Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I just like to torture them.
Always
for Sage
"I fucking hate Europe."
Private Spot Conlon groaned from his lounged position on his bunk. The room where his regiment was currently staying reeked of sweat and the smell of musk, with a lingering hint of stale smoke. It was dark, very dark and the curls from his cigarette littered the air with an eerie moonlit glow. He sat up, propping himself upon one elbow to look at his friend who was lying on the bunk across the way.
"Why do ya hate Europe, tell me Spot? I would love to be enlightened." Jack turned his head, a cigarette clasped between his teeth, smoke flowing out from his nose as he studied Spot.
"You wanna know why I hate Europe?" Spot asked. Jack nodded in response. "Well, I'll tell ya why. For one, it smells like the Bronx on a summer night when all you can see is the gnats and hear the snoring of the homeless. Two, it reminds me of the slums of Brooklyn where the bums hurl on the street and three, but fahget three. Two alone is enough." Spot smirked when he was through and grasped his cigarette between two fingers, sitting up and hanging his legs over the side of the bed.
"Ah, don'tcha miss New York?" Jack teased with a slight grin. He gripped his dog tags in his hand and slid them carelessly over the balled chain, the metal icing his bare skin.
"No, I don't miss New York," Spot retorted. "I fuckin hate it there, too." He took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly and deliberately. His mind was elsewhere. Jack knew it as well as the other men in the room. All of them were comrades, brothers, linked in one cause and many of them were missing the one thing that Spot was missing.
"Liar." Jack said calmly and sat up as well, he rested his back against the wall and folded one leg beneath himself, his other leg bent at the knee so he could rest his palm upon it. "You don't hate New York, but you hate what was left behind."
"Fuck you." Spot shot out hotly, jutting his head forward. At this moment all heads turned sharply to the door as one of the privates hurried into the room.
"MAIL!" Skittery yelled at the top of his lungs waving a letter addressed clearly to him. The small letters were scripted elegantly and the I's dotted with hearts. Jack's chocolate eyes glittered in the faint light, a glow in them shining through like a star dotting the night.
"Give it here! Now!" Jack jumped off his bunk and hurried over to Skitts. He threw his cigarette onto the ground and grabbed for the mail bag.
"No!" Skittery teased and grinned, darting away from Jack. Jack chased after him, Skittery, who was obviously holding a letter from Williamsburg, Brooklyn 20-01 North Henry Street. Skittery jumped back once again and slammed into Spot's bunk. The Brooklyn native was quick, reaching into the bag and pulling out a stack of letters.
"Mush! Evey's got a big one for ya!" Spot tossed the box over to Mush Myers who caught it expertly a glimmer of happiness shining in his near dead eyes. "Hey Blink! Wake up! Sparks packed the whole state in heah for ya!" Spot placed his cigarette in his mouth once again and chucked the considerably large box to Blink McGarty. Blink snagged it easily and began to rip open the parcel eagerly. Spot sifted through the letters, passing them out to the other eager boys quickly. Skittery and Jack were still wrestling for the letter and Spot grinned as he waked Skitts upside the head allowing Jack to snatch his letter and shove Skittery. His eyes began to fade to a snow mixed gray tinged with disappointment as he began to reach the end of the pile and when he finally handed out the last letter he jumped off his bunk and stormed outside, barehanded.
"What's up his ass?" Skittery asked Jack.
"Check again in there. Ya got one from Ray?" Jack looked into Skitts eyes. Spot hadn't received a letter from Raven Tortulo for quite some time, two mail calls ago to be precise. Jack's letters came regularly and were consistent. His wife wrote pages and pages of what was happening at home and he read them back to front, over and over, just so he could memorize the things he was missing. When Jack read through the letters, he always imagined Sage's voiced whispering the words to him, as if a haunting lullaby was lulling him to sleep. He would hear her angelic chimes reiterating the letter in his dreamlike state and would only then be able to sleep. Sage always managed to include something about Ray, but the fact that Spot's wife hadn't written to her own husband was starting to weigh heavily on his friend.
Skittery dug deeper into the bag, produced a thick envelope and managed a small smile. "Courtesy of a one Miss Raven," He waved the letter at Jack and then disappeared under the folds of the flap.
