Story: You're Falling Underneath the Smoke in the Room
Author: Soli
Category: NEWSIES- Action/Adventure, Angst
Rating: PG 13-R
Summary: This is a story about greed, anger, revenge and death. It's a story about the growing of the boy who lead an army against an empire into a man who, thanks to a sever tragedy, now must take charge once again to save the lives of thousands. NOTE: This is NOT a romance! Furthermore, there are NO ORIGINAL GIRL CHARACTERS. The main characters are strictly from the movie, with the exception of one minor-major character. Still, please read!
Disclaimer: None of the original characters from Newsies are mine, although I'm sure Spot wants to come home with me. J Also, the main title of the story is a line from Natalie Imbruglia's "Smoke."
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Bianca, who wrote one of the best Spot/Jack fics I have ever read. Also, this is dedicated to everyone who ever wanted to read something other than a romance fic but have had serious trouble finding one. I hope I can live up to your expectations.
Distribution: Please DO NOT take my story without my permission. I worked really hard on this, and if you would like to post it on your site, you can write me at lilsun21@hotmail.com
Chapter One: If I Wanted to Break Your Heart, I Would Have Worn My Other Shoes" 'Goil falls in da street an' scares horses'? Wha' kinda trash is dey tryin' ta get us ta sell?!" Muttered an angry Mush as he and the other Manhattan newsies read the day's headline.
" 'Convicted criminal still on da loose.'"
" Good fer him. Probly stole a blanket or som'in'." Jack Kelly commented, throwing a wink to his sniggering companion. Davey tried to scowl at his giggling little brother, but his own escaped chuckles only made Les laugh harder.
"You sound like a goat, Davey," Les wiped his eyes as the boys surrounding them continued to complain about the lousy headlines.
" ' Millionair's dowg runs away from home.'"
" ' Ciga' butt lights Central Pa'k flowa garden on fire. Burns bedda roses down to da groun'."
" Whaddis tell ya 'bout stealing me ciga's, 'Snipes?"
"Shaddup, Race."
"Whaddya gonna do 'bouts its?"
" ' Kitchen fire, crate of tomatahs burned.'"
"OW! 'Snipes, ya stoopid…stawp bitin' me!"
"Youse hit me foist!"
" 'Teddy Roosevelt's prized pony comes up lame.'"
"Hey, Jack, did Spot Conlon really throw two of the bulls off the Brooklyn bridge when he was my age?"
"Actually, I t'ink he was a bit younger den youse, Les."
"WOW!"
" ' Lace factory lays off hundred goils, more layoff expected.'"
" 'Ey, Davey, ain' dat where ya sistah works?" asked Crutchy.
"Yeah. She said a bunch of girls have gotten laid off already. Factory's trying to make more money by less employment and higher costs. Makes me mad."
Jack looked away at the mention of Sarah, chiding himself all the while. It had been over for a year now; he had been too filled with dreams of Santa Fe, she had been tied to ground by images of children and cooking and clothes in the sun. In the end, it had been Sarah who gently let Jack's dreams steal him away from her; Sarah who had told Jack they couldn't be together anymore. Jack had been so close that time to hopping on the next train to New Mexico after she tenderly, yet sisterly, kissed his cheek goodbye. Instead, he had paused at the ticket counter and headed straight back to the boarding house, clutching his ticket money tightly. He hadn't been near the train station since, but often when he saw Sarah and Daniel walking down the street, he would think of the five dollars clumsily packaged and hidden in his pillowcase. At those time, the yearning for Santa Fe would overpower him, pleading for his legs to run until nothing but desert and endless heat surround him. But he always stayed, even though he never knew why.
" ' Sam Adam's beeh raises price by two cents.'" The latest headline encouraged a loud moan from the boys, shaking Jack from his stupor and causing Snipeshooter to release his hold on Racetrack, who rubbed his bitten shoulder.
"Who do dey think dey is, raising da price like dat?'" Snoddy shook his fist at the oversized black boards as the other newsies muttered in agreement.
"Already costs a nickel ta even get a lousy shot." Moaned Boots, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the side of the gate. Choruses of "Ise like ta get me hands on dem mudder…" and "Ain't fair, Ise tell ya," followed. Jack threw in his two cents (" Mebbes we's cans pays a little visit to da cargo boats at da docks.") while Davey, who rarely drank and never with the Newsies for fear of getting drunk with the rowdy bunch of boys, remained silent.
The circulation bell rang while the newsies still grumbled. Davey shot Les a pointed glance, who returned it with begging eyes.
"Please, Davey?"
"Les, no. You know the deal. And you know papa'll get mad if I let you skip."
After Davey's father had gotten a job at the docks, Davey had returned to school, leaving Les with Jack and the other newsies all day. A year and a half ago, Davey had finished school for good and had returned to his newsies job so Les could go to school, much to the dismay of the youngest Jacob child, as well as to Jack and the others. Every so often, Les would rush home from school to catch the evening circulation, but the eleven year old still missed the hustle and bustle of the New York City day life.
" Go on, beat it, kid. Don' wantcha ta be late fer school, now, do we?" Jack spared him another wink before joining the line for the days' papers. Les and Davey exchanged a quick goodbye, with Davey promising to let Les come help that evening if he finished his homework, before Davey slipped in the line, taking his usual spot behind Jack.
"So, Mouth, feels like payin' a little visit to the habohr?" It wasn't unusual for two Newsies to work together everyday as Jack and Davey did. The other newsies had already started looking up to Davey as Jack's second in command ever since the days of the strike. Davey was the mouth and the brain; Jack merely was the front, the translator, and the heart.
"I don't think that would be such a good idea, Jack," Davey became unusually interested in the coins in his hands. Jack frowned.
