Heyo!

Before we get to the introduction, we have the ever-present...

Review Responses:

Dylan Quagmir: It was at this moment that Ronnie remembered exactly how much she'd effed up. All I can say is I am sorry. And thank you for the compliment, I love fitting in all three of those ships!

Hufflepufdraws: Again... apologies. I will give you Specs headcanons, just as soon as I come up with them. Please do make the sad Les and TB drawing, I dare you. (No seriously don't do that to yourself you already did a sad one-shot.)

Newsies Square: Yes Vil, I'm out of my damn mind. You know this. Don't act like you ain't done worse to Sniper.

And now that those are out of the way, I have a bit of introduction:

I've been sitting on this one-shot for a while, and with my free time today I decided to finally share it with you guys. I got to do this for an assignment in my Creative Writing class, and I'm truly proud of how it turned out!

Unlike most of my stuff, it's set in canon era, 1899, and remains as true to the source material as possible (with a little twist at the end).

Do please enjoy!

Breaking, Falling

Things fell into place a lot more quickly than Davey Jacobs had expected after the strike. With the price of papers lowered, he and Les could make a proper living off what they sold. With their salary and Sarah's earnings from her job at the garment factory, the family managed to stay afloat financially, without worrying basic needs such as rent and food were going to capsize them. Mrs. Jacobs was able to stay home and tend to her injured husband while her kids went off to work, and as the weeks went by Davey noticed the lines in her face softening, the gray in her hair slowing its spread. All hardship was put to rest. For the first time since his father's layoff, he could loosen his shoulders and breathe properly.

His days found an easy rhythm, rising early, making the journey through the dim Manhattan streets before they filled with peddlers and carriages, arriving at the circulation gate just as the morning bell rang. He'd collect his day's papers, peruse the merchandise a minute or two for a noteworthy story, then head back into the hustle and bustle, dragging Les along with him. The younger boy's fake disease gag still worked like a well-oiled printing press, so they depended on that before splitting off to sell anything that remained. By the end of his first month, Davey could hawk thirty papers a day, and as the next rolled by, he was pushing fifty. Mostly, he targeted a well-educated crowd, businessmen on their lunch breaks or store owners having slow days, anyone who looked in need of reading material as they wandered the cobblestone streets. Davey found that with these particular people, he could describe an article at length and manage to catch their interest enough to make a sale. Other newsies relied on cheap tricks and youthful charm, but Davey didn't need to be a liar. His height already separated him from the crowd, and as long as he kept the attention on him, he'd get customers. This tactic was original and well-thought out, something Jack Kelly, in all his years of experience, would never have been able to manage.

For as much of a presence as Jack had been when Davey first started, he was something of an idea now. A dreamlike vapor, not fully there but still tugging at the corners of his mind. Having taken a job as a political cartoonist for The World, Jack spent his time pushing pencil rather than paper. The most Davey saw of him was an accidental collision in the street, a quick hello and payment for a product the older boy didn't take. With each date he spotted in the newsprint, it occurred to Davey that he hadn't really become familiar with Jack at all. Sure, they had led a strike together, and there had been declined dinner invitations on both sides, but that concluded their most meaningful interactions. What Davey knew about Jack and all he still had to discover could fill two very unbalanced sides of a scale. As a result, news that was bound to be earth-shattering for many of the newsies became only slightly baffling to him.

They had been midway through circulation of the afternoon paper when the sky had uncrossed its gray arms and thrown bucketfuls of water on the New Yorkers below. Davey barely had time to defend his stock before he became soaked. In a matter of minutes, he could feel his socks squishing around in his shoes with every step. He'd given his hat away to Les earlier that day, so his hair stuck to his forehead as quickly as syrup to pancakes.

With a cry of "C'mon!" somebody grabbed his arm, leading Davey- at a slower pace than he would've preferred- through the curtain. Only when they had found shelter underneath a green store awning did Davey make out the face of Crutchie, grinning from dimple to dimple. His shirt, stretched out and fading, had dampened onto his body enough to see pale skin underneath.

"Told youse there was no chance a' the clouds clearin' up today," said Crutchie, swinging his less useful leg back and forth. "Should a' listened to me."

"Trust the guy with the bad leg to know the weather, I know," Davey ran his hands through his hair, managing to shake some of the droplets out. "Slipped my mind, is all."

"Lucky fer you, lodging house ain't far from here. We can get ya somethin' dry so's your parents don't worry you'll catch yer death a' cold."

"I don't need-"

"Charity? This's just hospitality." Crutchie straightened his crutch, preparing to walk back into the downpour. "Newsies look out fer each other, an' I'll be damned if that don't include you."

Satisfied with that, Davey allowed himself to be led across slippery stones, scurrying from one awning to another like mice avoiding traps. His whole body was doused in a new coat of moisture, save for his chest which he'd held his bag against, keeping his back hunched to shield the precious papers. He was just starting to shiver, wishing he had an umbrella or a hat, when they came to the lodging house steps.

