Disclaimer: I own two pez dispensers and a crappy computer. Not worth the sue, I promise. I don't own Newsies.


Necessary Obligations

"Don't cry," he said sternly, "A Conlon don't cry."

The child held in her sobs, choking into the rag doll held to her body. There was a livid bruise running from cheek to chin, staining her young face. A stab of guilt clenched in his gut, but he pushed that feeling under along with the aching in his hand. His knuckles were raw and broken. The white linen wrapped around his fist was stained red, and a drop of escaping blood ran down his forearm. He'd hit too hard. He'd gone too far.

"I'm goin'," he told her, slinging the cane into a belt loop. "Be back 'round noon ta check on ya. Mind ya manners an' ya wont get inta trouble."

A sniffle.

He turned, pinning her with a firm eye. "Ya hear me, kid?"

She nodded, but didn't look up. The stab in his stomach twisted into a knot and for a fleeting moment all he wanted to do was go to her, to pick her up, and tell her he was sorry for all that had happened last night. He wanted to reassure her that it wasn't her fault that the world was such a shithole and that she was getting a raw deal. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he never wanted her to see him like that. He wanted to tell her it was okay to cry.

But he didn't. A Conlon couldn't afford to cry.

He shifted the cap on his head and turned to leave. Just as his hand reached the doorknob a small blur plowed into him, and skinny, strong arms wrapped around his torso.

"Thank you," came the hoarse whisper.

That had done it; his resolve crumbled and he crouched down, taking the girl's face into his hands. Large, blue eyes, so like his own, stared back. Tears clung to her eyelashes, but they were old tears. Her expression held nothing but fortitude and love. Unconditional love. Trust. She needed him as much as he needed her, and for a few moments he remembered why he kept coming back to this place; why he always kept her in the back of his mind. He held her close for a few moments, allowing the warmth from her small body to seep into his bones. She was alright. They'd be alright.

He looked around the room. The life that this broken-down apartment represented was something he'd outgrown long ago, and something to which he couldn't return. In here, rage flowed too easily, and love too slowly. The blood on the walls would fade in time but never disappear. Last night drove home that knowledge. This place was cursed for him. Yet for this child, this strong, resilient little thing, there was hope.

She'd be alright.

He stood again and bopped her fondly on the head with a closed hand. A drunken mumble echoed off the apartment walls, and she stole a hesitant glance across the room. A trail of smeared blood on the floor led into the kitchen, to a pair of lifeless booted feet. His hand throbbed in memory. The old man hadn't been much of a challenge for him since he'd left for a life on the streets, but he couldn't let the man beat up little kids. Especially this one. All it took was a good pop upside the head and his step-father had gone down like a bag of bricks. He'd held him down, pinned to the ground, and bent back fingers to the point of breakage until the old man swore in Jesus' name not to touch the little girl again. It was only then that he'd allowed the drunk to pass out.

He looked back down at her and smirked, ruffling her tousled blonde head. "He won't wake up fer awhile," he told her, "An' he won't touch you again. I made sure of it. Get ta sleep, an' I'll be back before ya know it. Ma'll be home late."

She gave him a gap-toothed grin, but was soon overtaken by a gigantic yawn. It had been a long night for them all. He stood, pushed her towards the other room and her bed.

He pulled the apartment key over his head. It hung just to the right of his heart.

Before he closed the door he heard a sleepy mumble.

"I love you, Spot."

He readjusted his suspenders and headed down the molding hallway.

"I love ya too, Sis."