For the second time in two days, he stood on the same street. He was positive what had brought him here this time, though. The strange turn of events last night. Well, that and his feet, and he trusted his feet, trusted his intuition. His feet had barely ever led him wrong before.

With a odd sense of irony, he knocked on the door. It was something he had never done before. It was his house, after all, though he had not lived in it for years.

"It's unlocked, Morgan."

He heard the shout from within the small house and hesitated. She thought he was someone else. He hardly wanted to surprise her again. Last night, after having a gun pointed in his direction for a full five minutes, he had done the only thing he could think of, and simply backed out of the house. Today though, she would know someone was here.

He turned the knob and let himself in, stopping on the threshold.

"In here."

Her voice had come from his left. She was sitting in the living room, in his mother's old rocking chair, some knitting in her lap. As he stepped into the doorway, she set it away. Her eyes did not look up, but he saw her head turn subtly, training an ear towards him.

"You're the same boy from last night."

He smirked, marveling inwardly.

"Yea, and if we could skip the whole gun thing, I swear I ain't hea ta hoirt'cha."

He saw her try and suppress a smile.

"How did you know I wasn't Morgan, or whoever?"

"Your steps sound different. I'm guessing you're short and kind of skinny."

He rolled his eyes and moved closer to her and into the room, finding the chair opposite her. He did not comment on her pronouncement of his stature.

"Well you're shorter than Morgan. You're steps are lighter and closer together."

He had never really considered how much you could tell about a person just from the sound of their steps.

"So who's Morgan?"

"My brother." She offered immediately. "He hasn't been around much lately. I do hope he's alright. He looks out for me. He's a good brother."

Her face lit with a smile as she talked about him, then as she fell silent the smile faded.

"Sometimes I wish he wouldn't. I know he feels responsible for me and I hate to be a burden."

"Why does he feel responsible?"

"When we were young we used to live out in the country. There was a big blue lake and a giant willow tree on the bank that we used to climb right to the top of and jump from." The smile was back. "One day when I was nine, Morgan pushed me out of the tree and into the lake. I was so surprised that I hit the water with my eyes open. Everything was a little blurry for a few days and then one morning I woke up and I couldn't see anything anymore."

"Oh." He found himself saying lamely.

An 'I'm sorry' had risen to his lips too, but it was simply not a phrase he uttered. Ever. His tongue could not wrap around the words. She grinned though and he wondered if she had heard it anyways.

"I learned to live with it a long time ago. It's surprising really, how well you can get on without being able to see. I go to the market, buy groceries, clean the house. In a way, I think some things are easier and I think people are easier to understand when you can't see."

"Really?"

Before he had time to lean away, she had leaned closer to him and put a hand to his face. Her soft, smooth fingertips traced his eyebrows, his cheekbones and down his jaw line.

"So serious." She murmured.

Her finger slid along his lips that couldn't help but smirk.

"But with a tiny smile."

She leaned back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to consider him, though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Do you always hide everything behind that mask?"

His mouth opened just a bit as he stared at her.

"Well, it's not hard to guess. You said last night that you used to live here, but when I first got here there was years of dust on everything. I'm guessing something happened here that made you not want to come back for a long time."

He got to his feet and strode away across the room, desiring nothing more than to leave.

"There's a little swagger in your steps too. A leader, are you? Other people look up to you? Probably boys."

He paused to turn his head and look at her. She had gone back to her knitting with unnerving complacency.

"Well, I can see why you hide it."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well if you have other boys who look up to you, you can't seem weak. You don't think you can tell them 'I have something that bothers me sometimes' and still keep their respect."

He turned back to face her, but did not return to his chair. For some reason he felt the need to keep some space between them.

"You're-" He hesitated, unable to come up with the right word.

"Perceptive. That's all. I'm not psychic or anything." There was a faint teasing hint to her voice. He was slightly annoyed by it, but still more amazed than anything else.

"Do you know Morgan?" She asked suddenly.

He was startled by the abrupt change in subject, but not unappreciative. He did not like talking about himself. He found himself shaking his head and then mentally chided himself and answered her aloud.

"No."

"He said he was sub-leasing this place. I suppose that means he lied. Unless you don't own this place anymore?"

There was a faint hint of hopefulness to her voice and for a moment he considered lying to her, but he wasn't sure if she'd be able to tell.

"I own it still. I can show ya tha key."

