Author's Note: Hello Fanfiction! It's been a while!

So, this is my first Newsies fanfiction, and it certainly isn't my best work, but it's one of those things that I just had to write. With a nerve-wracking audition coming up, I guess I just needed some Crutchie. ;)

Reviews are much appreciated! Positive comments and constructive criticism are very welcome! :)

That's all I've got to say! Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or the lyrics to "A Letter From The Refuge"

The Refuge smells like rotting wood.

It ain't a pleasant smell to wake up to, especially when you're already feeling heavier than lead. The smell is just another cruel reminder that you wasn't able to stand your ground, and I mean this quite literally. I was soaked with the only thing that helps me stand. Now, my crutch has stains from my own blood.

Oh yeah, it smells like dried blood, too. That's also a horrible smell.

I lie down on a stiff cot, with nothing to do but smell that awful mix of rotting wood and dried blood. I don't know if it's because I was unconscious for so long, or perhaps it's because I'm stressed, but I can't sleep. Maybe I'm too tired to sleep; that happens sometimes. You'd think I'd sleep, though, since I'm on a bed for the first time in who knows how long. It ain't a comfy bed, but it's far comfier than sleeping on the streets.

No wonder Jack never talked about the Refuge around me. It's not something I'd want to remember.

I try to remember better scents. The smell of the night from the rooftop. The smell of fresh papes. Any smell but this one.

I don't know how anyone gets a second of sleep here. Maybe they don't. Maybe we're all just pretending, because if the Delancey's heard us, they'd soak us again.

I start to wonder what would happen if I did get up. Surely, if I just hobbled over to the window, no one would notice. I could be quiet. I just want to look at the stars instead of the stuffy darkness. I could pretend I'm on the rooftop, or anywhere but here.

Slowly, I push myself up, causing pain to shoot everywhere. I bite my lip hard and shut my eyes, trying harder than ever not to scream. I can barely hear a squeak try to escape my throat as the waves of pain wash over me. I shake it off and push myself up. I grip on the bunk bed, knuckles white, trying to keep myself up. Perhaps walking to the window will be enough to tire me out so I can finally sleep. I think somewhat optimistically. Blindly, I reach for my crutch. Once I've got it, I shove it under my arm and, slowly but surely, walk over to the window that's just inches away from my bed. I grin slightly when I'm close enough to see the stars hanging over the buildings.

I lean on the window sill and I see my reflection for the first time since I was soaked. A bruised and sad face stares back at me. Is that me? I wonder. I sigh and shake my head, and from the corner of my eye, I can see the boy reflected in the glass shake his head, too. "I'm sorry I let you guys down," I whisper, as if the Newsies can hear me. "I tried, I really did."

My hand slips, and for one horrible second, I think I'm going to fall. But, I catch myself, gripping the window sill at an awkward angle. I feel an indent in the wood, where it feels like someone carved their name. I move my fingers out of the way and I barely see in the starlight the name "Jack Kelly" carved into the window sill.

A grin crosses my face. Jack. He made it out, I tell myself. Surely, I can, too. Then, we'll win the strike and take down Pulitzer! The kids'll finally win! And, then, maybe we'd go to Santa Fe. Ride Palaminos, plant crops, and we'd be far away from Pulitzer and the Delanceys. It'd just be me and him. And, maybe he's right, and I might lose the crutch. My grin widens at those thoughts, and my determination to get out grows.

Suddenly, an image of me climbing down the side of the building pops into my head. I glance at my bed. I could use the sheet! Perfect!

I finally decide that I'm getting out of here, no matter what. I've got to get back and seize the day.

I hobble back to my bed and I search for a candle on the crooked bedside table. I find one with a match beside it. I strike the match on the table and light the candle. Candlewax is a much better smell than rotten wood and dried blood.

There's parchment and a pencil on the table. I could write to Jack, and let him know where I am and that I won't be here long! So, I grab it and quickly scrawl,

"Dear Jack,

Greetings from the Refuge."

I scrunch up my face, thinking. Have I ever written a proper letter like this before? Gosh, I think I haven't! Where do I start? I guess, I'll start it just like a conversation.

"How are you? I'm okay."

Well, it ain't lying. I ain't dead.

"Guess I wasn't much help yesterday. Snyder soaked me real good with my crutch."

I cringe at the memory I'd tried to push out of my head. The image of Snyder whirling my own crutch at me haunts my thoughts. I remember shouting for Jack, and feeling pathetic for crying for help. I push the memory away, knowing it'll come back soon.

Wait, did I ever say who this letter is from? Ugh, I'm awful at this letter writing stuff!

"Oh, yeah, Jack, this is Crutchie, by the way!"

What now? Do I talk about the Refuge? I guess so. I run through things to talk about in my head. Maybe one of my first memories here. I'd just woken up, and I guess I must've looked pretty bad, because they was insisting I wouldn't last the night. I told them I'd make it, that I was tougher than I looked. They just laughed and motioned towards the window. "Jump,boy!" They laughed. "Jump, or you're screwed!"

