Ok so I am sorry, but I just have no idea what POV I write better in so I'm just trying whatever comes to me when I start writing, this is the first piece of fanfiction I've ever attempted and I'm still trying to figure out what writing style works best for me, so if things switch back and forth that's on me. Also play spot the musical theater reference, I promise it's not too hard.

I own nothing but Bets.

Nearly sprinting through the streets of Manhattan, I make my way back to the dusty, two story apartment I'm unlucky enough to call home. I shouldn't have left Morris and Bets alone, not when there's obviously something going on. Maybe I should go back? No there isn't any time for that. Weisel will beat me back home if I do that, and I need to figure out what's going on.

The streets are crowded, the general stench of sweat and dirt is strong enough to clog the senses, but you can't expect anything else from the cheaper distracts of Manhattan. I can't twist through the crowds of people fast enough. Each face I pass is more worried than the next. They could be concerned about anything and everything; from putting food on an old dining table to the kids they are undoubtedly sending off to some factory, wondering if today's the day that kid comes home with a mangled arm or missing fingers.

If there is one good thing that comes from the years Morris and I have spent with Weisel, it's our jobs helping him at the newsstand. We never had to go off to work in one of those disgusting hell holes. I have to wonder whether or not it's worth it though. If we had grown up working like that, but were safe at home with a family that actually gave a damn about us, things probably would have been very different today. Hell, we may have actually had friends growing up, or a semi-normal childhood.

Morris and I had always been around older guys, always business oriented, and not a friendly type of business at that. People like Charles and Edgar, thugs for hire. Sure we had, and have, Bets, but now that we're older I think even that may be slipping. She is going to get hurt if Weisel finds out we so much as speak to her. I've told Morris that a thousand times, but he doesn't want to listen, even after what I told him yesterday he still insisted on spending his day helping her sell papers, and we all almost got caught because of it.

Dodging a handful of kids lucky enough to not be working, I finally reach the house I'm unlucky enough to call home. Taking the front steps two at a time, I grab the key we keep on a ledge over the door and step inside.

It's quiet and dark. Dust floats in the air through the sliver of sunlight from the open door. I don't bother turning on any lights and head straight down the dim hallway, up the stairs, and to the larger of the two bedrooms in the house, located near the front of the building. I hesitate before slowly pushing the door open.

Taking a cautious step forward into Weisel's room, my eyes dart to every corner of the room. I glance over the desk in the far corner to the wardrobe, to the large bed that dominates the room. I don't have the slightest clue what to look for; Weisel said something about certain affairs. It's got something to do with Morris and I, they want us out of the picture I think, I just can't figure out why.

We don't have anything worth putting any amount of trouble towards; at least, we haven't since we were little. My only real shot of figuring anything out is to just go through Weisel's junk with the hope of finding some hint as to what they were talking about.

First I make my way over to the desk in the corner. There are papers and letters haphazardly spread across the desk. Sorting through them I find letters from Snyder and other undesirables, newspaper clippings, and quickly jotted notes, none of which have anything to do with Morris and I, unless you count the fact that we help distribute the papers. The drawers on the desk are just as useless; they're filled with pens, pencils, old business orders and newspapers from days where the headlines were big. Who knew Weisel was sentimental?

Opening the wardrobe, I take one look at the row of coats and shirts and know I'm wasting my time. A low creak then runs through the old house. I freeze. If Weisel catches me in his room I'm dead for sure. When there's no swearing, stomping, or screaming, I chalk it up to the normal creaks of the place.

I can see the sun rising higher as I glance out of the window. I'm running out of time. That creak may have been a false alarm, but, odds are, the next one won't be.

The usual drill is for Weisel to come back to the house after wrapping up at the distribution center, several other men in tow, and have everyone gather around the small dining room table in the kitchen. From there they grab cards, dice, or whatever else to play poker or whatever game they can think of, so long as it has high stakes. Throughout their game they periodically send someone down the block to the closest bar for drinks whenever the stock in the kitchen runs low.

