Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

It's a Fine Life
(But not if you're a Delancey...)

It was just another day on Newspaper Row. Only minutes before the Delancey brothers were needed to help pass out the morning papers to the grimy newsies who peddled them, Oscar and Morris found themselves chasing Jack Kelly once again. This time it was Morris's cap Cowboy had swiped, but that didn't mean that this was only Morris's fight. It just meant it was Morris's hair that flapped in his face as they ran down the street, closing in on the wiry Kelly boy.

Morris was smirking to himself, confident that this would be it, this would finally be the time they caught up to Jack and gave him the soaking he so deserved. He kept that smirk on his face until, all of a sudden, Morris caught a boot in his chest and flew backwards without even realizing what had happened.

Cowboy had done the same old trick of swinging off the awning of a nearby building and, like far too many times before, Morris fell for it. Then, because Cowboy's boots had hit him square in the chest, he fell backwards, too.

There was a thud as he landed and a crack as his hat-free head made contact with the dirt. The last thing Morris remembered before it all went dark was one quick, bitter thought:

Damn it, it's times like these I wish I'd never been born.

When Morris woke up again, it was dark. He couldn't see anything—though his head hurt enough for him to know he was awake—and he wondered if he'd been left lying on the street all alone, passed out and forgotten until night had fallen. Then, as he slowly regained consciousness and could make out the loud, obnoxious sounds of the city in the morning, he realized that it wasn't dark out yet. It was just that his eyes were still closed.

He kept them that way, too. Let them all think he was dead, he grumbled, served them right. Stupid Cowboy… what call did he have to swing out of nowhere, kicking a good man until he was down? And where the hell was Oscar? If there was anyone who should've been hovering over his almost dead body, it should've been his brother.

And then came the voice.

"Morris Delancey?"

It was a stern voice that called his name from somewhere up above him. It wasn't someone he knew, it certainly wasn't Oscar's, and he pointedly refused to answer. In fact, he scrunched his eyes a little tighter and threw in a fake snore for good measure.

There was a sigh. "Morris Delancey, I know it's you, now wake up," drawled that same voice. Morris felt the sharp point of a shoe nudge into his side. "C'mon, wake up. I don't have all day."

There was something about that voice: he just couldn't disobey it. Morris regretfully opened his eyes, the sunlight making the back of his head throb even worse. Damn, he must've cracked his head harder than he thought when he fell.

He blinked a few times, trying to get used to the light again; when he could finally see without being blinded, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was New York, but it was nothing like the New York he'd always known. Where was the trash? Where was the stink? Where were the people? He could hear them, even if he couldn't see them, but there was no one there.

No one but an older man with white hair, a fancy suit and the sourest of expressions. It looked like he was sucking lemons.

Morris blinked and slowly stood up. He reached behind him instinctually for his hat, scowled when he remembered that Cowboy had it last, and looked around him again. Nope, there was certainly no one there except for him and this man. "Who are you?" he demanded. Then, getting a better look at his face, he said, "Hey… hang on. I know you."

The man pursed his lips even further. "No you don't."

Morris waved his finger knowingly at him. "Yeah… yeah, I do. You're the guy who works for that bummer Pulitzer."

The man, who certainly looked like Joseph Pulitzer's underling, Don Seitz, just shook his head. "I am not. I'm your guardian angel."

"My what?" Morris looked over his shoulder, expecting to find Oscar suddenly standing there, snickering, ready to explain that this was all one big joke. Only his brother could come up with something like this… except Oscar wasn't there. No one was there. It was just him and the Seitz look-alike.

"Your guardian angel," he responded with a frown. It was plain to see that he was no happier with the arrangement than Morris was. "I'm here to grant your wish."

Morris's eyes lit up greedily. Forget the joke, this guy was talking business. "You're gonna give me a pile of cash?"

"No."

"Gold?"

"No."

"Some silver, maybe? I know a guy. I could get a good deal."

Seitz shook his head. His frown was so pronounced now it was like there were thin lines etched all around his mouth. "I'm here to grant a real wish."

"Those are real wishes," Morris argued.

"You wished you were never born," Seitz reminded him, "and it's done. Morris Delancey doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh." For just a moment his face fell before he recovered nicely with a vicious sneer. "Sure. Right. You're an angel who's gonna make it so I'm dead. What a great wish. Like I'd really be dumb enough to believe all that."

"You were willing to believe I was an angel if I gave you money," Seitz pointed out.

Morris shrugged, a crooked grin appearing beneath his moustache. "Yeah, I'd be willin' to believe about anything if someone gave me enough dough."