"Leave it to Ray to be difficult." Jack shook his head and climbed back up onto his bunk, he laid down atop the sheets and tore open his own envelope immediately. He brought the plain paper to his nose and sniffed it discretely. Lilac. He closed his eyes. Lilac. The smell encased him with his violet slumber and filled his mind with Sage, she returned to him so easily. Her face came to him so clearly that he felt he could almost reach out and touch her. Feel her warm, soft skin beneath his hand.
Spot leaned against the edge of the barracks and lit another cigarette. He stared off into space, not seeing or hearing anything of the world around him. She'll write. She'll write. She won't desert me. She won't desert me. He kept reassuring himself over and over again. He looked up into the face of the moon. Its brilliant glow would offer so solace this evening. Spot jerked when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. "What do ya want Skitts?" The tone of his voice was cold, clearly his meaning was to be left alone. Skittery rested the envelope against the palm of Spot's left hand. Then he patted Spot on the back and retreated back inside. Spot looked down at the letter in his hand, eyes locked into a unbreakable stare with the paper by just the way she scribbled the address on the envelope. Her penmanship was silk upon the course fabric of wool, gliding smoothly across the grimy grains of the paper as though laced there with a thin thread. He was too enraptured with the enclosed letter to open it. So, he slid to the floor against the wall and pulled his knees up, resting the envelope on his lap until he was ready to open it and read the contents.
Dear Jack,
I don't' know how to tell you this but I don't love you anymore. The war has weighed too heavily upon our relationship and I find myself unable to regard you the way that I used to. I think of you constantly, but find that it only hurts me when I do. I want you and every day, I hold my breath thinking that today will be the day when I find that letter that tells me that you are no longer living and I cannot bear that. I can't. I have tried, but I'm afraid, I've failed. I am not as strong as you think I am. You are half of my strength jack, you are what holds me together and without you here, I am a great deal weaker. That is not the way it should be. I cannot walk around being half a person, only to find that sooner or later, you will be taken from me and I will be half a person forever. I give you two options, Jack. Either let me go and let me learn how to live for myself. Let me become complete and far less worried. Let me be more than just the shadow of myself that I have been while waiting for you. Or return to me and never leave again. It is your choice jack. I am awaiting your response with a heavy heart.
as always,
Sage
This was not the type of letter he was expecting from his wife. This was not the type of letter he wanted from his wife either. Nothing about the letter she had written had improved the fact that his heart was already breaking ten fold by being away from her and his children. Why did she have to do this to him? There was no way that he could possibly leave. He would be a deserter then, a coward. It would be against his dignity and pride to leave his fellow soldiers in war. He could not go, it pained him to know that there was no way he could save his marriage now. He would fight for his cause, and if she could not stick by his side when he needed her most, then she was right, she was not as strong as he thought.
Jack then did something he never thought he would do. He sat up straight in bed, slowly climbed down from his bunk. His motions were mechanical, as if programmed by some strange machine. He grabbed a lighter off the night table and right near the hearth held the paper over the pitch. He flicked the lighter on and watched the flame erupt into the air, he rested the end of the sheet over the flickering fire and soon it caught. The letter bursting into flames as he tosses it onto the hearth. He couldn't tear his eyes from the curling strips of ashen paper, the amber and orange flames burning the pupils of his eyes as he stayed and watched his life burn.
Spot slipped his finger under the flap of the envelope and listened to the satisfying rip of the flap. He lifted it slowly, creating his own suspense and slipped out the letter. It smelled like baby powder, soft and light, lifting him almost immediately with its presence. He unfolded the letter and read the words, his lips curled into an easy smirk.
Dear Spot,
There are four of us now.
He looks just like you.
I'm fine.
Don't worry.
Love,
Ray
P.S. I love you, you stupid boy. Come home to me.
Four? He smiled. "So she was pregnant again when I left..." He muttered quietly to himself. He wouldn't dwell on the fact that he had missed her pregnancy, or that he had missed the birth of his second son. That would only drag him down and at the moment he wanted to remain happy that all was well and she had made it through fine. Raven did not have an easy time in childbirth. This he had learned when Sean was born. He was glad he didn't know she was pregnant when he left, he would have been even more worried than he was already. His worry had become a constant nagging pang, it never ceased and he was always thinking of home. If he should die, what would become of his family?
