Do you swear you won't forget me
By Crunch
Disclaimer: I don't own the newsies (for now.mwaahaahaa.) just Irish. So don't sue, ok? Believe me it wouldn't be worth it.
** this is like my first real fanfic, so please please PLEASE review! I should know how I'm doing now before I give newsie fic a bad name. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sky outside my prison window hung thick and gray like a soaked sponge, ready to burst at the slightest touch. The smell of rain was alll around me; it clung to my cheap terry bathrobe and soaked my paper-thin bedsheets worse then the cold sweat of my reoccurrant nightmares. Seems like all it did these days was rain, rain,rain.
"Hey, Anthony. Talk to me pal." Slowly, reluctantly I tore my gaze from the outside world to the 10x12 padded cell that has become my life. Or more specifically, to the paunchy old man who sat across from my cot, peering at me through patronizing, watery eyes, smoking a stogie. God I'd kill for a Stogie.
"Pal?" I laughed, not a genuine laugh ofcourse. I can't remember the last time I really found something to laugh at, and oh boy does that scare me. "Doc, of all da woids I'd use ta describe us, pals aint one of 'em." Doc pursed his lips around the cigar and regarded me with stoic interest.
"No? What would you call us?"
"Hows about warden and convict? Or scientist and lab rat?" He shook his grayed old head in vague dissapointment.
"Anthony, Anthony, we only want to help you. That is my only agenda, so why do you fight me?"
"Cos I don't need help." Well, that's not completely true. But I sure don't need the kind they're offering.
"Tony, be reasonable. You attempted to jump from the Brooklyn bridge, while yelling about the drowning of your family."
"Yeah, well, I had a rough day. Ya know, papes weren't movin' fast, miserable weather."
"Anthony, your familly died in a fire in Little Italy 10 years ago."
"You're point, Doc?" He sighed and leaned back in his chair. In all the miserable time I'd known him, Doc had hardly moved from that seat. He's there when I open my eyes in the morning, and when I fate out at dusk, groggy from my little cup of gray pills.
" Tell me about that day, Tony." each time he spoke my name like that, like I'd forget who or what or, the horror, where I was if he didn't keep reminding me, I felt like soaking the bum. But all it would get me is a one way trip to strait jacket city, and man the crazies in there can drive you mad. "And tell me about Irish."
"Irish?" He grins like a bookie about to pull one over on some poor, dimwitted better.
"Yes. You remember, you brought her up the other day. She seemed very significant."
"Yeah, Doc, I remembah. I aint crazy." A rare smile plays around his lips.
"Tony, lets not play games." And all of a sudden, my tiny prison faded away and I found myself pitching backwards through time, memories rushing past in a blur of colors and sounds. And I'm no longer shackled body and spirit in the cold sterility of Pleasant Grove Asylum, I'm back in Manhatten, 1901. The year of our lord, right?
*.*.*
Irish sat perched on my stomach, the fiery red curls that spilled from behind her ears brushing my bare chest as she leaned over to land a trail of kisses.
"Hey,,,'ey, Irish." She broke off with an impatient groan.
"Whatsa mattah?"
"Just. are you soah Spot won't miss youse? He won't.. ya know, be waitin' up for youse?" She shrugged and leaned back down into my lips.
"No, why would 'e?" I shrugged and shifted restlessly beneath her skirt. "I dunno. It's jus' dat da guy's sp protective of his goils. A' I don't need da leader of Brooklyn on me back cos I messed with his right hand lady."
With a frustrated huff, Irish heaved herself off of my body and stood framed against the moonlight, hands on her hips. She did look beautiful when she was pissed. "Racetrack, if Spot has a problem wid us, then he'll have ta take it up wid me. It's not like he owns me. Now will you quit worryin'? You're killin' da mood!"
"Ok, ok I'm sorry." I reached up, grasping her clenched fist between my own inkstained hands with an apologetic smile. "Ya know, I don't deserve youse." After a moment's hesitation, her pout dissolved into a pleased grin and she resumed her former position.
"Have I told you how gorgeous youse are?"
"Not tonight." She giggled and licked her full, crimson lips in that way she knows drives me crazy. "So tell me. Tell me I'm beautiful."
I sighed. It was a game; one of her many games, and even though I wasn't in the mood tonight I had no choice. We both knew what could happen, what WOULD happen if I played the game right. Refusing Irish McGhanee was not an option; afterall, I was right about one thing, I probably didn't deserve her. Besides being one of the most stunning girls in Brooklyn, she was powerful. Like I said, she was Spot Conlon's second in command; an amazing position for anyone to hold, but for a female it was unheard of. It only took one look at those shiny, strawberry locks, creamy smooth skin, and twin emeralds sparkling from that pretty face, to see how she controlled those older and stronger than her so easily. While Conlon had his attitude and the dangerous look in those cobalt- gray eyes, Irish had everything. It was easy to see how she controlled me. So I played.