"Anyway," Seitz went on, ignoring him, "I didn't say dead, I said never born. And you haven't been."

"Haven't been what?"

"Born," snapped Seitz impatiently. "Why is it I always get paired with the stupid ones?"

Morris bristled, holding himself to his full height so that he was staring straight into Seitz's eyes. The old man—angel—never even flinched. "I ain't stupid."

"You aren't anything, seeing how you've never been born."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?" Morris asked before scoffing and looking around him. The two of them were still alone which, admittedly, made him a little nervous. Trying to cover up his nerves, he said, "Where's Oscar? He'll tell you that I'm alive."

"He isn't here."

"Where the hell is he?"

Ignoring Morris again, Seitz reached into the front pocket of his vest and pulled out a very expensive looking gold watch. Morris's mouth watered just looking at it. Oblivious to the hungry gaze on Morris's face, Seitz glanced down at the watch and nodded to himself. He put the watch back and patted his pocket securely. "We don't have all day," he said again, "so I guess I'll just have to show you."

The dollar signs faded from Morris's eyes when Seitz spoke. He shook his head. "Show me?"

"Show you what it's like now that you've never been born," Seitz replied with an aggravated sigh. And then, before Morris could argue any further, he snapped his fingers.

It was like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him. Morris gasped and gagged as he struggled to breathe. It was dark again and he distinctly remembered getting kicked in the chest by Cowboy. This had to be the instant reaction, he figured, everything else a strange dream that happened in the split second between the boots hitting his chest and his head hitting the dirt.

And then he opened his eyes again, recognized the frustrated Seitz standing next to him and the fact that no one else was on the street at all, and knew that it wasn't a dream. He couldn't explain it, he didn't understand it, but it was real. Until he could figure out what was going on, he decided the best option he had was to just play along.

"Where are we?"

Seitz gestured absently with one of his hands. "This is Newspaper Row."

"No, it ain't," scoffed Morris, rubbing his chest lightly as the sensation passed. "I know that place and this ain't it."

"Of course it is, silly boy. Are you telling me that I don't know?"

Morris shook his head stubbornly. This nut must've escaped from Bellevue or something. First he said he was an angel, now he was trying to pass off some other street as the Newspaper Row that led up to the Distribution Center where Morris worked. And if that wasn't bad enough, there was no way that he could've forgotten the big building with the shiny plaque over it at the end of the block. He couldn't read the sign from the park but it looked too new and expensive to be huddled against the newspaper offices.

Pointing that way, he said, "I ain't never seen that building before."

"In that case, maybe we should get a closer look."

Seitz waved his hand and a rush of nausea worse than any hangover he'd ever experienced washed over Morris. He closed his eyes, swallowed back the swill and bread he'd had for breakfast, and rested his fingertips against his forehead. When Seitz cleared his throat, Morris opened his eyes to find that they were standing right before the impressive building. "We could've walked down here, ya know," Morris grumbled as he regained his composure.

"This building right here belongs to the local newsboys," Seitz explained, pretending he hadn't heard the comment as he pointed to the newly gilded sign that read: Newsboys' Lodging House. "I believe they used to lodge over on Duane Street until they were able to move their lodgings here."

"How?"

"Without you to shortchange them, the newsies managed to do rather well. Tell me, Morris, did you ever think counting up to twenty could earn you so much?"

Morris snorted in disbelief. "Yeah, well, I don't buy it. You're lyin'."

"Suit yourself. But if you won't take my word for it, let me introduce you to some of your… ahem, your friends."

Seitz waved his hand again and the two of them had gone from the front of the building to a room inside. The nausea wasn't as bad this time and he kept his eyes open as they landed in a crowded room. From the plenty of bunks that filled the space to the hazy smoke surrounding a card table at the far end, not to mention an honest to goodness porcelain tub taking up much of the middle, it had to be the sleeping area for the newsies. Not that any of them were sleeping, though—from playing a game of dice in one corner, that game of cards at the table and the song and dance practice by the wash basins and mirrors, there was a flurry of activity going on. Morris didn't know where to look first.

Unlike the streets outside, there were way too many people crammed in this room. And, if it wasn't for the tiny niggling feeling that something was off about this scene, he might've had to wonder if this was where everyone out on the streets had gone. There'd always been far too many newsies crowding Manhattan, in Morris's opinion.

