Disclaimer: Other than Malory "Lucky" Lachance, the Duane Street newsboys are the property of Disney, as are Mr. Kloppman, the Jacobs family, Spot Conlon, Medda Larkson, Toby, Jonathan, the Delancey brothers, and Bryan Denton. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made.

With love to: Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Brendan Frye in Brick, who helped inspire Lucky; Steven Sater and Duncan Sheik for writing "Spring Awakening", which helped inspire this story; Keza, whose brilliant (and similarly noir-ish) fics, "Epic" and "Amends", inspired me to get off my butt and start publishing this; Shoe, Game, and Zippy, who got me re-psyched about Newsies fandom in general; Eire, for shaving your head and teaching African kids Irish step-dancing; the Random Sisters and our fourth "Best Friends" award in a row; and Puck, Tails, and Spitball, for being awesome.

Within the Blue

By Flare Higgins

Prologue

"I need to see the Fox," I announced, leaning gingerly on the bar and falling just short of an air of confidence.

The bartender looked me up and down, probably thrown by the soft French accent as much as the bold request. I tried to imagine what he saw: a young man of sixteen or seventeen, slender and unremarkable in stature. Blue eyes and a fair complexion belied my black hair, rendering me an ethnic mystery. I wore a grey cap with a blue shirt and trousers and grey suspenders, all badly in need of ironing. The cigar between my lips provided an occasional drag as my gaze roamed warily, observing the occupants of the Blue Ghost. It was almost comforting to find that the drunks were still arguing loudly and warbling foreign ballads, the gamblers still palming aces and tossing dice, the thieves still haggling softly over ill-gotten goods, the pimps still showing off their wares, and the whores still chatting up any man with a pulse.

Finally, the man arched a dubious eyebrow and drawled, "You need to see the Fox, signore?"

I didn't even glance at him. I chewed my cigar complacently and eyed a dormant grand piano across the room. "Tell him it's Malory Lachance."

"What makes you think il Vulpe is here?"

I sighed and turned to face him. "The Fox is here," I replied, "'cause he owns the place. And he'll see me. Tino could've told you that. But from what I hear, he left in a bit of a hurry."

The bartender frowned. "That was nearly a year ago, my friend."

That long? I shuddered slightly, then, catching myself, cleared my throat. "The Fox?"

"I'll give him your name," the young man snapped, and he vanished through a door secreted behind the counter.

I watched him go, somewhat bemused, before continuing to scan the tavern, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the once-familiar fog of cigar smoke, re-acquainting my nose with the stink of liquor and unwashed bodies. The place had changed very little. Only a scattering of new faces and the layer of dust on the piano bench served as reminders of my long absence.

This could've been any day. I closed my eyes in order to support the claim. There was old Valentino at the bar, sloshing beer into mugs and joking with the regulars. There was my father, drifting in and out of the secret door with a cat's easy stealth, exchanging solemn words with shadow-cloaked men before buying a whiskey and joining the other patrons. There were the strains of Beethoven, swelling from the piano beneath my own fingers. And there, perched on the edge of one of the tables, toasting me even as other boys circled her like panting wolves...

"Annie," I whispered.

The girl in my memory smirked and downed her drink with the ease of any man, ignoring the mildly scandalized cheers of her entourage. She winked at me through a long screen of red-gold hair. Her dress was as blue as her eyes, and she laughed, raucously, gaily, without holding back, until she shook so hard with laughter that her fingers slipped, her glass crashed to the floor, sparkling shards flew in every direction, and I opened my eyes with a violent start.

"Annie?"

"Sorry, mia caro." A young brunette hooker emerged from the smoke, smiling uncertainly, frozen in my searchlight gaze. Her voice was a throaty purr. "The name's Fiamma di Desiderio...but you're free to call me Annie if you like."

Blinking, I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry, chérie. I mistook you for someone else."

"I'm used to that." When she saw that my unfocused gaze was not exploring her body, she swept away to proposition a table full of sailors.

"Malory!"

Starting again, I took care to steady myself before turning back to the bar. Seemingly untouched by time, the Fox leaned on his cane, flanked by the sour-faced bartender and a pair of rough-looking characters who scowled at the abrupt conclusion of their business meeting.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," I said.

