Author's Note

.｡｡*ﾟi hope you're staying safe and being kind to yourself! .｡｡*ﾟ

Love youuu 💗

𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚

MANHATTAN 1898

Jack had been holding his breath the first night he'd spent back on Duane Street, jumping at every noise in the darkness. He didn't get much sleep. Maybe an hour at most, with one eye open.

The boys bombarded Jack with questions – all of them in complete shock that he'd managed to escape – hopped a ferry and rode on the back of Roosevelt's carriage no less.

Jack had borrowed Skittery's extra pair of trousers and a shirt. Kloppman discarded the Refuge uniform, burning the evidence in the fireplace.

Kloppman suggested he stay home for the day, and not to worry about paying rent for the time being.

"They'll have gotten wise to your absence by now," Kloppman had said as Jack helped him with the laundry. "You better lay low, for at least a month, until I think of something."

Basically, Kloppman was telling Jack he had to seek shelter somewhere else for his own safety. And Jack understood. The last thing he wanted to do was put Kloppman or the other newsies in danger. He knew they'd lie to the bulls for him without question, but those lies…that could be grounds for a felonious charge.

"I hope they're okay," Jack whispered, guilt hitting him like a brick.

"Who?"

"The guys I left behind," Jack said, wiping his nose. "Snyder will be on the war path. He'll kill them."

"Jack don't think about it. You don't know if that's true," Kloppman said in an even voice, trying to calm the boy down. "Those boys will be okay."

Jack said nothing. He knew Kloppman hadn't seen the things he'd seen. And he wasn't ready to tell him. He didn't think he ever wanted to tell Kloppman. Maybe it was for the best he didn't say anything to anyone. What difference would the truth make? Some people wouldn't believe him, and most wouldn't care anyway.

Winter sunshine made bright yellow patches of warmth on the thin, faded rug in the empty bunk room. As Kloppman stacked the rest of the folded linens and pillowcases on a bench, Jack sat on a bunk, looking around at the familiar wallpaper, feeling the soft sheets with his fingers.

"Everything looks so clean," Jack said absently to Kloppman. "And fancy."

"You call this fancy?" Kloppman chuckled, shaking his head as he also looked around.

Jack shrugged. "I've seen worse."

Kloppman stared at Jack. "I expect it'll get colder tonight. One of the mission societies donated two dozen quilts downstairs. Give me a hand?"

Jack nodded wordlessly, following the old man downstairs.

They both knew Jack couldn't stay at the lodging house – not for the first couple weeks, anyway. It was too much of a risk. But where could he go?

Medda's theater was an option. But that would put Sophie in danger. There were numerous newsboy lodging houses all over the city. What were the odds Snyder would send the cops to all of them?

So, when Jack showed up at the St. Vincent lodging house in Brooklyn, asking to stay there for a while, Spot Conlon was more than confused.

He looked at his childhood friend in astonishment, as if he were looking at a ghost. Nevertheless, he listened to Jack's story – the abridged version – and agreed to keep his whereabouts a secret. Jack told the superintendent his parents were out west, saving up money to send for him. He signed the register under a second alias – Joe Smith. That could be anyone. He might as well have signed himself in as anonymous.

Kloppman had been right. Within a few days of Jack's departure, Randall's island cops came sniffing around, inquiring about a runaway prisoner, demanding to see the register and search the place. Kloppman cooperated well enough, explaining he had nothing to hide.

In the meantime, Jack took a job in a sweatshop, working from morning into the late evening, remaining out of sight during the day. Most of the others he worked with didn't speak English, so it was easy to keep his head down. His boss didn't ask many questions, aside from his skills and availabilities. If Jack got the job done, there wasn't a fuss. Jack hated this line of work, craving the freedom of selling papers, but he knew it had to do for the time being.

Spot pressed Jack for information. What had become of No Name and Calico? He hadn't seen them for some time. And was it true what the papers were saying about Grim and Tide?

Jack didn't say much. His answers were to the point, revealing nothing and everything at the same time. Grim and Tide's fate was still unknown, but their prospects didn't look good. No Name was cracking – hearing voices, seeing ghosts in every shadow. And Calico was gone forever.