He saw that squirt Racetrack sitting at the table beneath the cloud of cigar smoke… but that couldn't be Higgins. Racetrack Higgins was a notoriously poor gambler who never gave fair odds and always needed to bum papers off of Morris's Uncle Weisel. That kid with the crooked grin over there had a stack of coppers and coins in front of him that made Morris's palms tingle.

Morris shook his head. "Hey, I don't know who you think these bummers are, but they ain't my friends. Hell, I don't even know 'em."

"Of course you do," Seitz said coolly, pointing his finger in the same direction Morris had been looking. "You've known Anthony Higgins for years. He's called Racetrack," the angel added when Morris looked blank.

"But that can't be Higgins. Even those kids can hustle a game of poker better than he can."

"Without you around, he seems to have all the luck."

"How was I the one to blame for his bad luck?" Morris asked incredulously.

But Seitz had already moved on. "See that boy there?"

He was pointed at a boy with shaggy blonde hair under a brown cap. With a pair of bright blue eyes and a wide smile that screamed at Morris to smack it off his face, Morris had to think hard if he knew him. Yeah, he looked familiar but… no, he didn't know who he was. Spitting out the words, curious despite himself, Morris asked Seitz about the boy.

"That boy is the one you knew as Kid Blink. They just call him Kid now."

It took him a moment to figure out what Seitz was trying to imply. "Are ya tellin' me the patch was my fault, too?"

"Don't forget young Crutchy's bad leg," Seitz said, pointing towards the group of boys dancing in the far corner. Crutchy, without his trademark crutch, was the best dancer by far. As Morris watched, he leapt in the air, performed an intricate flip and landed squarely on both his feet. He never stumbled.

Morris was frowning. He couldn't figure how all the newsies' hardships were his fault, but he also couldn't argue again Crutchy's good leg, Blink's good eye and Race's winnings. Feeling bitter—and secretly wondering why the world was a better place without him in it—he glanced around, looking for his nemesis. If his newsies were so better off without Morris, how was Jack Kelly now?

But he couldn't find Kelly and, both frustrated and annoyed, he snapped, "Where's Cowboy? Let me guess: without me around, he's not so damn greasy anymore and I can't recognize him like the others."

Seitz was either oblivious to sarcasm or just no in the mood to humor Morris. "You can't find him because he isn't here. Jack Kelly doesn't live in Manhattan anymore. He moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico to follow his dreams."

Morris felt slightly mollified. At least a New York City without Morris Delancey didn't have to deal with Cowboy all on its own—even if Cowboy got the chance to go after his dreams. All Morris got was a stuffy angel who tried to take his life away from him.

"He's done well for himself," Seitz added, fueling Morris's dislike for the angel even more. "He works on a ranch and has more than enough money. It was, I think, based on a large donation from Mr. Kelly that the newsboys here were able to move into these lodgings."

Morris hated hearing that Jack was successful. He could still feel the thud of his boots as the other boy swung into him; he couldn't forgive him for that, not while his hat was still missing, and he certainly wouldn't allow himself to believe that Cowboy was rolling in it while he wasn't even sure he existed. Sneering, he turned to leave before remembering that he didn't even know how they arrived.

Glaring daggers at an unconcerned Seitz, Morris said, "I want to leave here. Now."

"Would you like to go to Brooklyn?" Seitz offered. "Spot Conlon is even taller than you and an even bigger threat than he was while you were alive."

"Where's Oscar?" Morris demanded again. "Where's my brother?"

Seitz had conveniently ignored Morris before when he asked the same question. This time, without another word—or a warning, either—he snapped his fingers and Morris found himself feeling like a toy Jack in the Box. It was like he'd been folded in on himself and them sprung back out. All things considered, he'd rather take the nausea.

He gave himself a quick shake, looked down to make sure he arrived all in one piece, and glowered up at Seitz. The angel's expression remained unreadable. Morris refused to remove his stare but after a few seconds it was obvious that he couldn't outstare Seitz. Clearing his throat, he pointedly turned his attention to his surroundings.

"Where are we now?" he asked, more to himself than to Seitz. "Wait… I know this place. This is where we grew up, me, Oscar, Ma and Pops. I haven't been to this place in years." Morris sniffed. "It's much cleaner than I remember."

"A happier place, too."

Morris snorted. "That wouldn't be hard. Pops was always drinkin' and Ma… well, she did what she could. Damn, I never thought I'd be back here. Why did you bring me here anyway? I want to see Oscar."

"Oscar's living here now."

"What? How? Why? Pops kicked us out when we was kids, sent us to my uncle's place. He said we were too much to handle and wanted us gone. Why would Oscar ever want to come back here?"