"Baby, you're beautiful." She laughed and ran her fingertips across my cheek.
"Tell me I'm brilliant."
"You're brilliant. Gorgeous and brilliant." My efforts were rewarded with a smattering of hot, sloppy, satisfying kisses.
"Tell me you want me."
"Oh, God, I want you."
"Tell me you love me." Ah, that was the tricky part. Did I love Irish? The way Jack loved Sarah, or Skittery loved Shakespeare? Did I lie awake atnight, positively soaring with the knowledge that I wanted to spend the rest of my life devoted to this single girl, this soul mate? I guess that's the question of the year.
"Sure, I loves youse, Irish." Though my tongue lodged guiltily in my throat with that hoarsely whispered lie, her smile shone brighter than the backdrop of stars above her, glittering like chips of ice against a cloth of black velvet. Slowly she wedged her fingers between my flushed skin and my wasteband. Game over.
*. * .*
"Anthony? Are you in there?" Back in Pleasant grove. The shock of the gray, tiny quarters, in stark contrast to the moonlit memory, hits me like a bucket of ice water. "Anthony?" Doc repeated, concerns written across his face.
"Yeah."
"You were going to tell me about Irish."
"Not much ta tell." I shook my head, trying to clear away the left over pieces of faded memories cluttering my head. No, there wasn't much to tell. "We went togethah, den she jus' left New York one day. No idea where she is now. S'not important anyways." That could have been true, though I had a feeling nagging me, this little voice in my head whispering 'why can't I remember?' over and over again. He nodded slowly and suspiciously, studying my haggard face with the intensity of a man searching for the secrets of the world. "Look, Doc, I'm tired. I thinks I'm gonna go ta sleep now, if dat's alright with youse." He didn't respond, just kept staring. With a resigned sigh I turned my face to the wall and tried to settled down, feeling his stare continue to bore through my unprotected back. I swear, sometimes sane people drive me crazy. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So, whadya think? Should I write the rest, or keep my day job (crosses fingers). Remember to review!
Disclaimer: I don't own the newsies (for now.mwaahaahaa.) just Irish. So don't sue, ok? Believe me it wouldn't be worth it.
** this is like my first real fanfic, so please please PLEASE review! I should know how I'm doing now before I give newsie fic a bad name. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sky outside my prison window hung thick and gray like a soaked sponge, ready to burst at the slightest touch. The smell of rain was alll around me; it clung to my cheap terry bathrobe and soaked my paper-thin bedsheets worse then the cold sweat of my reoccurrant nightmares. Seems like all it did these days was rain, rain,rain.
"Hey, Anthony. Talk to me pal." Slowly, reluctantly I tore my gaze from the outside world to the 10x12 padded cell that has become my life. Or more specifically, to the paunchy old man who sat across from my cot, peering at me through patronizing, watery eyes, smoking a stogie. God I'd kill for a Stogie.
"Pal?" I laughed, not a genuine laugh ofcourse. I can't remember the last time I really found something to laugh at, and oh boy does that scare me. "Doc, of all da woids I'd use ta describe us, pals aint one of 'em." Doc pursed his lips around the cigar and regarded me with stoic interest.
"No? What would you call us?"
"Hows about warden and convict? Or scientist and lab rat?" He shook his grayed old head in vague dissapointment.
"Anthony, Anthony, we only want to help you. That is my only agenda, so why do you fight me?"
"Cos I don't need help." Well, that's not completely true. But I sure don't need the kind they're offering.
"Tony, be reasonable. You attempted to jump from the Brooklyn bridge, while yelling about the drowning of your family."
"Yeah, well, I had a rough day. Ya know, papes weren't movin' fast, miserable weather."
"Anthony, your familly died in a fire in Little Italy 10 years ago."
"You're point, Doc?" He sighed and leaned back in his chair. In all the miserable time I'd known him, Doc had hardly moved from that seat. He's there when I open my eyes in the morning, and when I fate out at dusk, groggy from my little cup of gray pills.
" Tell me about that day, Tony." each time he spoke my name like that, like I'd forget who or what or, the horror, where I was if he didn't keep reminding me, I felt like soaking the bum. But all it would get me is a one way trip to strait jacket city, and man the crazies in there can drive you mad. "And tell me about Irish."