Morris and I try our hardest to avoid the house until they eventually all go out later in the afternoon. Every now and then we'll get drafted into their informal meetings to discuss how to deal with one issue or another.

I make my way to the other end of the room, to glance under the bed, which is actually completely cleared out. Well that was a bust. Glancing around the room once more, the little bedside table catches my eye. The top of the table is more or less clear, with just a pair of glasses and a pen sitting beside a lamp, but the handles of the two drawers are well worn.

Never in all the years that Morris and I have lived with Weisel have we looked through anything in this room. We avoided the place as much as possible. It has to be something important, nothing personal, no major documents; nothing of any real importance has turned up yet. This has to be the Weasel's personal store.

I slowly reach out for the top draw, and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding when I see that it's virtually empty. All that leaves is the larger bottom drawer.

Once again reaching forward, stooping down, I pull open the drawer and am greeted by a large cardboard box. Glancing around the room, as if to double check that I'm alone, I pick the box up and sit down on the ground, placing it back down beside me. I carefully remove the lid and peer inside.

Files, papers, checks, and random amounts of cash make up most of the contents of the box. Each paper is marked with handwritten labels, some are the name of businesses, others carry the titles of investments or newspaper deals.

My stomach lurches the moment I see the next file. In a scrawling script, unlike the other somewhat neat labels, are two names I have spent the last twelve years of my life trying to forget; Harry and Christina Delancey.

All thought of Weisel, Snyder, or any other goon that wants me beat to a pulp slips from my mind in an instant as I gingerly open the dusty file, and see the one thing I would never expect to set eyes on.

The very first thing in the file is a picture. To anyone else, it would be inconsequential, but to me, it's better than any Christmas present some rich kid in the Upper East Side could ever receive. Four figures are in the frame, a man that almost looks like me now, a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair, and two little boys, one with shaggy blonde hair, grinning while holding onto his mother's skirt, and a little boy in his mother's arms. The smaller of the two boys had his mother's bright hair, and was completely comfortable in her arms, even though he could probably walk on his own. The father was smiling with his arms around the whole family, his smile copied onto the face of the youngest boy, the same grin I used to see on Morris's face often, before Weisel put us to work.

Morris probably doesn't even remember the day we took this, he has to be too young. That may actually be good. If I couldn't remember all the happy times we had before, picnics in a nearby field, playing tag and the pair of us cackling whilst running away from our dad. The day we took this picture, Mom had been running around like crazy, trying to get everyone ready; I just pulled Morris out of the way so she could get everything she needed to do done. We sat in the kitchen eating cookies that were meant for a Sunday dinner dessert until both of our parents had shown up at the kitchen door.

Actually, I think they had stood at the door for several minutes before addressing either of us. They had been talking about something in hushed tones; both of their faces worried, I only wish I knew what it was about.

Sliding the picture into my shirt pocket, I take a look at the remaining papers and documents. Most detail landownership, investments, and other monetary undertakings. One thing I don't see anywhere is a will. I'm not sure I would actually want to find something like that though. Moving over a receipt from some tailor, I notice the corner of an envelope. Removing the envelope from the stack of papers, I once again take note of the scrawling, messy, script, except this time, the script bears two different names; Morris and Oscar.

"I don't care! Do what you have to!" I'd recognize that voice anywhere. I scramble, replacing the contents of the box and putting the room back in order, but not before slipping the letter into my pants pocket. I hear the front door open as I slow down my pace in an effort to muffle the sound of my movement across the house to the room Morris and I share.

I slip into my room as quietly as possible, and I can still hear Weisel. He is coming up the stairs. Grabbing one of the few books in the room, I kick off my shoes and throw my hat onto the dresser as I nearly sprint to my bed, lie down, and open the book to a random page. Not even moments later, Weisel bursts through the door.

"Where is that brother of yours?" Well, thanks for the hello, "I haven't seen him since I left the distribution office earlier."

"Well, he better not be too late getting in tonight, the three of us have a lot to discuss. Some changes will be happening around here very soon, and we need to plan for them. Come on downstairs, we can go ahead and start planning without him."

