A/N:

Hey there! This is my first Newsies fic. I hope you all enjoy it! Leave a review and let me know your thoughts on this little "what happened next" one-shot!

Disclaimer: I wish I could call the Newsies my own, but sadly, I cannot.

They'd won.

Jack Kelly gripped the railing atop the lodging house, gazing out across the streets of New York. His mind wandered through the events of the day.

The strike was over. Pulitzer had caved, and once again the newsies were back to selling papes. Victory sure was sweet.

A muffled thud from below pulled Jack from his thoughts. The ladder creaked wearily, and a tousled blond head appeared above the rooftop.

Crutchie.

Jack sucked in a breath. He'd hardly seen his friend since things had been settled with Pulitzer. The younger boy had bought his papes and distanced himself from the others - Jack included.

Jack'd been too distracted to chase after his friend, being constantly greeted with hugs and handshakes and grins from the rest of the exuberant newsies. Crutchie seemed to be just fine selling papers with his usual "butter-spreading smile," but something was off, and Jack knew it. He'd come to the quick conclusion that the boy was upset over the fact that Jack ran instead of rescuing him during the tussle with Pulitzer's goons. So he'd given Crutchie his space, hoping the kid would come around sooner or later.

"Heya, Jack," Crutchie grunted with a signature grin, hauling himself and his crutch the rest of the way up the ladder.

"Crutchie, 'ey," Jack returned, eyeing the younger boy. "Where y' been?"

Crutchie stiffly leaned against the rail and shrugged one shoulder, resituating his crutch under his arm.

Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes and moved closer. "Whadda' mean, you dunno?"

"I jus' been out, Jack, it don't matter where."

"Y'know, if you's mad at me, why don't you just come right on out and says so?" Jack wasn't going to beat around the bush any longer. He nudged Crutchie in the side, not expecting the pained gasp that followed. The younger boy doubled over, arm wrapping protectively around his middle.

"Crutchie?" Concern filled Jack's tone as he sank down next to his friend. "What's wrong, kid? You hurtin'?"

Jack Kelly, you's an idiot.

Of course Crutchie was hurt. He'd been beaten by Snyder and tossed into The Refuge like yesterday's paper. He couldn't even get out of bed when Jack went see him, for heaven's sake. Jack gritted his teeth.
"Lemme see."

Crutchie blanched, pulling away from the older boy's reach. "It's fine, Jack—"

"It ain't fine, Crutchie!" Jack remembered The Refuge. As if he could forget. The images were seared in his mind, the horrors currently at the forefront of his thoughts. Although Crutchie hadn't spent as long in that hellhole as Jack once had, the older newsie knew that Snyder could inflict a lot of pain in a short amount of time. "Why didn't you tell me you was hurting earlier?"

The blond boy sighed. "I didn't want'cha worryin' about me." He relented, allowing Jack to tug his shirt up enough to reveal the black and blue bruising across his midsection.

Jack inhaled at the sight.

"Told ya he soaked me real good," Crutchie joked, smile fading when Jack put a gentle pressure on his ribs. A pained gasp slipped out.

"Dang it, Crutchie," Jack muttered, running his hand along the bruises. "Synder's lucky he's already in cuffs. 'Cause otherwise I'd be poundin' his face into the ground."

Crutchie snorted, then winced. "I'd sure like t' see that."

Jack finished the examination in silence and let Crutchie's shirt fall back into place. "How's the leg?"

Crutchie shrugged. "Been better, been worse. I told ya I'd be fine."

"Yeah, well 'scuse me if I don'ts believe ya." Jack frowned, helping his friend to his usual sleeping spot on the rooftop. "Get some sleep, kid. You needs it."

Crutchie complied, rolling his eyes when his hat was plucked from his head and his blond hair ruffled.

His eyes fluttered shut, and one corner of Jack's mouth turned upward as he moved toward the ladder.

"Jack?"

The Manhattan leader paused, neck craning back in Crutchie's direction. "Yeah?"

"You thinks I'm mad at you?" He propped himself up on his elbow.

Jack didn't answer.

"You knows I ain't blamin' you for what happened..."

"And why not, Crutchie?" Jack growled, curling his fingers into fists. "I let them take ya. I ran like, like a coward."

The younger boy shook his head. "Y' didn't run 'cause you's a coward, Jackie. If you hadn't, they'd've got you, too. Then you wouldn't been a help to nobody, and Pulitzer would've won." Crutchie coughed, dropping his head back down to his makeshift pillow. "I ain't blamin' you, Jack," he repeated, eyes drifting closed. "You's my brother. I'd never stay mad at you."

The words melted Jack's heart. He didn't deserve a friend like Crutchie. The older boy wondered how he could've ever considered leaving New York and all his friends—brothers—behind.

Crutchie shifted. "G'night, Jack."

"Night, kid."

End