"These here guards, they is rude. They say, 'Jump, boy, you jump, or you're screwed!'"

My stomach growls.

"But, the food ain't so bad, least so far, cause so far they ain't brung us no food!"

Now, what?

Well, what would I say to Jack?

I'd be honest.

"I miss the rooftop. Sleeping right out in the open, in your penthouse in the sky! There's a cool breeze blowing, even in July!"

My face falls as the rotten wood smell enters my nose again, reminding me that I'm not up on the roof with Jack, dreaming of Santa Fe. I'm stuck here.

But, that's why I'm writing; I'm getting out.

"Anyway, so guess what? There's this secret escape plan I got. Tie a sheet to the bed, toss the end out the window, climb down, and take off like a shot!"

I glance over at the window. Who am I kidding? I think. I ain't getting out of here tonight, not in this condition. I sigh and shut my stining eyes.

"Maybe though, not tonight. I ain't slept and my leg still ain't right."

I look up at the Refuge in the soft candlelight. All these boys is soaked, just like me. Who knows why they're here? Are they Newsies, like me? Or, are they here for some other unfair reason? Whyever they're here, they're the reason we're having this strike: so that the kids finally win.

"But, hey, Pulitzer? He's going down! And then, Jack, I was thinking we might just go, like you was saying, where it's clean and green and pretty, with no buildings in your way! Where you're riding Palaminos every day! 'Til that train makes-"

'Til I get away. How long'll that take? My leg ain't fixing itself anytime soon, and these jerkface guards won't let me out easy. How long will I be trapped in a building that smells like rotten wood and dry blood? A building that looks like it might just fall down with no warning? A building where a bunch of stuck-up adults treat you like a worthless delinquent?

Damn this place.

I almost write that, but, I'd better not worry Jack and the rest. They don't need that right now. They's got worse things on their hands.

"I'll be fine. Good as new. But, there's one thing I need you to do. On the rooftop you said that a family looks out for each other, so you tell all the fellas from me to protect one another."

And, now, I end it. How do I end it?

"The end.

Your friend,"

Nope.

"Your best friend."

Somehow, saying "friend" just doesn't feel right.

I remember when we were on the rooftop that night, he'd said he ain't got folks, and I told him I don't got them either, but I've got friends. But, later that night, when it was just nearing dawn, we stood there staring at out at New York, and I just remembered thinking, Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I do have folks. I know I got a brother.

"Your brother,"

I smirk sadly. That's better.

"Hey, psst,"

I tense up. Who said that?

"Um, you, with the candle."

I turn my head to see a boy in the bunk next to be leaning over and looking at me. He looks like he's been soaked pretty bad too, with a large bruise on his forehead that's covered by scruffy brown hair that reminds me of Les'. He looks about my age and sounds like he's from Brooklyn.

"Me?" I ask.

"Yeah, you," He whispers. "You writin' a letter?"

I nod, which ends up being kind of painful.

"I didn't know we could write letters here," He says thoughtfully, still in a whisper.

It suddenly occurs to me that I don't know either. Plus, how would I deliver it to Jack? Them guards would toss him right back in here at the very mention of his name.

"You know, I'm not entirely sure we can either," I respond.

The boy looks at me a moment longer before asking, "You writin' to a friend? Your folks?"

I shake my head, which is slightly less painful than nodding. "A brother."

The boy nods. "Well, that sounds important. I'm sure we could get it sent somehow. These guys that have been here for a while could figure something out, I'm sure. Best to keep in touch with your brother. I bet my folks have no idea where I is now."

I glance over at him. "Well, if we can send my letter, I'm sure we could send one to your folks, too."

"I wouldn't know where to send it, " The boy says. "But, thanks. I don't think 'somewheres in Brooklyn' is a valid delivery address." He adds with a chuckle.

So, he is from Brooklyn. "Quick question," I whisper before I can think. "Do you know a guy named Spot?"

The boy smirks. "Spot Conlon? Heck yeah, I know him! Any Newsie from Brooklyn knows Spot!"

I smile. "Well, I don't know how close you guys were but, he's doing well."

"Glad to hear it," He replies, still smirking. Then, his face turns serious, and he barely whispers, "So, you part of the strike?"

I nod.

"Man, I heard about that, " He says. "Boy, have you guys got guts, standin' up to Pulitzer like that!"

I shrug and motion to my bruised body.. "Well, I ain't been much help."

"You kiddin'?" He exclaims quietly. "You musta done a lot if you wound up in here! How'd you get here?"

"Snyder soaked me," I answer.

"So, you mean, you fought off Snyder?" He asks. "Nice! As a former Newsie, you've earned my respect."

I grin. "Thanks."

"Thank you," He says. "And, hey, if you get outta here before me, tell the rest of the Newsies they're makin' history. And tell Spot I says 'hi.'"

"Sure thing," I say. I'm about to ask his name when I see that he's turned over in his bed, and is probably asleep.

I smile. You're making history, Crutchie, I tell myself.

I turn back to my letter and, just before blowing out the candle, I quickly scrawl my name at the bottom of the page.

"Crutchie."