Once again he cringed inwardly. He could not 'show' her anything. She, thankfully, ignored it.

"My mother died about a year ago and we moved to the city to make it on our own. Morgan found this place. He said he had rent all worked out and that he would take care of it. I think I knew he was lying." She sighed and he watched her fingers flash at her knitting. It was the only part of her that moved. "I don't think he hangs around with the nicest of people. I worry about him sometimes, but I can't really help him. The best I can do is take care of myself so that he doesn't need to worry about me."

She heaved a deep sigh.

"You're still standing there, I know it. If you were going to leave you would have by now. Why don't you come back and sit down."

He smirked and shook his head. She was really quite incredible. He had been contemplating making for the door, but he was rather intrigued by her. She had known before he did that he was not about to leave. He crossed the living room floor again and sat back down.

"So, do you wanna tell me what happened here?" Her voice was soft and cajoling.

He found he wanted to tell her, but he could not find the words.

"It's alright. Obviously, it still bothers you to talk about it, so we don't have to. Tell me more about you though."

"Well- what d'ya wanna know?" He asked haltingly.

"Who are these boys? The one's who look up to you."

"Tha Brooklyn Newsies." He said with and odd sense of confirming what she already knew.

"Newsies?"

"Newspaper boys. We peddle dem on tha streets."

"So, a street gang?"

"Not really. I mean, life can be a bit rough for us. Sometimes we might steal a wallet ta buy food, but we ain't inta nothin' much more than pickpocketing. Maybe a few fist fights here and dere."

"I bet you're a good fighter." She said with a smile.

"And tell me how youse knew dat."

"Well, you must have earned their respect in the first place somehow, and you're carrying a weapon aren't you?"

He tilted his head to the side with an amused smile and his fingers worked his gold-topped cane from his suspenders.

"It's just a walkin' stick. Hea."

His fingers reached out to place the cane in her hands and he watched her fingers fly over the embellished golden ends of it.

"You don't use it for walking though." She said, the slight tease back in her voice.

"No, youse is right. I don't."

She handed his cane back and sat back in her chair. Again, her hazel eyes seemed to contemplate him.

"So, the handsome, cold, respected leader of the Brooklyn Newsies with a past to hide and enough fight to knock out anyone who might try and ask him about it."

There was a smile on her lips and teasing still in her voice. He opened his mouth to retort, found no words there to do so and shut his mouth again. He had never heard a more accurate, succinct description of himself and she had only known him for a few minutes.

"You know, I don't think anyone would think less of you if they found out. Everyone gets sad sometimes."

Despite the fact that he knew she couldn't see him, he could not meet her hazel eyes.

"I still cry, you know."

"Hrm?"

"My eyes don't work, but they still tear up when I'm sad. I think maybe you have a lot in common with my eyes."

Startlingly, he felt a tightening in his chest, as if she had literally squeezed his heart and tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them back.

"I oughta go." He said a little gruffly, getting to his feet.

Her face held a knowing smile.

"You'll come back and visit me, won't you?"

He hesitated.

"Yea." He said finally, and meant it.

"Good."

"Ya know, I neva got ya name."

"Rhiannon."

"It's pretty."

"It's Welsh."

"Ain't ya gonna ask mine?"

She shrugged.

"It's sort of like seeing your face. I don't really need it to know you."

He grinned at her. Then, to his left the front door slammed open. A giant of a man stood there, framed in the doorway. He knew without being told that it was Morgan. He was about to raise a hand to offer a shake to Morgan when the boy rumbled into speech.

"Who are you? What are ya doin' here? Get out!"

He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short.

"No, Morgan, this is a friend of mine." Rhiannon was on her feet and her words arrested Morgan's angry movement.

His eyes were the same color as hers, but small and set deep in his head. His face turned back with a scowl.

"I still want you out." He said threateningly.

"Hey, take 'er easy. I was jus' leavin'."

He sidestepped Morgan and made for the door. Morgan allowed him passage, but followed him as if wanting to make sure he left. At the door he gave him a slight shove.

"I dunno what you think ya doin', but you stay away from my sister. She has enough problems." He said in the same low, threatening tone as before.

He regained his balanced on the cobblestones and turned to watch the door being slammed in his face. It was an odd feeling to be thrown from his own house, and he didn't have the slightest clue as to what Morgan thought he had done that was so bad.