"Not at all!" Beaming, the Fox dismissed the mystery men with a gesture. "This is a pleasant surprise, my boy. When did they let you out?"

"This morning." I glanced pointedly at the bartender, who was watching us sideways as he made a show of pouring gin, and at the sea of customers, many of whom had looked up from their drinks. "S'pose we could take this elsewhere?"

"Of course." In a sweep of black silk and velvet, the Fox disappeared through the hidden door again, and I followed.

It opened into a dark, spartan little room, furnished only by a small table with a chair at either end. A lone oil lamp flickered in the center of the table. The Fox pulled out one chair for me and took the other himself, adjusting the lamp so that its dusty glow fell theatrically across half of his face - one curving cheekbone, one shrewd brown eye, one long mass of black curls streaked with grey - and left the other half in shadow.

"Have you been to see your family?"

I nodded. "How've they been...since I...?"

"All of their needs have been met. I've seen to that, Malory." The Fox smiled beatifically. "Of course, they missed you terribly, the girls in particular. But they've done a bit of growing up this past year, haven't they? I never dreamed Signorina Claire would make such a lady..."

"I'm grateful," I cut in, my stomach churning a bit, "for everything you've done. I wonder if I could ask for one more favor?"

"Of course," the Fox agreed at once, reaching into his coat, "you need money - "

"No," I said quickly. "I just want my old job back."

The older man met my eyes in surprise, then laughed as if he should have known. "I'll have the piano tuned tomorrow. Haven't trusted it to anyone else!"

"Then I'll start tomorrow night." I rose, and my benefactor followed suit, towering over me and extending a hand that swallowed mine. "Thank you for everything, sir."

The Fox brushed this off with the same gesture he had used to banish his subordinates. "It's nothing among old friends, Malory. I will always look after your family."

"Speaking of family," I added, remembering suddenly, "how's your wife?"

It was a slight start, barely detectable, but the past year had failed to fray my keen observational skills along with my nerves. A split second later, the Fox was supremely composed. "The engagement," he admitted, "was called off. It is a private matter, Malory...I'm sure you understand."

"I'm sorry. I never even got to meet her."

The Fox bowed his head gravely and spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Malory, I never had the chance to tell you...how sorry I am about..."

"It was her choice." I plucked the glowing stub of cigar from my mouth, tossed it to the floor, and ground it beneath my heel. "Merci beaucoups," I murmured, and fled the room.

I was greeted as I emerged by the open stare of the young bartender, immersed in a pile of dirty glasses by the water pump. "See you tomorrow, then," I told him. Amused by his stunned expression, I strode past a whirl of strange and familiar faces and let myself out into the damp blue twilight.

It was raining lightly, a chilly shower that barely brushed the skin, and a pale fog had rolled in from the river to envelope Manhattan's Lower East Side. The effect was so ghostly that when a figure materialized in the distance, approaching through the swirling vapors, I only half-believed it until the hazy glow of a street-lamp illuminated its features. Then I stopped short, shock rippling through me, and hardly dared to believe. "Annie!"

She stepped back when I reached for her, eyes icy in a pale, drawn face. "You should have been there, Lucky."

I gulped, my own eyes fixed desperately on her to confirm the reality of her presence. "I - I couldn't...you know I was - "

"You should have been there." She squeezed water from her hair. "They were so angry..."

My throat tightened at her cold reproach. "I'm sorry," I answered hoarsely.

"It don't matter anyway. There wasn't much you could've done." She shrugged and lit herself a cigar. "Care to get rip-roarin' drunk?"

"Annie," I pleaded, dizzied by her mood swing, "you have to tell me what happened."

Through the spiral of smoke from her mouth, her face cooled again. "I think you know."

"I wanna hear it from you."

"Is my hair all right?" Annie spun anxiously toward the nearest shop window to scrutinize her reflection. "Mon dieu, I look like a drowned rat. Where's your sister? Claire could fix me up quick as a shot - "

"Annie, please."

She turned back to me. "I don't have to tell you anything. Figure it out on your own. That's what you're good at, ain't it?" In another instant, a mischievous smile lit her face. "Cheer up, mon cher. La nuit est jeune." She blew me a kiss and took flight.

Breathing shallowly, I forced my feet to remain stationary as I watched the mist swallow her whole. I put out one hand to steady myself against the lamp-post. After two or three of the deep breaths I'd practiced all year, calm practicality returned. Annie was right; the night was young. It was time to step out of the fog of the past and start looking forward. That was what I'd promised them all...even her.

