I told myself I wouldn't publish anything over the summer because wifi is going to be spotty and I should really just write everything and publish stuff in August. And, yet, here I am. I've got a couple stories I promised I would write and they are coming, but I was listening to Once and For All last week and I needed to write this. So, without further ado, a new fic.
The strike had been a wonderful, excellent idea. Until, suddenly, it wasn't. Jack wasn't entirely sure that he could pinpoint the exact moment that everything had devolved into hell in a handbasket. One second they had been railing on the strikebreakers and then the next they were being pushed back, shoved back, forced to turn and flee. Snyder was there, in the crowd, his steel-cold eyes piercing through Jack when they found him. "Kelly!" Snyder shouted and his voice sent shivers down Jack's spine, reminding him of his time spent in the Refuge. "Kelly!" The second shout tore Jack out of his momentary immobility, fear kick-starting the adrenalin that helped him surge through the crowd, knocking aside any cop that dared get in his way.
Jack gave no notice to the other newsies that continued to fight, his fear blinding him to anyone who may have needed his assistance. Jack recalled nights huddled up in a corner of a cold room, trying not to shiver because that would only aggravate his injuries more. Jack had once, when he was younger, followed the nuns to church and listened to a sermon about the dangers of hellfire. Because of that, he had figured hell would be, well, hot as hell, as the phrase goes. Jack quickly realized, however, that hell was actually a freezing-cold building meant to mold boys into upstanding citizens. And Jack refused to go to that hell ever again, not if he still had the power to run.
So, Jack ran. He dashed down an alley, before doubling back part way, hoping that the misdirection would throw Snyder off his trail. Jack crouched down behind a trash bin, ignoring the stench of half-rotten fish that had most likely been partially picked over by feral cats the night before. He remained there, catching his breath, when he heard his name being called.
It was weak, soft, and at first Jack wasn't even certain he was being called for. "Jack!" the voice was clearer this time, and Jack could hear a note of desperation in the tone. Quietly, carefully, Jack crept towards the square where they had attempted the strike. Failed the strike, Jack corrected himself bitterly. He cautiously peered around the corner of a building, keeping his body pressed flat against the wall in order to remain unseen. Jack recognized Snyder and the Delancey brothers, his gut clenching at the sight, and it took a surprising amount of willpower to keep from running back to safety. But, Jack had heard someone call his name and he was quite certain it wasn't Snyder or the Delanceys.
"Ja—" This cry was cut off halfway by a choked sob. Snyder stepped out of the way, revealing the source of the cries, of the sob. If Jack had thought his stomach had twisted just at the sight of Snyder, the realization that Crutchie was at the mercy of these men had Jack's stomach tying itself into thick, impenetrable knots.
Even from the distance Jack was observing this horrific scene, he could make out Snyder's all-too-familiar sneer. "It's off to the Refuge with you," he announced, a little too smug for Jack's liking. It didn't bode well for Crutchie, that much Jack could tell.
Crutchie's emotions were written clearly across his bruised face: fear and pain, being the most distinguishable. Crutchie stuttered out, "N-no, please. I c-can't—" But, he was cut off as Snyder motioned for one of the Delancey brothers—Jack couldn't make out which one—to grab Crutchie by his gimp leg, yanking the smaller boy out of the square. "Jack!" Crutchie cried out and Jack could not just stand there, was incapable of watching one of his closest friends be dragged to that hell without at least some semblance of hope that Jack would do everything he could to rescue the younger boy.
"Crutchie!" Jack called out, his heart lurching when Crutchie's head immediately lifted and Jack could see the hope widening Crutchie's eyes.
"Jack!" the boy called out, struggling against the Delancey's grip. "Jack, I—" The Delancey jerked Crutchie backwards by his leg, causing the boy to cry out in pain, his hands immediately grasping the injured limb. Jack watched in horror as Crutchie continued to be dragged backwards, before noticing Snyder's eyes meeting his. A malicious grin spread across Snyder's features and Jack realized he had to leave now, or risk being dragged back to the Refuge along with Crutchie.
But, Jack couldn't just leave Crutchie, not to those horrors. Jack was torn between saving himself and attempting a rescue. Odds were that Jack would be unable to get Crutchie away, not with his leg busted up the way it was now. He could do it, maybe, if he caught one of the Delanceys by surprise, managed to knock him square in the jaw… But, who was Jack kidding. He was no hero. Jack tried to make eye contact with Crutchie once more, reassure him that he would save him, would come for him, would never leave the younger boy all alone in the Refuge, but Crutchie was still gripping his leg, eyes squeezed shut against the pain shooting up and down the bum limb. With one last glance backward at Crutchie, Jack took the lower road. He ran, choosing to save his own skin over Crutchie's.
Jack would never regret anything more in his life.
Pausing to catch his breath, Jack glanced backwards. Snyder was nowhere in sight. He wasn't even sure if the middle-aged man had chased after him. Jack had run without a second look back towards Snyder, pounding the ever-present guilt about leaving Crutchie into the pavement with each step. Now that the coast seemed clear, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, electing to walk the rest of the way to the Lodging House. Crutchie was gone, taken to the Refuge.