He looked into the envelope once again and plucked out a photograph and immediately he started to laugh. That was his family alright. Poor Sean looked like he would rather be chewing ants that taking that picture. While his newborn son was screaming his head off in Ray's arms. There she was, poised and beautiful as ever, and trying to keep her cool. Sean probably got some yelling after that photograph was taken. He could see in her eyes the burst of fury that was too come. He flipped over the picture. "Just for fun baby, I knew it would make your day." And it had. He couldn't stop smiling and laughing. She knew how to brighten any dreary day and rid a foul mood instantly. At that point, it was what he needed and he slipped the picture into his pocket. He lifted another photograph from the envelope and his smile softened. It was his newborn son, asleep on the bed, a plump thumb stuck between his lips. The small face was serene, innocent in every meaning of the word. His body was curled up tight, begging to be held. Spot turned his head and surveyed the grounds before letting his eyes capture the photograph once again. Then he lifted the picture to his lips and kissed it gently before resting his head back and closing his eyes. He had missed everything, and nothing could help him regain all the time lost.
Spot and Jack sat knee deep in the mud of the trenches smoking. They were dirty and dressed in full gear and fatigues, waiting for the inevitable. The waiting was the worst part, for no one knew when the bombs would fly and they would have to launch into full battle mode. They would have to detach themselves from the real world. Become shells of what they truly were, in order to shed blood and fight.
"Ya know gettin shot in the ass wouldn't be so bad, at least I'd get ta go home." Spot said in jest with a smirk.
"Hell, they can shoot me anywhere as long as I get to go home," Jack replied swiftly.
"They could give you a cock shot and you wouldn't care as long as ya got ta go home?" Spot asked coyly.
"That might be the only place that I wouldn't like to get shot at the moment."
Spot laughed and took another pull of his cigarette. "Getting shot in general would be really shitty, Although I'd take puss and bleeding over sitting in this hell hole for a minute longer any day." He blew the smoke out of his lips in a stream of white haze.
"It'd be like bam! Shit, I got shot. Send me home now," Jack said laughing.
"I think it would hurt more than that, it'd be more of a - Holy fuck my colon just burst!"
Jack looked over at Spot who was in turn smirking back at him. Jack snorted and shook his head. "Why does it have to be the colon? Why can't it be the appendix?"
"The appendix is no where near the level of colon, besides, I like colon better." Spot took another drag of his cigarette, the same amused smirk still holding to his mouth. Interrupting the joking and teasing were the pops and booms of gunshots from above. Both men raised their eyes to the top of the trench and could see the flashing of the shell fire. The sounds of guns firing echoed back to them and made their ears ring with a high pitched whine. Sergeant McMahon raised himself to his feet calmly, brushing off his pants as he did so.
"Alright boys, let's move out," he ordered the men. After the sergeant had uttered these words, the boys began to silently bless themselves, console themselves, and reinforce their wills to live. Each man was forced to obey, and therefore they all jumped to their feet and started to rush out of the trench, weapons at the ready. Spot was already on his feet by the time Jack had grabbed his gun and placed his helmet atop his head. Spot hoisted himself up out of the trench, and Jack followed easily.
Jack turned around quickly, and jumped away from the spot where he was. Gunfire. A sharp searing throb went shooting up his spine in a large wave of nausea and pain. Jack groaned and collapsed. Spot threw himself to the ground and crawled over to him quickly.
"Jack? Jack..open your eyes. Can you hear me? Jack!"
Jack groaned and cracked open an eye. "Conlon...what the fuck? Just...fucking...ow...God damn it...what is this? Some kind of fucking fluke?" Jack then let himself succumb to the darkness and sweet submission of unconsciousness.
Jack opened his eyes, his vision blurred as he stared around the crisp white room. He realized then that he couldn't feel his legs. Hell, it was as though his legs didn't even exist. They had completely become a separate entity from his body. He tried to wiggle his toes, but all his willpower and muscle power could not make his big toe shake. It was then that Jack knew: He was injured, and injured badly. He could overhear the doctors talking. Jack waited for them to realize he was awake and alert. He had no desire to acknowledge them.
One of the doctors looked at the bed momentarily and then came towards Jack.
"Private Kelly, I'm Dr. Trispon." He shook Jack's hand and pulled up a chair. He promptly sat down and watched Jack for a moment. The doctor wiped a white handkerchief over his face and then re-stuffed it into his pocket. "Private, you were shot in the back..."