Jack sounded detached, cold. It was as if he were recounting an article from a paper, like all this had happened to someone else in another region, another era.

It was a lot for Spot to take in, and even more for Jack to retell.

"Are you okay?" Spot asked finally, having waited patiently for Jack to finish.

"I'm fine," Jack said, trying to smile despite his flat delivery.

Spot nodded slowly, putting a reluctant hand on Jack's shoulder. "Sure, I know. Just thought I'd ask."

There was something Jack didn't want to tell Spot, and the Brooklyn boy sensed it. He decided to leave it at that for the time being.

"You can stay here as long as you need."

"Thanks, Spot."

For the next month, Jack felt like he was living a double life. He was so happy to be free, staying safe and warm in his secret hideout. And he was more than pleased to see his old newsie gang again.

As luck would have it, a body had been discovered in the east river. The body of a teenage male – one who fit Jack's description. It had miraculously washed up on shore, all frozen and water-logged. And because no one came forward to claim the body, the cops assumed he was just another city gutter rat who met his maker prematurely. A young dock worker had gone missing around the same time as Jack's escape, but the police were eager to put a wrap to the Refuge scandal and close the case.

The papers were quick to label the body as the Randall's Island escapee, and the story of the rogue inmate died down after that. The police went back to what they deemed as more important matters, and polite society moved on to the next thing. Snyder, however, was less than satisfied.

He'd interrogated each boy in Jack's dormitory to see if they'd seen or heard anything during the night Jack went missing. No one came forward. He employed one of his old associate's method of torture: former police chief Byrnes' painful third degree. Still, none of the boys cracked, no matter how many meals were withheld or how many toenails were pulled. Fed up with their silence, Snyder had demanded the lot of them be strung up by their thumbs in the cellar.

He sent his men all over the city to search places Jack might've gone. Lodging houses, charity missions, churches, convents, precinct jails, and a few bordellos. No one they spoke with had seen nor heard of this Francis Sullivan or his alias. Jack had disappeared into thin air. And in a city as big as New York, Snyder's goons knew it was a lost cause. So, to ease the warden's mind, they picked up a couple stray vagabonds on the way back to the island.

To most, the boy in the river was proof positive Jack's escape attempt had ended in a drowning. And Snyder would have to settle for it.

Once Jack returned to Duane Street, he went back to selling papers but maintained his caution. He also returned to scavenging for laudanum at all hours with the fervor of a religious fanatic. Kloppman didn't keep any in the lodging house after his years of experience with addicted boarders.

When Jack visited Sophie at Medda's, the small girl didn't know how to react. He'd been keeping his hiding place a secret, even from Sophie, and he made his friends swear to do the same until the coast was clear.

"You let me believe you were dead!" Sophie had screamed, not knowing whether to slap him or hug him. She'd dropped the remaining of her evening edition outside of the hall's theater, her eyes watering. "The papers said you drowned!"

"Since when do you believe a word those tightwads print?" Jack replied, embracing her as if she'd be pulled away at any second. He kissed the top of her blonde hair, basking in her familiar scent.

"Jack, I really thought…" Sophie whispered, shakily. "I really thought you were dead. That ain't funny."

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry," Jack said, brushing her hair back. "Can you forgive me?"

Sophie wiped her eyes with a weak nod. "They picked dad up at the railroad," she said quietly. "He's in Ossining again."

"Good," Jack said, somewhat relieved. "Maybe they'll keep him there this time."

With a little sigh, Sophie wiped the rest of her tears with an ink-stained hand. She looked like one of those porcelain dolls in a shop window – one that had become battered and unkempt due to neglect. Strands of hair were falling out of her two, looped side braids, her pinafore torn and caked in street soot.

She hadn't left his side, clinging to his arm like a little monkey. She'd had to fend off so many of Medda's job offers while Jack was away, and though Bella had made it seem like no big deal, Sophie couldn't bring herself to give in. But now that Jack was there, he would protect her. He wouldn't let anything happen.

"Does Medda still keep…um, does she still have laudanum in her cabinet?" Jack asked, a bit ashamed, scratching the back of his head.