"I'm a representative of the Newsboys' Union. I'd like to see Mr. Pulitzer."

Standing at the door of the New York World building, I managed to maintain a straight face as I delivered this announcement. The payoff was immediate. The office boy blanched and beckoned to a passing colleague, and the two of them scurried off to consult in frightened whispers. From what I heard, it had only been a few months since this staff had learned that ragged youths with pretentious demands were not to be taken lightly.

The older man soon returned to the doorway, grim-faced. "Jonathan Burrows," he stated curtly. "Listen, young man. This staff has already met your requests - "

"You mean the Union's demands?" I couldn't say I wasn't enjoying this.

"The newsies have been given full satisfaction - "

"And we're grateful for that," I interrupted. "But we've got a few more words for the ears of the Chief."

"What sort of words, exactly?"

"Well, monseuir, we're discussing the possibility of another strike."

Jonathan Burrows winced. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds of..." A smirk played around the corners of my mouth. "Are you sure you want me to answer that, sir?" The man was seething now, so I applied the capstone to my pitch. "I don't think you'd want to refuse me an audience that might avoid another...incident."

I could just see him weighing his options. On the one hand, his notoriously volatile employer would be none too pleased to see a member of the very demographic he had come to loathe. On the other hand, if he ignored me and anything came of my warning, it would fall on his head.

In the end, he grimaced, defeated. "Follow me, please. Kindly keep your voice down, and touch nothing."

As we climbed a winding flight of stairs, I turned my head this way and that, keeping tabs on the swarm of suits who passed us on their way up or down, carrying bundles of papers, checking pocket watches, shooting me looks of haughty disdain. Then I studied my guide: a scarecrow with a pencil moustache. A flunky, I concluded, not worth my concern. Presently, we reached a landing with a door that he grudgingly ushered me through.

I took in the pomp and glitter of Pulitzer's private office, transferring every detail to a memory that retained details as a matter of course: mahogany everywhere, gold-framed portraits and photographs lining the walls and tables, a glossy wooden Cupid figure with a bow. Light shone through an ornate glass lampshade in tones of red, yellow, and green, illuminating a grandfather clock of polished red wood. Diluted sunlight streamed through a looming window emphasized by two layers of curtains; the first, navy-blue with gold braid, had been pulled back to reveal a second of sheer lace. The only thing missing was the newspaper tycoon himself.

Mr. Burrows motioned me into a chair.

"Got a smoke?" I inquired. I'd stamped out my last one back at the tavern.

With a pained expression, he produced a fat Cuban cigar the likes of which I had never even touched before. "Well," he started delicately as I lit up and inhaled, impressed in spite of myself, "about this possibility of another...disturbance..."

"Oh, that." I snorted. "That was just a bunch of hogwash to get me in. I'm not really a newsie. Don't know a thing about their affairs. Don't even care."

"Then what," Jonathan demanded through gritted teeth, "are you doing in the office of the New York World at this time of the evening?"

"I wanna be a reporter," I announced, waving my cigar impatiently. "Always wanted to. Put me on a story, give me twenty-four hours, and I'll prove myself worth your time and money. Any story, big or small. Give me nothin'...no leads, no tips, and I'll write you a story that'll blow your damn mind."

"Please refrain from using profanity in Mr. Pulitzer's office-"

"What's the bother?" I snapped. "Pulitzer ain't even here, is he? Wouldn't condescend to speak to no common urchin off the streets, never mind that he's after a job and he's the best man for it. Don't give me no guff about only highfalutin chumps bein' cut out for reportin'. I've seen things in my current line of work that your bums with their dough and their good names would cut each other down to clap eyes on. I've hob-nobbed with the sorta folk that clear the streets in a jiffy when your kind come strollin' along, luggin' their notebooks and cameras. I might not know the time of day in Cuba or wherever the hell the big wigs are chasin' news these days, but I'll be damned if I can't give you your money's worth on the home front."

I had to let out a breath after that speech. Theatrics had never been my specialty.

"Young man..."

"How much does he pay you?" I demanded abruptly.

"Excuse me?" Jonathan sputtered.