"Why not?"
"I just don't-" Jack grabbed a fifty-cent piece out of Davey's hand.
"This what youse lookin' fer?" Davey blushed, muttering an embarrassed apology, but Jack cut him short.
"Now, why ain't we's goin' to da docks again?" Davey looked away.
"It's..it's nothing, except…Sarah said it was her day off today, and she might go done to the docks to see Daniel…"
"Oh."
Davey glanced up, watching the pain in Jack's face tense his jaw muscles and frost over his eyes. It was hard watching Jack slip into his own world. He hated Daniel just as much as Jack did, but he hated his sister even more for breaking his best friend's heart like that. Even more, he hated her for having all the right reasons to do it.
"It's a nice day, maybe Central Park'll have some customers," Davey's attempted at bringing Jack back into the real world failed, as Jack nodded his head silently with glazed eyes. There was no use in getting through to him; Davey was sure pictures of prickly cactuses and hot sand had stolen away his best friend for now.
"Why do you stay, Jack?" he muttered under his breath.
"Wha' ?" Damnit, that wasn't supposed to be heard. Davey shrugged, pretending nothing had happened, that he hadn't questions his friend's reason for not getting the hell out of the city.
"I said, where do you want to sell, Jack?" Jack's eyes roamed Davey's innocent façade, suspicion clearly marking the blue stare. Davey tried his best What-are-you-doing face, praying that it might work for once.
" How's 'bout the lake? Probly a buncha guys fishin' down dere." Jack finally answered before turning to order his papes.
Saved. A mental sigh of relief surged through Davey with this thought. Santa Fe was a sore subject, and one he would rather never bring up.
"Yeah, sure…" Davey tried to reply, but Jack was already hauling his papes over his shoulder, walking quicker than usual. Davey sighed but kept his mouth shut. He was never one to start up a fight.
He caught up to Jack in a few swift strides. Neither of the boys talked, aside from calling out the occasional "Goil mourdered by devil howrses', corpse beaten ta a pulp!" or " Millionaire loses prized pet!" Soon, Jack was tipping his hat to his last customer while Davey struggled into his last thirty papes.
" Youse gonna be the poorest o' de poor, Davey, me frien'" Jack shook his head, allowing himself a small smile. Davey grinned.
" 'Lest I read what it says, liar."
"I ain't a liar, I jus'…"
"-improve the truth a bit," the boys' finished together. Jack's smile grew.
" Yeah, well, I ain't the one who don' got no cash, now do I?" Jack smirked, jiggling the many coins in his pocket.
"You can buy lunch then"
"I ain't buyin' youse lunch."
"Yes, you are."
"No Ise ain't."
"Yes, you are."
"Ya wan' me ta soak ya, ya little rat?"
"Now your sounding like Brooklyn." Jack laughed.
"I likes dat: "Jack Kelly, leader of the Brooklyn Newsies." It's gotsa nice ring."
"And you'll "getsa" nice shiner if Spot ever heard that."
The boys bickered and laughed all the way down to Tibby's, ignoring the strange looks of the passing upper-class or the gleeful shouts of the young children in the streets.
This is nice. Davey thought as Jack pretended to jab Davey's gut, then raced down the street towards Tibby's.
"C'mon, Slowpoke!" Jack called out over his shoulder.
Laughing, Davey followed.
Jack bought lunch.
A newsie always knows it is time to retire when he regains conciseness and the first thing he wonder is "where are my papes?" He reached out, groggily searching for his missing papers. No papes. He started panicking, grabbing everywhere, knowing it would mean another night on the streets if he had lost his papers.
God, it hurt to move. Where the hell where his papes? Please, Lord, I can't take another night on the streets. He still couldn't see anything and he was too tired to try to understand what was going on. Instead, he rested his chilled hand on his sweater, trying to retain body heat.
Sticky. Something was sticky and it was all over his clothes. What was it? Oh, god, what was it? It was everywhere: in his hair, on his arms, his legs, his eyes. It pulsed as though it was alive…was that his own heart? No, no it couldn't be. The pounding was in his brain, in his chest, in his limbs…wasn't the heart only in the chest?
Where was his? He could have sworn he remembered nodding off against some sun-warmed wall. Had he gotten into a fight? If he had, he had obviously lost; but where was he now? The floor did not feel like the filthy streets of the Bronx; instead, dusty concrete replaced the cobblestone road. And the people…there were no people. No indignant mothers screaming for their children to get out of the road or cheap businessmen claiming they had no pennies. Instead, coarse shouting faintly reached his ear as well as the seagulls' begging plea for leftovers.
It must be close to suppertime if the gulls are this noisy. He thought, not realizing how insignificant the thought really was. Instead, his mind wandered to his last meal at Gaby's, the beer and hot dog he had once been able to afford. How long ago was lunch time, any how?
Thunk
That wasn't his heartbeat.
Someone was coming. Why couldn't he open his eyes? Something had glued the lashes together, making a painful plaster. The someone was closer now; he could hear the footsteps grow. Heavy footsteps: must be a man. Or a really manly girl, one of those really hefty, crude types, with those huge working boots and bobbed hair…
Darkness was slowly slipping in again. He didn't hear the order to "bring this street filth into the back" or feel the cruelty of strong arms swinging him roughly into a corner. He didn't see the look of disgust from the man in front of him. There was only the darkness and stickiness and the pounding that wasn't his heart and where were his papes? He'd had twenty papes left, it was supposed to be a cold night, he needed the money to for roof over his head, and why was there sawdust on the street, it didn't make sense…
Crack
He screamed. Burning, oh god, burning. Where were his papes? Have you seen my papes?
Crack
I jus' want me papes!
Crack
He screamed.
(TBC….)