Sophie looked up at Jack, her smile fading. She thought for a moment, trying to remember whether Medda had thrown the bottles out or not. The woman used the tincture to relax customers long enough for her girls to steal their wallets. And she did it by putting a few drops in their drinks.

"I think so," Sophie replied, squeezing Jack's hand as she beamed. "Wanna get pretzels? I'll pay for them!"

"No, thanks," Jack said, giving her a soft, anxious smile. "I really need—" He stopped himself, rethinking how he'd phrase it. "Actually, yeah, why not? But I'll buy 'em. First, I want to go say hi to Medda."

Nodding eagerly, Sophie collected the papers she'd dropped. "Okay! I'll finish selling these, and when you get back, we'll go!"

Jack leaned down and kissed her forehead again, brushing his thumb under her eye. "Sounds perfect, Soph. Go get 'em."

He watched his little sister give a tiny twirl of excitement and skip off to finish hawking the evening edition. His smile faded as he turned around and walked into Irving Hall, now on a mission. He pushed past a few patrons and Medda's dancers, nearly bumping into Florence.

"Jack Kelly," She called in a sultry voice, fixing herself a drink behind the bar. She sauntered over, resting a hand on his chest. "Never thought I'd see you again."

Jack flinched at her touch, pulling away as if she'd burnt him.

"Is it possible that prison made you more handsome?" She purred in his ear.

Restraining the urge to push her away, Jack plastered on a fake, close-lipped smile. "You're too kind to me, Beatrice," he mumbled, moving past her toward Medda's dressing room.

"It's Florence," She called after him, her expression falling.

Ignoring her, Jack maneuvered his way backstage and found the nearly hidden door, giving it a knock or two. With no response, Jack poked his head in and found the room empty. Glancing around, Jack hurried into the dressing room and closed the door behind him quickly.

As if by heart, he moved to the small cabinet next to Medda's vanity table, sorting through bottles and tins of this and that. At last, he found a small bottle of half-empty laudanum and unscrewed the tiny cap. He poured a few drops into the cap and took it like a shot.

A surge of euphoria overtook him almost immediately, and he didn't notice the woman standing in the doorway with her arms crossed until he caught a glimpse of her in the mirror.

He jumped, screwing the lid back on quickly and putting the bottle back in the cabinet, but it was too late.

"I'm sorry," Jack began, looking panicked. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm rather sorry I gave it to you in the first place," Medda cooed in a faraway voice, her eyes saddened. She placed her hands on her hips, all done up in her evening performance attire, reeking of perfume. "I imagine you have quite the story to tell me. Not every day I have a fugitive in my theater."

Jack gave a sheepish smile, crossing the dressing room, and giving her hand a soft kiss. "Another time," he said quietly. "Sophie's waiting for me."

Medda nodded, placing a hand on his cheek. "Better not keep her waiting then."

She watched him leave before turning to her medicine cabinet with an unsettled gaze.

Jack spotted Bella amidst the vaudeville caravansary, playing with a sailor's coat buttons as she gazed up at him longingly. She was giggling at something he said, and he moved his hand to brush back a strand of her raven hair.

Jack winced, feeling rather nauseous at the sight of someone as young as Sophie in that position. Without another thought, Jack walked over, taking her hand.

"Keep away from my little sister," Jack snarled at the man, beginning to pull Bella away. "Or I'll break your goddamn fingers."

The sailor scoffed, taking his drink, and moving on to another young woman.

Bella was both in awe and upset with Jack for stealing her away. She'd never heard him speak like that before. "Jack, what the hell? He's been at sea for so long, it wouldn't have taken much to make him happy," she said with a partial laugh.

"I'll pay for him," Jack said with a wink, walking with her out the door. "Come on, I'm taking you and Sophie out. Pretzels on me."

Bella grinned at that, happily meeting up with Sophie outside the theater as Jack draped his arms around both of them.

Maybe, Jack thought, head full of laudanum, things could begin to go back to normal. Whatever the hell that meant.

The only trouble was the guilt Jack felt for the boys he'd left behind. The same kind of guilt a survivor of a shipwreck feels for the lost crew. For all they knew that body in the river was Jack's.

Perhaps that was for the best.