Author: Becky
Rating: PG
Content: General angsty feeling to it, I guess
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney does.
Author's Notes: Little more than a ficlet. Musings on Jack's father--we don't exactly know much about him other than he's in jail. Comments and criticism (probably along the lines of, "My God, child, *this* crap is what you do in your spare time?!") much desired.
--I Been Around--
You aren't a hero here.
It drives you spare, the blank walls and the cold bars, the sunlight in horizontal lines on the bare floor, sunlight from a world you know he hasn't touched, tasted, seen in years. You want to give him that world, and at the same time, you wonder if the two of you could ever function together, you with your street-smarts, he with his crime speckled past and inexperience.
You know he has no earthly idea how to treat you, what to say to you. Supposedly inmates aren't given anything but bread, meat, and water, but some nights you come in to find him sprawled out on the floor, completely drunk. There's a system here, contacts on the outside and a few select prisoners with access to those contacts, who provide everything from drugs to playing cards to newspapers. He's shown you his newspaper stash, and it made you smile. "Carryin' the banner," you said softly, almost to yourself. He wouldn't have known what you meant, anyway.
"Don' ye ever get yeself sent up the river," he warns you on his bad days, eyes bleary and accent thick. You've always hated that damned accent. "It's worse'n hell."
His hands are nearly black with dirt, the nails broken and jagged. Those hands labor all day and probably gamble all night. Once a month. You only visit him once a month, at most, avoiding the disturbingly absent gazes of guards and prisoners alike, feeling like a child caught in a nightmare. They must hate you, you realize, able to walk out that door at any time without a backward glance while they lie here and rot.
You've never actually asked him if he enjoys your company. And there are never any outward signs; no gleam in his eye or half-smile, no paternal nickname. To him, you are simply "Frankie", and it's always a shock to hear someone call you that. Takes a few minutes for you to even start responding to it. As for yourself, you don't call him anything. Not "dad" or "pops" or even the conventional "father". If you absolutely have to address him with a title, it's "Sullivan".
Maybe it's guilt that urges you to leave the streets and make the long trip up here, some foreign sense of duty, responsibility. Or the yearn for contact with a man who once was such a huge part of your life, when your life was easier than it is now. You have his ears and his nose, and speculate at times whether that pleases or disgusts him. After all, it's not like you've made much of yourself.
He speaks of the past, though not of the child you or your dead mother. Shining images detailing the life of crime he happily led, thieving here and there, sneaking into hotel rooms at night and stealing the wallets right out from under people's heads, lucky finds and daring escapes. No wonder you rarely saw him when you were young. It doesn't much matter now, that golden past. What's it got him other than a dank cell and a shallow future?
The day is too bright when you trudge outside those gates, blinking furiously and trying to rid yourself of the unreality of it all. Shrug off your "Frankie" skin and become you again, Jack Kelly. Leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies, and proud of it.
And if the other guys ask you where you've been, you invariably say, "Oh, I been around."
Rating: PG
Content: General angsty feeling to it, I guess
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney does.
Author's Notes: Little more than a ficlet. Musings on Jack's father--we don't exactly know much about him other than he's in jail. Comments and criticism (probably along the lines of, "My God, child, *this* crap is what you do in your spare time?!") much desired.
--I Been Around--
You aren't a hero here.
It drives you spare, the blank walls and the cold bars, the sunlight in horizontal lines on the bare floor, sunlight from a world you know he hasn't touched, tasted, seen in years. You want to give him that world, and at the same time, you wonder if the two of you could ever function together, you with your street-smarts, he with his crime speckled past and inexperience.
You know he has no earthly idea how to treat you, what to say to you. Supposedly inmates aren't given anything but bread, meat, and water, but some nights you come in to find him sprawled out on the floor, completely drunk. There's a system here, contacts on the outside and a few select prisoners with access to those contacts, who provide everything from drugs to playing cards to newspapers. He's shown you his newspaper stash, and it made you smile. "Carryin' the banner," you said softly, almost to yourself. He wouldn't have known what you meant, anyway.
"Don' ye ever get yeself sent up the river," he warns you on his bad days, eyes bleary and accent thick. You've always hated that damned accent. "It's worse'n hell."
His hands are nearly black with dirt, the nails broken and jagged. Those hands labor all day and probably gamble all night. Once a month. You only visit him once a month, at most, avoiding the disturbingly absent gazes of guards and prisoners alike, feeling like a child caught in a nightmare. They must hate you, you realize, able to walk out that door at any time without a backward glance while they lie here and rot.
You've never actually asked him if he enjoys your company. And there are never any outward signs; no gleam in his eye or half-smile, no paternal nickname. To him, you are simply "Frankie", and it's always a shock to hear someone call you that. Takes a few minutes for you to even start responding to it. As for yourself, you don't call him anything. Not "dad" or "pops" or even the conventional "father". If you absolutely have to address him with a title, it's "Sullivan".
Maybe it's guilt that urges you to leave the streets and make the long trip up here, some foreign sense of duty, responsibility. Or the yearn for contact with a man who once was such a huge part of your life, when your life was easier than it is now. You have his ears and his nose, and speculate at times whether that pleases or disgusts him. After all, it's not like you've made much of yourself.
He speaks of the past, though not of the child you or your dead mother. Shining images detailing the life of crime he happily led, thieving here and there, sneaking into hotel rooms at night and stealing the wallets right out from under people's heads, lucky finds and daring escapes. No wonder you rarely saw him when you were young. It doesn't much matter now, that golden past. What's it got him other than a dank cell and a shallow future?
The day is too bright when you trudge outside those gates, blinking furiously and trying to rid yourself of the unreality of it all. Shrug off your "Frankie" skin and become you again, Jack Kelly. Leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies, and proud of it.
And if the other guys ask you where you've been, you invariably say, "Oh, I been around."