"No kiddin." Jack rolled his eyes.
"Yes, well...there has been a lot of nerve damage, and complications came about in surgery when we were removing the bullet." The doctor paused for one very long, pregnant moment before adding, "I'm afraid you will never walk again."
Jack was stunned. His emotions were reeling. He couldn't seem to even breathe. He would never walk again. He would never return home whole. Jack would not be seen as the same by anyone, they would treat him differently - fawn over him as though he was a newborn child. This was a fate he could not bear. He was not a child but a grown man. A man who had watched his brothers die in combat, had fought for his country and had killed for it.
"I know this is shocking and unfortunate but the good news is, you'll be going home very shortly. We just have to check and see if you're stable."
Home.
Home.
Home.
Jack closed his eyes and thought of the very place he longed to be. He would never be able to play with his daughters again. He would be a burden to Sage. She would have to take care of him until the day he died. Did he want to force her to do that? He had to go home, he couldn't stay here. He needed his family.
Sage crouched down into the dirt of her flower garden. She lifted a tulip bulb from the wicker basket and placed it into the dark encasement that would soon become its home. She smoothed the dirt over the opening, patting it down gently to ensure safe keeping. Sage raised her head and turned it to the right, an oddly familiar man in a wheelchair came towards her down the street. Something in her heart went out to him, a surge of pure longing spilling over into her soul. She thought she knew this man, but she didn't know anyone in a wheelchair. The mystery man came closer to her drive and she stood up from her crouched position, rubbing her hands clean on her skirt. She stepped out onto the path.
"Jack..." She started to go to him. No, this couldn't be her husband, how desperately she wanted him to be the way he was before, walking and rushing down the street home from work. No, this was her husband now, confined to a chair for life.
"Stop...I'm the one coming home, stay there." Jack gripped the handles of his chair so tightly his fingers turned beet red and then pure white. The muscles of his arms throbbed and the veins pulsed out beneath the skin as he hoisted himself to a standing position.
Sage jerked forward to help him but stopped herself. There was something about the look in his eye, the determination, the motive to drive forward and not take the cards dealt to him. She bit her lip resisting the urge to help him, to care for him at that very moment.
Jack took a labored step forward then another, slowly and cautiously taking his steps towards his wife. When he reached her, he gave out and grabbed her arms collapsing to the floor, taking Sage down with him. They landed on the dirt filled driveway, Sage's arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Sage sniffled as she looked upon his face and into his warm brown eyes. She cupped his cheek in her hand.
"I told you I'd come home to you. I meant it," Jack said earnestly. He reached his hand out and let his thumb wipe the falling tear from her face. "No tears, I'm home."
8 months later...
Raven stood before her dresser mirror and slid over her petite frame a simple light blue dress. She twisted her hair away from her face and began to pin it up neatly and when she was through she pulled some strands from the front to frame her face. She picked up one of her pearl earrings from the dresser when she heard the door creak open and slam loudly.
"Don't slam the door!" She yelled loud enough for the whole building to hear. When she got no response, she repeating herself sternly. "Do not slam the door!" When she still did not hear a reply she rolled her eyes. "Sean Conlon! I told you never to slam the door!" She screamed, looking at her own closed bedroom door. Yet again, her son chose to ignore her yelling. Frustrated, she threw the earring onto the dresser and stormed out into the living room.
"What did I tell you? I told you no slamming the door young man! I also taught you to respect your mother! That means when I call you I expect you to..." Raven peered over the back of the couch and saw Spot laying casually across it, the way he always had when he was home and relaxed.
He looked up and smirked at her. "Young man, huh? I rather like that. Call me that again, it gets me all hot and bothered." Ray let out a high pitched squeal of joy and pounced on top him.
"Umph! You're squashing my balls!" Spot cried with a laugh. Raven started to shower his face with featherlike kisses, holding it in her hands gently. Butterfly kisses covering his eyes, nose, mouth, chin, cheeks and forehead over and over in a shower of sweet bliss. She then sat up and took his hand, squeezing it in her own. She crawled off of him, linking her fingers with his and pulled him to a standing position. She began to lead him down the hall, and when she reached the desired door, she pushed it open gently.
"There's someone I want you to meet..."