With a nod of resolution, Jack decided that he'd rescue Crutchie just as soon as he could; he wouldn't leave the boy there any longer than he had to. In fact, tonight, he'd get Davey or one of the other older boys to help him get Crutchie out of there.
He pulled himself up to the roof top, deciding to await the other boys' return to the Lodging House there. If they would even show up. Jack knew that he had truly screwed up, wondered why he had even thought the strike was a good idea. He couldn't believe that it had gone so wrong, so quickly. To himself, Jack muttered, "Folks, we've finally got our headline: Newsies Crushed as Bulls Attack." Honestly, though, they hadn't even stood a chance. They were just a bunch of kids. Why had Jack even thought they'd all make it out of there without a single injury? Everyone had gotten hurt and Crutchie—Crutchie was in the Refuge, of all places. "Crutchie's calling me. Dumb crip's just too damn slow," Jack said, the bitterness creeping through his veins like a poison he'd never be able to get rid of. "Guys are fightin', bleedin', fallin', thanks to good, ol' Cap'n Jack. Cap'n Jack just wants to close his eyes and go!" Jack shouted. He was so sick of this city and just wanted to leave.
"Let me go," he sang softly. "Far away. Somewhere they won't evah find me and tomorrow won't remind me of today." If Jack could just get away from these awful mistakes, these horrific memories, he knew that he'd be fine. There was really only one place he could go, only one place he wanted to go to. "When the city's finally sleeping and the moon looks old and gray, I get on a train that's bound for Santa Fe.
"And I'm gone! And I'm done!" And I'm not to blame for failed strikes or—or for Crutchie. "No more running. No more lying. No more fat ol' men denying me my pay." Because really, this was all Pulitzer's fault. If he had just been fair and square from the start no one would have been hurt. No one.
"Just a moon so big and yellow, it turns night right into day," Jack breathed, envisioning a town where everything was beautiful and peaceful and he wouldn't have to worry about nothing. "Dreams come true. Yeah, dey do, in Santa Fe." Not in New York, not where the only people who win are the big wigs with the large bellies and even larger wallets. It just wasn't fair.
"Where does it say you gotta live and die here? Where does it say a guy can't catch a break? Why should you only take what you're given?" Jack asked, wishing that someone had the answers for him. Maybe it just simply came down to fate and Jack just wasn't lucky enough to get a chance at a future. "Why should you spend your whole life living trapped where there ain't no future, even at seventeen? Breaking your back for someone else's sake." This couldn't be fate. That wouldn't be right. "If the life don't seem to suit you, how 'bout a change of scene? Far from the lousy headlines and the deadlines in between.
"Santa Fe!" Jack cried out, as if the town could hear him, could just sweep him away from everything. "My old friend! I can't spend my whole life dreaming, though I know that's all I seem inclined to do. I ain't getting any younger," Jack bemoaned. He had already wasted so much of his life, of his youth, in this dratted city. "And I wanna start brand new." He just wanted to be away from everything, to not have to ever think about Snyder or the Delanceys ever again.
"I need space! And fresh air! Let 'em laugh in my face, I don't care!" Jack was willing to do anything to get away, go through any ridicule, just to be free of the city. "Save my place," he whispered. "I'll be dere."
With a soft laugh, Jack added, "Just be real, is all I'm asking. Not some painting in my head." If he had imagined this entire perfect world up—Jack shook his head. He hadn't. He couldn't have. "'Cuz I'm dead if I can't count on you today." He'd just have nothing to live for. It was as simple as that. "I got nothing if I ain't got Santa Fe," Jack announced to an uncaring world. Not that he expected anyone to care. No one did. Well, no one but Crutchie. And wasn't that just the whole issue.
Sighing softly, Jack gazed out at the New York sky, suddenly feeling claustrophobic surrounded by the gray, emotionless buildings. He had to get out of here. Jack swung down the ladder, not willing to remain on a roof that reminded him of Crutchie, that reminded him of his awful failure earlier that day. Jack wandered away from the Lodging House, needing to walk off his frustration. With a curt nod to himself, Jack decided to make his way to the Refuge. And he wasn't coming back without his best friend.
Davey tried to pull Jack inside the Lodging House, but Jack planted his feet firmly and refused to go inside. It had taken a worryingly amount of time, but Davey had finally found Jack moping backstage of Medda's show and had had to forcibly pull Jack along to the Lodging House. "Look, Davey, I've given up being a newsie. I'm done," Jack explained almost calmly. Davey, however, could tell that there was an anxiety straining Jack's words.
"Yeah, well, we aren't. You disappeared for nearly two days, Jack. Where did you even run off to? You're still the leader of this strike."
"And what if I don't wanna be?" Jack challenged. He lowered his voice. "You know Crutchie's in the Refuge. I went to go get him outta there, but I couldn't. They beat 'im. They beat Crutchie so bad he couldn't make it out the window, could barely make it to the window. And that's all 'cuz of me, Davey. I'm done with all this."
Davey shook his head. "Jack, I don't think you get it. The other boys are depending on you."
"Depending on me to get them hurt? Apparently, I'm fantastic at that."