"You heard me. If he can afford all this - " I waved my hand to encompass the office. "-it must be a jewel of a position you've got here. Circulation's been inchin' back up since the strike, right? And some other fool took the blame for that mess. But I betcha those numbers are creepin' up too slowly, and it's your job to fix that. You're balanced on a pedestal, and you'd prob'ly hate to fall off."

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. Our eyes were locked now, and both of us nearly fell off our chairs when a roar of laughter alerted us to a presence at the door.

"The boy has spunk. Ambition. Admirable, really." Joseph Pulitzer strode inside and took a seat behind his desk. "Now get him out of my office."

Jonathan grabbed my arm and tried to haul me upright, but I jerked away from him easily. I conducted a quick evaluation of the second powerful man I'd met with today. He didn't exactly measure up to the first: thinning brown hair, a short beard to match, a fussy black-and-white suit. But his eyes, behind a strong pair of bifocals, were steely with the ruthless intelligence of a businessman, with the confidence of a man who knows he runs an empire.

I had already gotten his attention, so I dropped the exaggerated slang. "I really think you might find me useful, sir."

Leaning forward for a better look at me, Pulitzer snorted with laughter again. "Oh, yes. A dirty stripling fresh off the streets with an impressive resumé of begging and pocket-picking. The ideal employee for the country's leading newspaper." He picked up a paper and hid himself behind it, dismissing me. "Why not start at the bottom and work your way up like the rest of this country? Bring a little truth to your charade, boy. Sell the papers before you try to write for them."

That was when it hit me. In a flash of brilliance punctuated by a white flare of lightning outside the window, I suddenly knew the only possible way I could pull this off. "I have a proposal. I think you'll be interested. But we'll need some privacy."

Pulitzer looked up, eyebrows raised. Jonathan was livid. "If I may, sir, this is outrageous - "

"You might as well leave, Jonathan," his boss ordered languidly with a familiar wave of the hand. "This young madman has a proposal."

Torn between laughter and panic at his choice of words, I waited until the flunky had departed in a sulk, closing the door behind him. I waited until I had Joseph Pulitzer's full attention. Then I brandished my ace. "Are you still angry with the newsies, monseuir? Still wish you could punish them for what they did to your business? For bringing you down to their level, taking your power?"

"What's this about?" the old man growled.

"It's about me suggesting a compromise." I folded my arms and looked him right in the eye. "I'll do like you said. I'll start out as a newsie...but with a twist." My mind raced just ahead of my mouth, fine-tuning the plan as it emerged. "I'll go undercover at the Duane Street lodging house. Let's say six months. Bet your men never bothered to sniff around there, hmm? I'll dig up enough dirt for an article. Nice and sensational, a tell-all story. 'The secret life of newsies.' If it blows you away, I get the job."

Pulitzer howled with laughter, but I wasn't fooled. I could see the calculation in those magnified eyes. "You really think that I hold schoolboy grudges, young man? That I would become a laughingstock, disgrace my business, hire the likes of you, in order to smear the names of a pack of rats who already live in the dirt?"

"Maybe not," I conceded. "But I'm not just talking about a little embarrassment. How many of those kids d'you reckon are satisfied with an income of pennies? How many side jobs d'you think they've got going on below the eye level of the bulls? Or maybe I should say, how much would you give to see Jack Kelly behind bars again?"

All pretenses were dropped then...on his part, at least. His face lit up like a candle, and I knew I had him. "You could do this?"

"I can do it. I've been doing it since I was a kid. Poking around." I glanced at the floor, rolled the cigar between my fingers. "Finding the truth."

Pulitzer's smile was still condescending. "You're coming into this business for the wrong reasons, my boy. The truth doesn't sell."

I finally allowed myself a smirk. "That's 'cause your reporters don't know where to look."

Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the World headquarters to find a curtain of rain sweeping the city. It had been a long and rather productive day, so I let my stomach guide me along a route shielded by shop awnings toward the next stop on my itinerary.

I saw her the instant I stepped through the door. She sat alone at a corner table, staring into the middle distance. Shimmering clumps of copper hair clung wetly to her face and neck, spilling across the breast of her denim dress. I smiled and sidled over to sit across from her. "Were you waiting for me?"

"I don't know," Annie mused, returning to Earth to smirk at me. "You don't look like a corned-beef sandwich."