They didn't immediately ascend, however; someone was blocking their path, pooling water on top of the landing as he stood, frozen, staring at the door.

"Jackie?" Davey took the stairs two at a time, rushing to his acquaintance.

The newsie leader, quite frankly, looked like hell had taken control of a full-size train and plowed him over. His tie was askew, one end hanging longer than the other. The buttons on his shirt and vest were almost completely undone, and his suit jacket was haphazardly tied around his waist. He held one fist in the other hand, a scarlet-stained rag covering some mysterious injury.

"Jack, what happened?" Crutchie had made the journey up, concern dimming his usually bright face.

"I quit, tha's what."

"You-"

"Pulitzer can draw 'is own damn cartoons."

Instead of pressing the matter, Crutchie put an arm around Jack's lower back. "Let's go inside."

Hovering behind them, Davey waited until the door had shut the dry lobby away from the outside world to ask, "Did I miss something?" Jack gave no answer, but sank to a seat on the staircase to the bedrooms, propping his elbows on his knees as he continued nursing his injury. After shaking water off his own hat and depositing it on the coat rack, Crutchie joined him. Davey followed tentatively, finding a cross-legged position near Jack's feet.

"How come you quit?"

"Youse'd be better off askin' Kath," Jack growled.

Davey asked, "What'd she do now?"

"Ain't nothin' she did, it's what I did, 'parently. Guess I ain't good enough for her or somethin'."

"Did Pulitzer say that?" Crutchie wanted to know, "Or tell her to?"

"How should I know? She neva' gave details, jus' walks into my office, says we're over, boom, the end." Jack brushed wet hair off his forehead. Once he'd slicked it back, Davey could more easily see the red rings around his eyes. "She wouldn't even tell me what I did! There wasn't no reason for her ta call it quits!"

"You two have been fighting a lot recently…"

"Nah, but that was normal! I'd annoy 'er, an' sometimes we'd fight, but it'd neva' be nothin' serious."

Davey scrunched up his nose. "You thought that was normal?"

"She… she never said nothin'..." Jack insisted, voice shaking as he squeezed the injured hand with the other. "I figured we was fine." He squished it tighter, turning the visible knuckles white. "We was s'posed ta stay togetha', her leavin' me wasn't even an option, it wasn't, it-"

Crutchie pulled Jack to him just as the older boy collapsed, burying his face in the shoulder of his best friend. "It's gonna be alright, Captain. You're okay."

"Ain't fair," Jack said, voice muffled. "She's da reason I stayed, she's da person keepin' me at da job, she's-" After that, his words were lost before he could say them, swallowed up by the chasm of emotion.

Davey hadn't thought Jack had the capacity to break open this way again. Not since last time, when Crutchie was incarcerated and all seemed lost. The presence of Crutchie now didn't seem to be much help in soothing him. Although Davey would've loved to put in some comforting words, what was he supposed to say? Katherine was entitled to making her own choices; she surely had sufficient reason for letting Jack go. He claimed he had done nothing, but honestly, for all Davey knew, Jack was blocking out a massive mistake.

"She don't know what she's given up," Crutchie assured, rubbing Jack's upper back with one hand. "I betcha anything she'll come runnin' back eventually."

"No," Jack lifted his head off Crutchie's shoulder. "No she won't."

"Ya don't know for sure-"

"I blew my one chance. Girls like her don' look twice at guys like me."

"Give it time."

Jack brushed Crutchie off completely, rising like the shaky scaffolding of a new skyscraper. "No."

"Jack-"

"No! I ain't sittin' around here waitin' for things ta change! I can't- I can't stay here anymore."

Davey had been sitting quietly, observing without comment the way he used to do at school. Back then he'd preferred not to speak even if he did have ideas to offer. However, being aware of the confidence that had blossomed within him since the strike, he decided now was his time to chime in. "You aren't going back to that old tune, are you? Don't tell me some city out west-" Jack's expression cut Davey off, the sharp shine in his eyes making it clear his head had long since ascended into the clouds.

"I got money saved," said Jack with a resigned shrug. "I'm goin'."

"I can't say I understand why."

Crutchie, barely audible, said, "I do."

"But I respect your decision," finished Davey.

"So do I."

Jack's eyes surveyed them both, first Crutchie, next Davey, old friend, then new. Only a higher power could know what was going through his mind. Davey wasn't the type to will any deity to steer his friends in the right direction, but he could hope, at least for the sake of Crutchie, that the newsies wouldn't be left this way.

"The fellas'll be safe in your hands," was the only resolution Jack gave, before disappearing to the floors above.

Hearing his boots thump against the stairs wasn't an unusual sound to Davey, until he turned his focus to Crutchie's face. For that look of astonishment and betrayal brought back feelings he had not realized were so raw. And with those, the sound changed, as all the pieces, so beautifully repaired, fell apart.

And there you have it. Jatherine is over, and everyone's falling apart.

(Is anyone else concerned about how much I enjoy writing dysfunction?)

Leave a review with your thoughts if you don't mind, and I may see y'all again this month if I come up with some Halloween-themed stories!