"Jack, I'm just asking you to—"
"And I gave ya my answer. Do you need me to slug you in the jaw? I will if I need to," Jack threatened.
"That's not—" Davey cut himself off, shaking his head in defeat. "If we give it one more go," Davey began again, "we'll be able to beat them. We're winning, Jack."
"Kids were being beat half to death by the cops. That don't look like winning to me."
Davey opened his mouth to explain his reasoning, when Katherine dashed up to the two boys. "Jack! Davey! I've been looking all over for you." She glanced at Jack, almost in trepidation, before continuing onwards. "I only just heard and I wanted you to hear it from me before Snyder or—"
Katherine was interrupted by a cold, calculating voice. "Good day, boys." Jack whirled around, finding himself face to face with the Delancey brothers. Oscar Delancey sneered at Jack, while Morris crossed his arms aggressively. "Or, maybe a not so good day," Oscar added, winking at Jack.
"We've got some bad news, fellows," Morris elaborated.
Oscar tossed a crutch to Jack, who caught it swiftly. It was Crutchie's, Jack realized upon examining it. He recognized where Crutchie had scratched in his initials the day Jack had bought him the new crutch. Crutchie had explained that he didn't want none of the other boys taking his crutch and messing with it and had, therefore, marked it as his own. "Why are you giving this to me?" Jack asked slowly, fearing where this was going. It didn't help that Katherine kept nervously glancing between Jack and the Delancey brothers. She was even biting her lip and Katherine was generally so calm and collected. Something was definitely wrong.
Morris grinned sadistically. "Let's just say that dear old Crutchie won't be needing this anymore."
"What do you mean?" Jack asked, his chest tightening. They couldn't possibly mean that—
"He's dead," Oscar put it bluntly. "Couldn't take his fair punishment, if you catch my drift."
Jack shook his head, unwilling to believe it. He felt as if someone had taken a spoon and was painstakingly hollowing out his stomach. It hurt and the pain was just getting deeper and deeper, settling to a point that Jack knew he'd never be rid of if the boy was— "No," he breathed. "No, he's not. He can't be—Crutchie has to be—"
"Nah, he's dead," Morris said, picking at the grime under his fingernails. "And a good thing, too. The kid wouldn't stop screaming and squealing. Gave me a headache, his cries did. I was thankful when we finally shut him up for good."
Jack punched Morris in the nose. Hard. He nearly grinned when he felt the cartilage snap under the pressure. Morris stumbled backwards, growling, "Well, you didn't have to hit me so hard. Don't shoot the messenger…"
Oscar leered at Jack. "Even if you don't believe us, you can ask your girlfriend over there. She knows what we're talking about, don't you, sweetie?"
Katherine looked as if she wanted to rip Oscar's tongue out, but resisted when Jack turned to her, asking, "It's not true, is it? Crutchie isn't—It can't be true." His eyes were pleading that she tell him it was some awful joke, that it was all a vicious lie, and Katherine desperately wanted to do so. But, the truth was more important at a time like this.
Unable to maintain eye contact, she lowered her eyes. "I just found out myself. I heard at the newspaper." Katherine glanced up at Jack, whose face remained impassive, almost as if he hadn't heard the news. The only sign that he had, in fact, heard Katherine was that his face had turned a soft shade of gray. "I'm sorry, Jack," Katherine said softly.
Davey's face paled. "I don't believe it…" he murmured, turning to Jack. He hadn't thought anyone would die because of the strike. Get hurt, sure. That was expected. But, death? And Crutchie's, no less. Davey felt a sharp, guilty pain constrict his heart. Crutchie was dead because of him. Because he had helped convince everyone that a strike was a good idea. And if Davey was blaming himself, he couldn't imagine how much more Jack was piling the guilt on. His best friend was dead. His brother, really. Davey didn't even want to try imagining what it would be like if Les had died in the strike. "Jack, everything's going to be okay." Except, Davey knew, it really wouldn't be. Crutchie was dead. He had to say something, though. Somehow, Davey had to make sure that Jack didn't drown in the ocean of blame he had probably dove headfirst into. "We're going to get through this. All of us, together."
"Except the crip," Oscar pointed out, much too cheerfully.
"I—" Jack paused, glancing at Davey, before turning back to Katherine. "I've got to go," he said, a slight tremor detectable in his voice. With that, he shoved past the Delanceys, running away from everything.
"Jack, wait!" Davey cried out.
Jack ignored the other boy. He wished he could just run away from all of these problems, just head out to Santa Fe. But, now Santa Fe would only serve as a vicious reminder of Crutchie, the boy who just wanted to stand, to run. The boy he had gotten killed. Jack shook his head, he wouldn't think about that, not ever again. Running from the past was hard, probably impossible, but that wouldn't stop Jack from trying.
Jack was no hero; he was a coward.
Oh. Well. I'm publicly apologizing to my reviewers from Making Tomorrow's Headlines who were upset about the ending there. As Britney Spears would say, "Oops, I did it again." Does that date me? Dang it. Anyway, next week (sometime) I'll post the next chapter featuring Crutchie's point of view, so there is that to look forward to.