]!”

You grit your teeth at that familiar foghorn voice. Stupid loudmouth, never should’ve given him the time of day, should’ve listened to Oscar-

“Where ya goin’?” Race smiled, and god you hated how easily that smile made you melt inside. Weak, weak, weak-

“I’m going home.”

Race’s smile dropped.

“Home, like... Back to Medda’s?” He said hopefully. You shot him a dry look.

“Home like my actual home.”

Race’s face fell. He looked conflicted, opening his mouth to say something before quickly thinking better of it, grabbing your hand and dragging you into a nearby alley.

“You can’t go back.” He said firmly, manoeuvring the two of you so that he blocked the way out of the alley. “[Y/N], you know you can’t.”

“It’s my home!”

“No, it ain’t!” Race snapped. “You know it ain’t! Those guys hurt you, and not just on the day of the strike! I see the way you flinch whenever someone moves to quick or comes too close.”

You felt your stomach drop. Oscar was right, you let it show, you let it show and now he knew.

“I don’t need your help.” You growled, clenching your fists. “I don’t need you to fix me, or send me to your fucking caretaker because you think I can’t handle myself.”

“That ain’t what I’m doing and you know it!”

“I don’t know anything about you!” You snapped. A greasy, slimy voice inside of you, one that sounded suspiciously like your uncle, told you to shove him, punch him, show him you were stronger and better than he was, better than the weak little kid who needed saving that he thought you were. You wanted to, a little. But no. You couldn’t hurt Race. Even if all his kind words had been lies, you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

Weak, the voice sneered.

“I don’t know shit about you.” You snarled. “You’re a liar, all you newsies are. You lie for a fucking living!”

“I never lied to you!”

“You just lied to them!” You yelled, gesturing at Jacobi’s. “You lost, Race. The newsies? They lost. And you’re here dancing on tables and telling everyone everything’s fine when it’s not and convincing them that they can do things that they can’t and I won’t! Fall for it anymore!”

“But I didn’t-!”

“No, no, it all makes sense now!” You said, waving your arms and pacing the alleyway as you ranted. “You come up one day and you see me laugh at one of your dumb jokes and you think oh, now I have an in with the Delancey’s and, and you tell me all these stupid jokes and you laugh at me and smile at me like you – like you like me because you know no one else does! And then you strike and you make me feel guilty for what, sticking with my family?! Like anyone else would?! And you get me to leave them and punch out my own brothers and you take me to your fucking mother or whatever and have her act like she cares about me and-“

“Do you even hear yourself?!” Race snapped. “You think I only talked to you to, what, trick you into joinin’ a strike that hadn’t even started yet?! You think I planned on you leavin’ ya family and jumping into the fray so I could send you to Medda’s, who I somehow already spoke to despite planning a fucking strike – yeah, figure that one out! – just so I could fool you into coming to Jacobi’s for what, free first aid?! Do you even hear how crazy that sounds?! How is it so easy for you to think that but so fucking impossible for you to believe that I care about you?!”

“Stop it!” You cried, slapping your hands over your ears and pressing hard, like maybe you could press all these stupid thoughts out of your head. “Just stop it, just stop!”

Race paused for a moment, his eyes flicking over your panicked expression with sad eyes. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t wanna yell at you.” He said gently, too gently, far more gently than you deserved. “But I dunno what else to do here, [Y/N]. I dunno how you expect me to – to prove to you how much I care about you.”

You couldn’t help it. Your eyes flicked down to his mouth. Race frowned, his expression morphing from confusion then realization then downright shock horror.

“Wait.” He said, taking a step backwards (recoiling, disgusted, angry, run, run, run-). “Wait-“

“I’m sorry.” You said quickly, like you couldn’t spit the words out fast enough. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve done that, I can leave-“

“No, [Y/N]-“

“I’ll go now, I’ll go and I won’t come near you again, I swear it-“

“[Y/N]-“

“Just don’t tell my uncle! Or my brothers, please don’t tell my brothers, they’ll never let me-“

“[Y/N].” Race said firmly, and it was only then that you noticed how he’d been inching towards you as you rambled. He placed a hand on the wall, just above your shoulder, and another on your jaw. If it were anyone else, you would’ve knocked it away, punched him to the ground, do anything to make sure you got the high ground and he didn’t. But this didn’t feel like anyone else. It didn’t feel like he was boxing you in, or forcing you, or making you feel trapped. Every move was calculated and precise, always punctuated with a raised eyebrow, as if asking permission, before following through. It was careful, soft – if you weren’t a Delancey, you’d call it sweet.

He ran his thumb over your cheekbone.

It was sweet.

“Quit talkin’ so much, wouldja?”