I wait until I hear him move on down the stairs before letting out a frustrated sigh. I throw the book onto the bed as I stand up, and pat the picture in my pocket before following the weasel downstairs. You better not get back too late Morris.

"So which way are we headed?" Morris asks as we continue walking further away from my usual selling spot.

"Well, it's been hard to make a decision seeing as how you keep distracting me with your awful attempts at selling newspapers." I attempt to give him a pointed glare, but we both burst out laughing almost immediately.

"I'm glad I'm amusing, but I do like to know how far I've gotten myself into walking." He is not going to like my answer at all. "Well you know how the 'hattan newsies work, we pretty much have everything covered, and we don't take each other spots, especially when selling is as hard as it is right now."

"I don't think I like where you're headed with this."

"You shouldn't."

"Great." He looks down at me as he says, "Get it over with."

"Elmer's sick so he's back at the Lodging House for the day on Jack's orders, so I'm gonna take over his spot for the day."

"Which is where exactly?"

"The corner of Bowery and Broome."

His eyebrows shoot up as he spins on his heel to stand in front of me, blocking my way. "No! You do not need to sell over there and you know it."

"I don't exactly have a lot of options, besides, you're with me." I try to walk around him, but he slides over to stand in front of me once again. "This is actually one thing your brother and I would agree on. Elmer can sell there because he's both one of the oldest newsies, and he's got enough muscle that he can handle himself."

"I can manage just fine on my own if you're scared to go down there Morris."

"C'mon, don't be like that Bets. You know just as well as I do that all that's down there are bars, brothels, and-"

"I know very well what's down there, but it doesn't change the fact that it is a half decent selling spot and besides, I've got a tall and handsome bodyguard." Oh wait no I did not just say that.

Morris ducks his head as he steps backwards, turning around so he can walk beside me. "So, handsome?"

Gritting my teeth, I refuse to look at him as I say, "If you never bring it up again, neither will I."

"Fair enough, though handsome doesn't do much for the Bowery Boys gang, and everyone knows there are two people they hate, Catholics and Irish, and I look about as Irish as is possible."

"Actually, you could use more freckles for the whole Irish thing."

"I guess that's good. Still, I would like to at least try and avoid them. Let's stop a block up from Broome, we won't be quiet as far into the heart of the Bowery then."

"You are a complete nitwit you know that?"

"What?" He grins as we both turn to look at each other. It's been a while since I've seen that mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "It's my favorite street in the city, Delancey Street!" I just smile and shake my head and he laughs beside me.

It's a short walk over to the Bowery, and we spend what's left of the morning selling papers. For lunch we duck into a little café for a couple of cheap sandwiches, which aren't bad, but it's not Jacobi's.

The afternoon was more successful, with more men getting off from work and heading down to frequent the Bowery's - as Morris put it - institutions. We did receive a few strange looks though. I'm not sure which one of us they were directed to. It has been getting harder for me to pass as a boy, so I would expect some of the people on the streets to have their suspicions, and a girl in newsie attire is something I can only assume draws some attention.

Morris received some curious looks too though. He may be seventeen, but his height makes him look older. He had taken off his tie sometime after lunch and run it through one of his belt loops, and let his suspenders off his shoulders so they hung in two loops at his side, but he kept his hat on. He genuinely looked like a young businessman, the near complete opposite of a newsie, and so the sight of him selling papers drew some attention. We made an odd looking duo, but the attention helps sell the paper faster than usual.

It doesn't take long for my stack of papers to dwindle to almost nothing, and we're down to the last two papers by four o'clock. Morris had established a few minutes earlier that I, "work too hard," and so he was going to sell the last few papers.

I watch him try to get rid of the papers from my seat on the ground. I won't take back what I said about him being handsome earlier, not when I know I was right, but that doesn't mean anything. A person can find someone good looking without actually being attracted to them, right? Of course his slightly disheveled appearance only enhances his attractiveness. Then there's the light of the afternoon sun shining down gracing each of his features from my position on the ground, and oh dear mother please no. I think Specs and Al may be right after all.