"Irish?" He grins like a bookie about to pull one over on some poor, dimwitted better.
"Yes. You remember, you brought her up the other day. She seemed very significant."
"Yeah, Doc, I remembah. I aint crazy." A rare smile plays around his lips.
"Tony, lets not play games." And all of a sudden, my tiny prison faded away and I found myself pitching backwards through time, memories rushing past in a blur of colors and sounds. And I'm no longer shackled body and spirit in the cold sterility of Pleasant Grove Asylum, I'm back in Manhatten, 1901. The year of our lord, right?
*.*.*
Irish sat perched on my stomach, the fiery red curls that spilled from behind her ears brushing my bare chest as she leaned over to land a trail of kisses.
"Hey,,,'ey, Irish." She broke off with an impatient groan.
"Whatsa mattah?"
"Just. are you soah Spot won't miss youse? He won't.. ya know, be waitin' up for youse?" She shrugged and leaned back down into my lips.
"No, why would 'e?" I shrugged and shifted restlessly beneath her skirt. "I dunno. It's jus' dat da guy's sp protective of his goils. A' I don't need da leader of Brooklyn on me back cos I messed with his right hand lady."
With a frustrated huff, Irish heaved herself off of my body and stood framed against the moonlight, hands on her hips. She did look beautiful when she was pissed. "Racetrack, if Spot has a problem wid us, then he'll have ta take it up wid me. It's not like he owns me. Now will you quit worryin'? You're killin' da mood!"
"Ok, ok I'm sorry." I reached up, grasping her clenched fist between my own inkstained hands with an apologetic smile. "Ya know, I don't deserve youse." After a moment's hesitation, her pout dissolved into a pleased grin and she resumed her former position.
"Have I told you how gorgeous youse are?"
"Not tonight." She giggled and licked her full, crimson lips in that way she knows drives me crazy. "So tell me. Tell me I'm beautiful."
I sighed. It was a game; one of her many games, and even though I wasn't in the mood tonight I had no choice. We both knew what could happen, what WOULD happen if I played the game right. Refusing Irish McGhanee was not an option; afterall, I was right about one thing, I probably didn't deserve her. Besides being one of the most stunning girls in Brooklyn, she was powerful. Like I said, she was Spot Conlon's second in command; an amazing position for anyone to hold, but for a female it was unheard of. It only took one look at those shiny, strawberry locks, creamy smooth skin, and twin emeralds sparkling from that pretty face, to see how she controlled those older and stronger than her so easily. While Conlon had his attitude and the dangerous look in those cobalt- gray eyes, Irish had everything. It was easy to see how she controlled me. So I played.
"Baby, you're beautiful." She laughed and ran her fingertips across my cheek.
"Tell me I'm brilliant."
"You're brilliant. Gorgeous and brilliant." My efforts were rewarded with a smattering of hot, sloppy, satisfying kisses.
"Tell me you want me."
"Oh, God, I want you."
"Tell me you love me." Ah, that was the tricky part. Did I love Irish? The way Jack loved Sarah, or Skittery loved Shakespeare? Did I lie awake atnight, positively soaring with the knowledge that I wanted to spend the rest of my life devoted to this single girl, this soul mate? I guess that's the question of the year.
"Sure, I loves youse, Irish." Though my tongue lodged guiltily in my throat with that hoarsely whispered lie, her smile shone brighter than the backdrop of stars above her, glittering like chips of ice against a cloth of black velvet. Slowly she wedged her fingers between my flushed skin and my wasteband. Game over.
*. * .*
"Anthony? Are you in there?" Back in Pleasant grove. The shock of the gray, tiny quarters, in stark contrast to the moonlit memory, hits me like a bucket of ice water. "Anthony?" Doc repeated, concerns written across his face.
"Yeah."
"You were going to tell me about Irish."
"Not much ta tell." I shook my head, trying to clear away the left over pieces of faded memories cluttering my head. No, there wasn't much to tell. "We went togethah, den she jus' left New York one day. No idea where she is now. S'not important anyways." That could have been true, though I had a feeling nagging me, this little voice in my head whispering 'why can't I remember?' over and over again. He nodded slowly and suspiciously, studying my haggard face with the intensity of a man searching for the secrets of the world. "Look, Doc, I'm tired. I thinks I'm gonna go ta sleep now, if dat's alright with youse." He didn't respond, just kept staring. With a resigned sigh I turned my face to the wall and tried to settled down, feeling his stare continue to bore through my unprotected back. I swear, sometimes sane people drive me crazy. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So, whadya think? Should I write the rest, or keep my day job (crosses fingers). Remember to review!
