Triage

Author's Note: Written as a challenge for deadlygothic. This went through three different endings before I finally settled on something I kinda liked. Ta da! Catch the references to Batman (okay, that one's kinda overt), Futurama and Tamora Pierce and you get a cookie.

Disclaimer: Not my Newsies. Sorry.

Jack tapped lightly on the window and hunkered down in his thin cotton shirt. It was August, but the nights got chilly, even in New York, and Jack hadn't exactly planned on being out this late, anyway.

He shifted impatiently and knocked again, louder this time. There was a creaking of bedsprings behind the curtains, a moment of silence where Jack imagined he could hear padding feet; then the curtains were drawn back and David was there, with a look of self-righteous indignation that warmed Jack with its familiarity.

David sighed visibly before opening the window. "You know, we do have a door. With a doorbell. Telephones, too."

Jack grinned, partially to charm and partially because something in David's voice was like food to him. But grinning hurt, so he eased off. "I didn't want to wake your family," he whispered. "Besides, it's dramatic, don't you think? Coming to the window like this. Feels like a movie."

David rolled his eyes, but shifted aside to make room for Jack. "Just come in, Kenneth Brannagh."

Jack clambered awkwardly over the sill, hoping the darkness and David's tiredness would mask the absence of his usual acrobatics. "Kenneth Brannagh? I don't recall him creeping through any windows…"

But his voice trailed off under David's suspicious gaze. He tried not to squirm as David peered at him through the dark.

Suddenly David turned and walked briskly across the room. "Dave, don't—" Jack protested weakly, knowing what the other boy was going to do. David ignored him completely, and snapped the lights on.

Jack winced at the sudden brightness and heard David's sharp intake of breath. "My God, what happened?" He was tempted to tell David how much he sounded like his mother when he was worried, but thought better of it.

"Oh, you know." Jack tried to keep his voice breezy, but it was hard when David's eyebrows drew together like that. "Saving nuns and orphans from eco-terrorists."

David crossed his arms very deliberately across his chest.

"Stopping space banditos from stealing the Dominion Jewel?"

"Jack…"

"Okay, okay. It was the Joker with a crowbar."

Now David was mad. "That's not funny."

Jack nodded. "I know, I know. Jason Todd's death was a tragic—"

"Jack!" It was loud, and David hurriedly lowered his voice, looking around as if Sarah or his parents would pop out from under his bed and tell him to keep it down. "I'm not kidding. Your face looks like raw hamburger."

"You should've seen the other guy." Jack perched on David's neat-as-a-pin desk and swung his legs like a child.

"Was it Oscar or Morris?" David asked coolly. "Or both?"

Jack swung his legs harder and didn't answer.

"Both, huh?" David let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed Jack's hand, yanking him off the desk. "Shhh," he hissed, holding an unnecessary finger to his lips and dragging Jack out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. "When I come back, you are talking." He stalked out of the room, butt stuck out in a way that meant he was highly irritated. Not that Jack was looking.

Jack took advantage of his absence to scrutinize himself in the mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight. His lip was split, his nose was bloody, and there was a nasty cut on his temple—which explained why the right side of his face was sticky and stiff. His left eye was just starting to swell shut, and he knew it would go through an impressive rainbow of colors before it healed. The knuckles of his right hand were split, too—a reminder not to punch people in the teeth—and his stomach wasn't feeling great, but his face was the worst, and the most obvious.

The door opened and David came in, holding an ice pack, an old towel, and pajamas. He pointed to the edge of the bathtub with his free hand. "Sit."

Jack obeyed, taking the ice pack he was handed and holding it against his eye, trying not to cringe at the cold. David tossed him the pajamas and began to dampen the towel in the sink.

"What're these for?" Jack asked. "And don't say 'sleeping.'"

"Well, you're not walking home like that at 3 am," David replied, not looking at him. "And you're not sleeping on my mother's clean sheets all bloody and dirty."

Jack tried to grin again and found that it was easier. "You're such a good son."

David made a short, angry sound with his nose, reminding Jack that he was still in trouble. He wrung most of the water out of the towel and sat down next to Jack on the tub edge.

"Look at me," David commanded. "And start talking. It was Morris and Oscar, and…?" He placed a firm, cool hand under Jack's chin, and used the other hand to gently clean Jack's temple with the towel.

"You know the Delanceys," Jack said dismissively. "Always spoiling for a fight. I could do this myself, you know."

"Just like you could walk home from the movies by yourself?" David asked archly.

Jack rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to get into a fight in your bathroom."

"Keep changing the subject, and you just might." David's voice was stern, but his hands were impossibly tender and his blue eyes concerned and searching. Jack began to feel a little dizzy, maybe from blows to the head. He hoped.

Jack shut his eyes. He knew David well enough to realize that if he didn't say something, he'd never hear the end of it. "They were on the stoop when I got home. Words were exchanged, someone threw a punch, we fought. I won, didn't feel like going in, and came here. You opened the window and started talking about Kenneth Brannagh, for some reason…"

"Who threw the first punch? You?"

Jack bit his lip, winced, and didn't say anything.

"Jack…" The towel had stopped and Jack opened his eyes. "You have to stop fighting them."

He shouldn't have rolled his eyes, but he did. "Yes, Mom."

David didn't snap, and that was notable, because it meant he was really worried. "I mean it. You could get hurt. You could get put in jail."

"Yeah, but I know I've got a good buddy to bust me out," Jack replied, punching David playfully on the shoulder.

David let out an exasperated fmmph of air and got up. Jack had a sudden, irrational sense of loss—he felt much more home when David was sitting next to him—but David only walked to the medicine cabinet and took out a box of Band-Aids. As he unpeeled an extra-large one, Jack realized David hadn't responded to his last crack.

"You…you would bust me out, wouldn't you?" Jack wondered why his voice wobbled. It was a silly, hypothetical incarceration he was facing, anyway.

David turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "I don't know…I've got a bright future ahead of me, after all. I wouldn't want to ruin it associating with hoodlums and known felons."

"Just answer the question." Wow. Jack hadn't intended it to come out that…serious.

David looked surprised. "You know I would." He placed the Band-Aid over Jack's temple, gently smoothing the sticky part. Then, before Jack even had time to be startled, David bent down and pressed his lips to the area covered by the Band-Aid.

David seemed suddenly to realize what he was doing and stood up so fast Jack thought he might have whiplash. His cheeks reddened in a way that couldn't be justly described by any word other than pretty. "S…I…sorry," he stammered. "It's just…I'm used to…with Les, when he skins his knee or something…it…sorry."

Jack shrugged. He thought maybe he was beginning to understand something. "It's okay," he said. "It even feels better now."

David looked up at him then, all embarrassment and relief and something else, something that made heat rush to Jack's extremities. "Oh," he said in a soft voice, and Jack's toes curled. "Good."

Jack stared at David for a moment before reaching out a hand, fumbling for David's; their fingers slipped, missed each other, then snagged. He stood, still clutching at David's fingers, and then, timidly, uncertainly, he bent his head and kissed David on the mouth. It was just the lightest brushing of lips, but it was certainly a kiss, and Jack knew—suddenly, deeply, and as surely as he knew his own name—that he would never kiss anyone else.

He drew back. David was staring up at him; his ridiculously blue eyes were huge and perplexed, but he wasn't moving away, and he wasn't removing his hand.

"Thanks for taking care of me, Dave," Jack whispered.

David smiled.

"You're welcome."