I suppose it would explain why I love seeing him smile so much, and why I always notice the little changes in his appearance, and how it's so easy for him to get me to smile. We can't though, I couldn't, I don't know. There's too much bad blood between the newsies and the Delanceys. No way could something like that ever work. Besides, it's all moot, through all the years that we've been close, it's only ever been as friends. There is no reason to think that would change for him even it does for me somehow. Don't wish, don't start Bets, forget it.

He turns around and gives an odd smile, the sunlight reflected in surprisingly warm eyes, eyes that somewhat catch me off guard. What in the world is the smile for though? Now he's leaning his head towards me, and I can tell he is about to start laughing. Oh no. I'm sure my face carries a look of horror as I whip my head to look at the ground. I can hear him chuckle softly; I can't believe I just stared at him. I can feel my face starting to turn pink so I pull my hat down to cover it, letting some of hair spill out.

"You alright down there Bets?"

"Just peachy Morris. Sold those papes yet?" my voice is muffled by my hat as I ask the question. "Not yet, but there a few guys headed this way I think I can pass them off to. I know I'm not supposed to mention it, but-"

"If you aren't supposed to mention it then don't" Standing up I take one of the papers from him, step forward, and get ready to shout a headline, when I feel something tugging at the back of my hat. "What?" I try to turn around.

"Hold on for a minute miss bustle." Morris pulls on the side of my cap to keep me facing forward with him standing behind me.

"Really, that's the best you can come up with?"

"Cut me some slack, I'm trying to do something here." He gently tucks my stray hair back under my cap, funny, I never thought I'd use gentle in a situation like this. Whenever one of the other newsies catch my hair misbehaving they help fix it, have to keep certain things under wraps you know, but, while they try to be careful, it normally involves a measure of pulling. Morris is absurdly careful, caring in a way. I feel him let go as he says, "There, you're all set."

I turn around and say a quick, "Thanks!" but nearly bump into him as I do so. My line of sight falls at his shoulders, and, looking up, I realize that when I turned around, he didn't step back at all. Our eyes meet for a brief second where we are just inches apart, but then he takes a hasty step backwards and I can breathe again.

"So uh, papers." He says.

"Right, thanks again." He hangs back while I sell my paper to a man headed into a nearby pub. "So there's one more left," he steps forward to stand beside me as we both look around for someone to sell the paper in his hand to.

Three men, well maybe not men, probably Oscar's age, they look about nineteen, though they could be a few years older, turn onto the main road from an alley and start heading our way. "What do you think about those three?" I tap Morris on the shoulder with the intention of pointing them out, but judging by the look on his face he's already seen them, and he doesn't like them.

He stands up straighter and changes his stance to make himself seem larger, puffing out his chest. His face is virtually emotionless except for his eyes, they carry a sharp focus and intensity that I'm not sure I've ever seen before.

As the trio walks up to us he casually slips his hand into his right pocket, most people wouldn't find it odd, but I know that's where he keeps his brass knuckles.

"That today's paper boy?" the man heading the group asks. "Well, it isn't tomorrows," I respond. He seems a bit stunned. Morris cuts his eyes at me, but I've already dug the hole now, and I'm not about to grovel to get out of it. "Let me see it." I should just let him have it, I really should, but I'm a newsie and dammit I need that money. "It'll cost you a penny sir." Maybe the sir will save it. Judging from the now furious expression on the man's face, it didn't. The man nods to each of his companions, but before they can do anything Morris tries to save the situation.

"Look, this is just a bit of misunderstanding, my friend here will give you the paper, it's not a problem." He turns his back to them to face me, and mouths, 'Bowery boys.' Oh good job Bets, your big mouth is about to get both you and Morris soaked. I peek over his shoulder, I'm not sure why he hasn't turned around, and say, "What he said, really, it isn't a problem." When the man doesn't make a move to take the paper from me I look back to Morris to see that his face is once again set in that look of steel, and his brass knuckles are on the fist balled in front of me, where none of the men can see it.

