All the Wrong Places
By Goose
Disclaimer: Despite several desperate attempts, still not mine. (Curses!)
Summary: "You seem real nice, lady, a real good mother. I've seen Patrick, and you're looking in all the wrong places." A nameless newsboy reveals some important information to Patrick's mother.
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You come here every day, looking for the same thing, asking the same questions. I think if you didn't, the world might end, because you have walked among us for as long as I can remember and maybe longer.
Patrick, Patrick. Has anyone seen Patrick?
You seem real nice, lady, a real good mother. I don't know why you can't find Patrick or how you lost him in the first place, and I won't ask. 'Cause you are nice. 'Cause what I want to say is painful enough.
'Cause I've seen Patrick, and you're looking in all the wrong places.
There's this boy who hangs around the Brooklyn docks. Not around Spot's boys, no, on account of they'd soak him just for being. He's got bones like a bird, real delicate. He's let his hair grow out. It's soft and curly and frames his face just so. And, lady, he has your eyes. Exactly the same eyes.
Pained, sad, searching. It would break your heart.
Patrick?
Nobody who lives in Brooklyn likes him, but he gets plenty of visitors. These sailors come in, see, and... Well. I guess out on the sea they get lonely.
Where's that Patrick kid?
The kid's awful lonely, too, and he's hungry and cold and in desperate need of a quick buck. Like I said, he's got bones like a bird. He's real pretty, your Patrick. They all tell him so. I can hear them sometimes, in the back alleys. Grunts and groans and choked back sobs, choked back sins. He redeems them somehow. Like maybe, if he lets them, then it ain't wrong. And he always lets them.
Oh, Patrick...Patrick...Patrick...
He's a saint, your Patrick. The patron saint of desperation and deprecation.
Only...
We haven't seen him for a long time, either, but we boys, we know things that they don't print.
Couple months ago, there was a body floating by the docks. It was beaten beyond recognition, but I hear it had bones like a bird and I bet it had your eyes.
You're real nice, lady, so I hate to tell you, but you've been looking in all the wrong places.
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Author's Note: Yes, it's yet another generic Patrick-story, because it's just what we need. Well, that and a cabana boy.
I've been watching Newsies obsessively again, much to the chagrin of my buddies, none of whom have seen it nor do they wish to. The problem with that is, Newsies makes me want to write all kinds of things and I now have two other stories in the works because of it. If there's an accomplished Newsie-fic writer out there willing to beta for me, that would be fantabulous.
I love you all for reading, but I love the reviewers more.