"Because Oscar never left. Without you to get your poor brother in trouble, your parents never found that they had to send you to live with your uncle because you were too much for them. One son was obviously much easier to handle than two."

"Yeah?" Morris said before challenging Seitz: "Then where's Uncle Weas?"

"In New Jersey, I believe, living with a seamstress woman named Sheila."

Morris had to admit that that sounded like his uncle. But Oscar was still here? "I don't see Oscar. Show me my brother."

"If you wish." And Seitz waved his hand again, a quick flick that happened so quickly that, this time, there were no side effects.

It was another room in the same apartment. Despite the differences, Morris recognized it immediately as the small closet of a bedroom he had shared with Oscar when they were younger. It seemed bigger somehow, probably because only one boy lived in it now. The furniture was nicer, the sheets cleaner and there was even a small stool next to an open window blowing in a breeze that smelled nothing like the stench Morris remembered from his childhood.

There was someone sitting on the stool. It took him longer than it should have to realize that that was Oscar.

Tall and thin, he kind of looked like his brother but there were subtle differences. First off, he was wearing one of those fancy knicker suits that got other boys soaked for. His hair was slicked down, oily and thin without his black derby to cover it. His shoulders hunched, his head bowed, Morris could see that Oscar was poring over a thick volume that looked like it would make a pretty good weapon. But Oscar wasn't holding onto the big book like it was a weapon: he was reading it!

Reading!

Morris had half a mind to walk over to his brother and snatch that book out of his hand. A Delancey, reading!

"I think that's everything you needed to see," Seitz said, snapping his fingers right next to Morris's ears. Before he could reach for Oscar, Morris heard the quick snap, flinched for a moment and, in that moment, the nausea overtook him again. He groaned, blinked his eyes and then realized that they were back on the streets again. Right where they started, not too far from the new Newsboys' Lodging House but far enough away from his brother, Morris was on the street, standing alone with the angel again.

"Bring me back," he told Seitz. "I've got to talk to Oscar."

"I can't do that. He won't hear you anyway. You've never been born, Morris, remember?" Seitz shook his head. "Honestly, I knew you were a slow one but I would've thought you'd understood that by now."

Seitz was insulting him again. That was it. That was the final straw.

Morris whirled on Seitz. "No… no, I ain't gonna let no brother of mine be a book readin' pansy. I take it back. I didn't mean it. I want to be born, I want everything to go back to the way it was."

"Sorry," Seitz said, and he didn't sound the least bit like he meant it, "but you can't. It's just not possible. One wish per angel, those are the rules." He shrugged. "I don't like it any more than you do, but rules are rules."

But Morris Delancey had never been one to play by the rules. Now that his very existence—and his brother's reputation—was on the line, he didn't see why he should all of a sudden start. Nodding, pretending like he agreed, Morris grunted, "I see. Well that's it, I guess. Thanks for nothing," and then purposely turned and walked away.

Seitz watched him go before shrugging again and walking away in the opposite direction. He always got stuck with the selfish wishers and it was about time one of them wised up and realized that they'd made their bed with their careless wish; it was time for lie in it.

So, like he had done before countless times before, he was ready to move on and hope that his next charge would be the one who finally was worth Seitz earning his wings. Then again, charged with keeping an eye over the working boys of New York, he wasn't sure that would ever happen. You just couldn't trust them.

And that was when he felt the tap on his shoulder only to turn around in time to come face to fist with a triumphantly sneering Delancey brother—

Whack!—

Ring!—

—and standing just outside the gates that led to the Distribution Center, bored now that the morning's entertainment was over, Tumbler reached out and grabbed the sleeve of the pink shirt in front of him. "Hey, Skittery, did ya know that, whenever a bell rings, an angel just got sucker-punched?"

The glum and dumb newsie looked down at the hopeful little kid. "Whatcha talkin' 'bout?" he asked with a small scowl. "That's just the circulation bell ringin'."

And somewhere up above, in a fancy office that belonged to one of the most powerful men in New York, Seitz rubbed his jaw gingerly. He snorted. "That's what he thinks."

Author's Note: Oh, I couldn't help myself. After spending all that time working on epics, I thought it was time to just wing it with a one shot. I haven't done anything light-hearted since I finished Hangover and I don't think I ever spent anytime working with Morris - or Seitz! - ever. Oscar had a starring role in Diabo, so now it was Morris's turn. Even if I spent the whole thing messing with him ;)

- stress, 05.30.10