"I would love to kid, but the paper isn't important anymore. We demand a certain amount of respect, especially on our home turf, and if I was to let you get away with that, then that respect would start to wane, and that's just something I can't have. Boys," the man once again turns to his companions, "teach them a lesson, from me." With those words he walks off, and I focus my attention on the two now grinning men coming steadily closer.

Morris locks eyes with me as he whispers, "Please, for what will be the first time in all the years I have known you, listen to me for the next couple minutes."

"Just this once," I nod my head as I get ready to either run or stand my ground. I don't know what he's about to try, but he's got his mind set on something, and if there's one thing he has a bit of an edge of over me in, it would definitely be fighting.

"What the hell do you think this kid's problem is?" One of the men is talking to the other. "You can't pretend we ain't here by turning your back on us boy."

The other man shouts, "Hey!" steps forward, and grabs Morris's shoulder, but Morris continues to ignore him. Morris mouths the word duck as the man moves to yank his shoulder backwards. I drop to the ground as the man growls, "We're talking to y-" unfortunately, he can't finish his sentence because he drops to the ground out cold before he gets the chance.

Morris had been ready for the man to pull him back, and used that momentum, with his own, to turn around and swing his fist through the space my head had been occupying, and connect his brass knuckles with the man's temple. Using his entire body to put force behind the punch didn't give the unsuspecting thug a chance.

Scrambling back up to my feet I stand just behind Morris, who has dropped into a fighting stance, both fists up, bouncing from one foot to another.

The only man left standing shakes his look of shock and it is replaced with fury. Snarling, "You bastard!" he charges forward. Morris tries to get in a few good hits but the man doesn't feel them, most likely because of a good bit of alcohol.

Not bothering to defend himself, both of the man's fists are flying with Morris now moving backwards, trying to avoid said fists until a lucky right hook connects with his mouth. His head snaps backwards and while he's distracted, the man is able to kick his feet from under him, pounces on top of him, and grabs the front of his shirt, fist pulled back.

He must have hit Morris pretty hard because I can tell he's still trying to orient himself, he's a little dazed, and there's blood running down his chin from his now split lip. His eyes land on me and he croaks, "Run." I know I said I'd listen to you Morris, but if you really think I'm going to leave you here to get the shit beaten out of you, you must be insane.

I take a deep breath before sprinting forward, tackling the man, both of us rolling off of and away from Morris. There is blood on the man's forehead, he must have scraped it against the street, and I use his moment of confusion to my advantage, putting all the strength I have into connecting my fist with his nose.

There is a sickening crunch on contact and bright crimson blood spurts out of his nose as it breaks. The man yelps as he throws up his hands to cover his face, not realizing that it's the smaller of his two assailants that has the better of him, and I clamber away from him before I lose my advantage.

Morris pulls himself up off the ground as I run over to him. A deep groan makes us both turn to look at, I'll just call him Broken Nose, as he starts to get up off the ground, looking ready to kill. Sleeping Beauty is also finally starting to regain consciousness, and trying to look around from his prone position on the ground. I can't believe I got us into this mess. I should've kept my mouth shut, but now we're probably both gonna have targets on our backs. Why am I so stupid, if I had just-

"Bets!" Morris grabs my wrist, and I'm pulled out of my thoughts as I turn to look at him. "Let's get out of here."

I follow him as we both run through the streets of lower Manhattan twisting through alleyways, losing any possible pursuit in a few minutes. Once we reach an alley near Jacobi's I stop, huffing for breath. Morris jogs to the end of the alley, checks the street ahead of us for any sign of trouble, and then jogs back up to me, with a wide grin on his face.

So that's not actually the end of the scene more of a mid-scene cliffhanger, but I wanted to getthis chapter out already because ya'll have waited long enough, and hopefully this means the next chapter will be out in a week seeing as how this is an easy place to pick up/continue writing and I now have all planning done through the entirety of Act 1. That is all.