You breathed out a frustrated huff. Race was close enough that it made his curls bounce.

“Oh, that is rich, coming from you of all-“

“[Y/N].” Race said firmly. “Stop talkin’.”

There’s no sunshine or rainfall, no sparks or fireworks. There’s just Race. Race and the taste of cigar smoke and Race and the bite of the brick wall against your back and Race and Race and Race.

It’s incredible and it’s terrifying, all at the same time. You can feel your stone heart melting with each gentle press of his lips, each stroke of his hands against your waist and your jaw, each awkward bump of his nose against yours as the angle shifted, until he held your heart like warm, malleable clay just waiting to be pressed and handled into something more.

That, or he could squash it between his hands. Throw it onto the floor and step on it. Burn it in a kiln until it was reduced back to a bitter lump of stone.

“I can hear ya thinkin’,” Race muttered into your skin as he nuzzled his nose against your cheek. “Why ya thinkin’ so much, sweetheart?”

The nickname makes you shiver, and you can’t stop yourself from loving it.

“I’m thinking...” You murmured as Race’s forehead pressed against yours. “My brothers are gonna kill me for this.”

Race grumbled in the back of his throat.

“Please don’t talk about ya brothers while we’s-“

You kiss him before he can finish. He holds your clay heart ever so gently, smoothing his thumbs over any cracks until it’s smooth and warm and glowing.

It’s sweet.

(tag list: @annabethgranger123 @farfromjustordinary @yxseminx @oswin05 @theater-geek76 @wnygirl2012 )

#newsies #newsies x reader #racetrack higgins x reader #racetrack higgins #heart of stone

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justlightlysedated · 4 years

Text

another one of those aus where alex has been an alien the whole time:

"Okay," Michael says as soon as Alex parks the truck in front of the pharmacy. "You'll need to get several bottles of nail polish remover along with the bandages for my hand, okay?"

Alex blinks at him, "Why nail polish remover?"

"Acetone. It'll help with the pain," Michael says, and then hisses in pain, hunching over in his seat.

Alex doesn't understand, but that seems to be the theme of the night. He'll just have to trust that Michael knows what he's talking about.

“Okay,” Alex says nodding his head and getting out of the truck. He looks back at Michael through the window, and he’s leaning down with his head pressed to the dashboard, breathing heavily.

Alex nods his head to himself and walks fast into the pharmacy.

Alex gets gauze and splints and a sling and bottles of hydrogen peroxide along with several bottles of acetone. His head is still killing him, so he also gets a bottle of store brand pain relievers.

He pays for everything in cash, thankful that the cashier is around his age and looks to be really high and not really paying attention to the things Alex is buying.

Alex walks quickly out of the pharmacy and into the truck. Michael is still leaning against the dashboard.

He only moves when Alex slides the bags towards the center of the bench seat before he gets in and closes the door behind himself.

He turns to Michael and watches in complete shock as Michael uncaps a bottle of acetone and downs the whole thing before Alex can tell him not to.

“Guerin!” Alex says and takes the mostly empty bottle from his mouth.

Michael blinks rapidly, gasping, and licking his lips as he looks at Alex.

Alex waits a beat, and Michael exhales roughly. “We’re aliens,” he says, and Alex just stares at him. “Acetone works kind of like morphine.”

Alex just keeps staring at him. Michael licks his lips again. “It will help with that headache you probably still have.”

Alex looks at the bottle he has in his hand, there is barely a mouthful left. If Michael is wrong about this, then that little bit shouldn't be enough to kill him.

"You paint your nails," Michael says, and he reaches for another bottle. "Haven't you ever thought that nail polish remover smells good enough to drink?"

Alex has, if he's being honest, but everyone has thoughts like that about things they shouldn't be putting into their mouths.

Michael just uncaps the other bottle and Alex stares as he downs the whole thing, and then leans forward again gasping, but it sounds less like pain and more like pleasure.

Alex looks back at the bottle in his hand, and he feels a sharp spike at the back of his head.

He's seen his hands glowing red, and he's sure that you only make up things about a traumatic event after the fact, when you're trying to understand what's happening to you logically.

Michael hasn't keeled over dead yet, so he inhales deeply, and drinks the rest of the acetone in the bottle.

Alex expects it to be nasty and make him gag or throw up from the times he's accidentally put his fingers in his mouth after taking his polish off. But it's almost tasteless, bitter and just a little bit fruity.

It goes down cool, and Alex can feel it right in the back of his throat and in his nose.

The pain in his head dulls to nothingness, and Alex looks at Michael with wide eyes.

Michael is holding a new bottle of acetone in his hand, looking at Alex.