"I think that's the first compliment you've ever given me."

"It's backhanded, honey. I wanted a corned-beef sandwich." She examined me shrewdly. "You know, when they told you to move on with your life..."

"They probably didn't intend me to further my prospects with bribery," I admitted.

"Oui...but it kinda suits you."

I grinned and reached for the menu.

Annie propped her feet up on the table and watched me scan its contents. "Anything good?"

"I thought you'd already made up your mind."

In a moment of perfect synchronicity, our eyes met over the top of the menu. I shivered slightly, though it was she who was drenched to the skin.

"Not everything is a choice, Lucky," she said, and I was shocked to realize that she was serious, serious in a way that I had scarcely ever known her to be, even in anger. "Some things are just..."

"Luck?" I suggested, rewarded with a flicker of a grin.

"Right."

"Excuse me, sir." A waiter had materialized. "Your order?"

"A coffee," I decided, "and one for the lady."

The waiter glanced at Annie, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, before making a note on his pad and bustling over to another group of customers.

"It's the dress, ain't it?" Annie sighed, looking down at the sodden material that clung generously to every curve of her body. "And you should've made it a scotch."

"That wouldn't have helped matters."

"Nothing's going to help matters now, Lucky."

I shook my head angrily. "I wanna know how this happened. Why."

"You've been away too long, mon cher. It's old news. You should move on."

"Why can't you be honest with me!" I half-shouted, and a number of heads turned.

Annie held my gaze and leaned toward me, so close that our foreheads nearly touched. "I've never been honest with anyone."

The door of the restaurant opened with a bang. Startled, I turned to see a pair of boys enter, chattering and laughing loudly.

" - the way you was lookin' at her - yer eyes was about to fall outta yer head, kid - "

"It's her own fault for dressin' like that in public! I mean, what's a fella s'posta do, pretend he don't notice - "

Snorting, I turned back to Annie, but the chair across from mine was empty.

"Annie!" I sprang to my feet, spinning wildly toward the door. A hush fell over the restaurant; the two boys froze in their tracks and stared at me. Then the waiter returned, setting a steaming cup of coffee on the table and frowning at me.

"Here you are, sir. Please don't make a scene."

Slowly, after a last futile scan of the room, I sighed and sank back into the chair. My fingers wrapped around the cup, letting the warmth seep in through my palms. Lifting it to my lips, I sipped the hot brew, then set it down. As I eavesdropped lazily on the other customers, my head sinking onto my arms, the steam from the coffee rising around me, my surroundings began to fade.

Annie was dancing. I could not discern her partner's identity; blue smoke swirled around them, filling the room, perfuming the air, obscuring everything but Annie herself. Eyes closed, she swayed and shimmied to the music, snuggled deeply in her partner's arms, their bodies practically intertwined.

"Annie," I whispered helplessly from the sidelines. She turned to face me, laughed.

Then I stood alone by a river, its slate-grey fingers lapping the shore. A small white hand broke the surface and grabbed me by the ankle, pulling me down into the water, sending an electric current through my body. Submerged, panicked, flailing, I fought against the searing pain as water filled my lungs.

I was back on the dance floor, Annie wrapped in my arms. She leaned even closer, her breath warm on my neck, and whispered playfully, "Do you want to know a secret?"

I woke up with a gasp.

After a disoriented moment, everything came back into focus. I was the only customer left in the restaurant, my coffee was cold, the city was dark outside the windows, and an irate waiter stood over me, brandishing the bill.

"Sorry," I murmured, accepting it and producing a handful of coins.

"Your lady friend had other plans, then?"

Glancing at the empty chair across from mine, I shrugged and rose from the table, heading out into the damp autumn night.

My feet remembered the way to Duane Street, though my mind wasn't on the route. I watched the other pedestrians, a dodgy lot after nightfall, and wondered where Annie had gone. She had never even ordered her supper. Come to think of it, neither had I; my stomach let out a whine that made me wish I had eaten at home before any of my other errands, though I doubted my father had much food to spare.

Presently, my destination came into view. It was a shabby little building, but a light burned in the window, and the sign above the door confirmed its nature. I climbed the steps to the Newsboys Lodging House, entered the lobby, and smiled wanly at the old man behind the desk.

"Evenin', monseuir. I'm Lucky. Got an empty bunk?"