Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.


A/N: If looks could really kill – my profession would be staring.


Warning: PG-13 (language, adult themes, adult situations)


vi.)
her secrets are all hollywood tabloids&high school gossip
uncompromisably compromised&juvinille
folded/u n f o l d e d like a child's origami
her creases are worn thin on the edges
it would be all too easy to rip her to shreds
--(& he knows it)

She doesn't know where they are (did she ever know where they were?). Two days ago she woke up in the passenger seat of a car she didn't recognize (but she didn't recognize much anymore) with Boy Vagabond stroking her with one hand and driving with the other. The sky had been dark and she couldn't the world around her (she'd been locked away with Boy Vagabond so long she had forgotten that there even was an outside). That was the way of it though – he only drove at night so he could follow the stars (second to the right and straight on). .

Questions of money and how he found the car come into her mind but she has her own secrets so she doesn't ask (even though she knows he won't give her an answer anyway). It is superfluous to ask where they're going or if they will ever return to where they were before. Inside she knows that if she wants to be with him she can't question him (she just wants him to love her – she'll do anything). The compass on the dashboard is neighbors with a hula dancer. The arrow points south west (are there mermaids in Texas?) and she wonders where he's taking her (he likes it from behind).

He keeps her in a precarious state of suspended reality. He is becoming her reality and she believes everything he says. There is a confused strain on her face tonight, though (she's breathing uncertainty), and he can sense it. It isn't that she doesn't trust him – she just can't figure out how to trust the road signs as they speed by through the window. She wants to curl into him (she wants him inside of her) and hide from the changing scenery. If these places were changing why wouldn't he? (She's never been guaranteed his certainty.). He's unskilled in comfort (other than primal fucking) so he extends his elegant hand and touches her.

The skin of her arm is cold when he brushes his finger tips against it, but goosebumps rise for a whole different reason (it takes so little for her to want him). She peels her forehead off of the window to look at him (she leaves a greasy smear against the cool glass – they both need a bath) and his hand finds hers. Past that he doesn't know what to do (neither does she) but for now it is enough.

Dawn is catching up with them. No matter how fast they fly – tomorrow always finds them and they wind up a day older. Boy Vagabond has decided that he isn't a morning person (or much of an afternoon person at that) and his world is all that is important to him (could she ever become his world?). They find a windowless motel with profanity written on the walls and chipped Formica in the bathroom (but there aren't any roaches so they consider this a luxury).

Tonight (this morning? He unplugged the clock first thing when he entered) he comforts her in his way. When he touches her – it is gentle first (he is still going to get what he wants). She breathes in every word he recites and sighs at the weight of his body over hers. When it is over and he is clean he reaches for his journal and a pen.

"Come sleep." The request is timid, child like and frightened. Normally he wouldn't have even heard her, but in the quiet of the room the he can't ignore her.

"There are miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep
." He replied almost absentmindedly.

"You need your sleep." She is used to him borrowing of the genius of others (she doesn't even ask who said it first anymore because he always forgets what he has just said). He is used to her mothering her (it comes naturally) and usually kisses her to get her to stop (then she comes naturally). Now, however, he agrees with her though he'd never let her know that.

He opens the pages of his leather bound book of dreams and begins to read to her. His voice was familiar and soothing in its magical way of sedating her (he cast a spell over her with his words). It's an unfair advantage, really, but no one fights fair (because this is either love or war). Tonight, however, she tries to stave off the sandman's call, but pendulous lids betray her weary bones (she'll be gone before long) and he wins this time. Once she's asleep he tries to write but his words still haven't come back the way he wants them to, so he watches her float peacefully from dream to dream. There are imaginations of what she was like as a child (before life had time to leave its mark on her face and body) and in that moment he finds her beautiful.

Silently he crawls into the bed next to her. She automatically turns towards his warmth (he's always amazed at how responsive she is to him). He reassures himself that if he takes her far enough away from what she used to call home and replace her Then with his Now then she will never be able to find her way back. He never wants her to change, to grow older and leave him, and he plans to do all he can to have that happen.