"Aliens?" Alex asks feeling like maybe this is all a dream he's having.

Michael opens his mouth to answer, and then he bends forward, gasping in pain again, holding a hand up to his head.

Alex reaches for him startled and then gasps, as he feels a pressure in his head and a sharp high pitched ringing, and then a quick flash of someone with blonde hair on the ground.

Isobel, the name flashes through his head, and then he's back in the car, and Michael is gasping as he leans his head on the dashboard again.

"Isobel, trouble," he says, and Alex just nods his head, turning in the seat to start the truck back up.

He knows exactly where he needs to go. He's not sure how he knows, but he thinks it has more to do with Michael than Isobel.

"The Mines," Michael gasps, reaching towards Alex as though he intends to drive himself. "We have-"

"I know," Alex says, cutting him off as he puts the truck in drive. "I'm going to get us there, but you need to splint your fingers before they start to heal wrong."

"Max can heal them," Michael says, and Alex darts a look at him out of the corner of his eye as he pulls out of the parking lot and into the main road, pushing the truck past the speed limit immediately.

"Well," Alex says, fingers tightening against the steering wheel. "That's all well and good, but what if he can't?"

Michael expels a breath, "It wouldn't be the first time he healed a broken bone of mine."

Alex's fingers go even tighter on the wheel.

"Guerin," Alex says, and his voice sounds brittle, like it might break at any second, and the last thing he needs right now is to break. "Just, please at least wrap gauze tight enough so that it's immobilized."

Michael doesn't say anything, but Alex hears it when he starts looking through the plastic bags for the rest of the things that Alex bought.

He sighs in relief and pushes down harder on the gas, hearing the truck protesting lightly, but Michael doesn’t say anything to stop him. He just hisses and gasps in pain, and Alex keeps his eyes on the road so that he doesn’t get distracted. He feels a slight tingling in his own left hand, and he tightens his fingers around the steering wheel.

Alex opens his mouth to see if he can get Michael to give him more clarification on the whole, alien thing, but Michael cuts him off.

“After we figure out what’s going on with Isobel,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything that I know.”

Alex can’t help but look at him to see that he’s carefully wrapping his hand in the gauze, gaze intent on his hand, brow furrowed.

Alex swallows hard and looks back at the road.

They drive in silence for a few long minutes the only sounds coming from Michael downing another bottle of acetone after he finishes with his head, until Michael tells him to turn, and he startles a little but starts driving the truck off the trail until they spot a car in the darkness.

Alex blinks at it a few times as he twists the key in the ignition but leaves the lights on. “Isn’t that Rosa’s car?” he asks in a low voice.

Michael doesn’t answer as he stumbles out of the truck, and leaving the door open as he runs towards something only he can see.

Alex turns the lights off and follows after him, and stops short when he sees two bodies lying on the ground one with long blonde hair, the same person that had made him think Isobel earlier. But that wasn’t Isobel, it was Kate Long and the person beside her was Jasmine Frederick.

They were both unmoving, not breathing, and Alex stares for a long second before he hears Michael’s voice, “Isobel!”

He hears running, and then a grunt and a pained hiss that sounds familiar, and he runs towards where he saw Michael go, and finds him getting up from the floor.

“What happened?” Alex asks as he helps him to his feet.

Michael shakes him off without a word and runs to the entrance of a cave.

Alex follows after him, and runs straight into him where he’s frozen right at the opening of a cavern. Alex looks over his shoulder to see that Isobel is holding on to Rosa, whispering something in her ear, and he sees the way that her hand starts glowing red, and he doesn’t think about it, he just reacts.

He pushes past Michael and

--Rosa and Isobel are unconscious, Michael asks what did you do? Max walks in and reacts, Michael stands between Alex and Max and starts to explain what he saw.

--They talk about the dead girls outside, Alex tells them that he's seen Isobel leave the school to hang out with Rosa plenty of times and he knows that she used to deal with the two dead girls and that they got mad because Rosa wouldn't get them drugs and Rosa had thought they were friends. "People think that just because I'm wearing headphones I'm not paying attention, but I am."

--Michael says they need help, adult help, Max says that they can't, if Isobel killed them, they can't just turn her in, Michael opens his mouth to say something and Alex cuts them off, saying they can't tell anyone or trust anyone in this town. "If the cops come here, they're going to see two white girls dead, the sweet Evans kids, the Master Sergeant's son, and a homeless teenager who doesn't have anyone to fight for him, and they're going to make it out like he was the one that did it, and is that what you want, for Michael to take the blame?"

#malexunfinishedfics #plus the rest of what i was planning to write for it #i esp like alex's little speech in the last point there #cause yeah #anyway

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