Author's Note: Yay, chapter eleven. We're officially in double digits. I guess this is a good chapter to say, again, that the beliefs portrayed in this chapter are not mine but, rather, that of a character from this time period. Also, beware the foreshadowing monster. He came in full force with this chapter.

I have a question. I've been working on a rewrite of Cuts like a Knife, with the Rip in that story actually relating to the Rip in this story (with Italian and mentions of the brothel and the Harlem House, etc.). Would any of you guys be interested in reading that? Let me know.

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical Newsies, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers.

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.03.06

They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all.

---

PART XI

It took awhile for things to get back to normal around the Harlem House. The news that Rip had been screwing that unstable redhead behind the boys' back spread through the House like rapid wildfire; though the boy had been there since mid-August of last year, almost eight months now, most of the other boys still did not care much for him. And those were just the boys that had been around since he arrived at the House; the newer boys had other things on their mind, like selling newspapers and making sure they could afford their lodging fare. What did it matter to them, really, if some strumpet got stabbed all in the name of a nobody newsie?

For the first few weeks following Aisling's accident, none of the boys – including Mack – talked to Rip at all. He sold the most papers that month; he was the first to rise in the morning, bought as many newspapers as he could carry, and spent long hours, hawking the headlines alone. He often returned back to the House shortly before dinner was served and went to bed soon after.

It wasn't until the beginning of April that the cold shoulder the other boys gave him seemed to thaw a bit. Rip was the first in the bunkroom following a simple dinner of potatoes and broth; holding his tarnished cross tight – still hung around his neck though Trace had tried again to snatch it while he slept; he earned a punch in the left cheek for his efforts – he was on his knees, beside the bunk, praying when Mack found him.

Like he had the first time he found the Catholic boy praying, Mack smirked. He was of the mind that boys like them didn't deserve religion, that God had already forsaken them, so why bother? He did think it was kind of neat that, despite all of his hardships – all he really knew about the younger boy was that his beloved little sister had been killed, his mother's brain went funny and his father was a drunk; he didn't even know the half of Rip's problems, actually, and he didn't really care all that much – Rip was still praying every night before he went to bed. It just wasn't for him, though.

He waited just outside the door way, scratching the back of his head idly, as he waited for Rip to perform the Sign of the Cross that indicated that his prayers were complete. After scratching his head, Mack proceeded to lower his hand and scratch his shoulder and then his back. Then he scratched just a bit harder. His back was really itchy, for some reason.

There was a lush park just down the street from the Harlem House, tucked away behind a large building. Mack had taken Minx out there the night before for a quick fling; he was only discovering now that the leafy bush he had rested against when he was finished was not a patch of grass and weeds. He had re-dressed in a bunch of poison ivy. Oh shit.

There was a rather large rash blossoming across his back – his fingers could feel the slight bumps as they tried in vain to alleviate the itch. He began to scratch more furiously; once the painful sensation was relieved, the itchiness began anew. Before long, Mack had backed up against the door frame and was eagerly rubbing his back against it, using the wooden support to scratch his back.

The obnoxious sound that Mack made – his back smacking against the wood, his squeals of slight pleasure as the itch temporarily subsided – alerted Rip to his presence. He quickly mumbled his standard prayer ending: Riposi In Pace. Amen. He made the Sign of the Cross, lifting his right hand so that it was eye level to him before lowering it in a straight downward motion. He then moved his hand so that it was parallel to the left side of his chest before crossing himself. All the while, Mack tried to scratch the itch he couldn't reach.

Rip stood up from his position on the floor, straightening his black slacks as he went. His appetite had left him following Spindle's disappearing act and he had to add another hole in his belt to compensate for the extra weight loss. While he had always been thin, he was quickly looking sickly, he was so emaciated. The woman who was serving dinner that night noticed and had kindly added an extra helping of potatoes to his plate; Rip had given them to little Nickels instead.

He turned to face the Harlem leader; the look on his face asked the question that was on his mind for him: Have you lost your mind? His blue eyes widened in surprise at Mack's antics. The older boy ignored him and continued to scratch his back. Rip just shook his head and sat down on his bunk. Mack had not spoken to him since giving the message about Aisling's attack. Was he here to strike up a friendly conversation now, almost a month later? He would wait until Mack stopped his scratching.

Mack looked at Rip, his hazel eyes almost pleading for pity. He should have known that once you start scratching at a contagious rash, it only gets worst. He would have been better off if he had never started to scratch in the first place. "Fucking…itchy…back," he explained. "I…think I got…a rash."

Rip tried not to look surprised that Mack was talking to him again. Instead, he figured he might as try to be civil back. "Poison plant?" he guessed. When he was younger, him, Gabriel and Maria had gone playing outside one spring afternoon and ended up rolling around in a leafy patch of grass. All three of them had come down with a severe case of what his mother had called 'pianta del veleno', or poison plant. He remembered that face that Mack was making; Gabriel had made that same exact face as he implored his younger brother to have at his back.

Mack tried to shrug while still reaching behind him with his fingers. "I…think so." He paused. "Goddamn…it."

"Take off your shirt. Strip down to your waist if you got a union suit on."

At that moment, Mack stopped scratching at himself. His hazel eyes widened; he looked taken aback at Rip's command. But the surprise was only momentary and he scoffed. "What are you, Rip, a queer? I thought you liked to screw girls."

Rip couldn't believe that accusation. "I ain't no queer, Mack. I was gonna help you with your rash," he said, almost shaking his head. Queer boys did not last long in the Harlem House; even if he was one – which I'm not, he vehemently thought, feeling somewhat dirty at the thought – he would never admit it to Mack or any other of the boys.

Their eyes met in that moment and Rip was almost positive that the older boy looked a bit upset at his statement, the part where he denied being a homosexual. But the look was gone before he could be certain – and, besides, considering all the talk Mack does about laying with women, there's no way he's a queer – and the only expression he could gather from Mack was relief. He wanted the itching to be stopped.

So, as Mack hurriedly removed the grey button down shirt he was wearing, and continued to slip the unisuit down so that it was hanging at his waist, Rip walked over to the water pump in the back of the bunkroom. He did not have a wash rag like his mother had had when he was infected by the pianta del veleno but he figured a sock would work just as well. He slipped his right shoe off – the lace was still torn and, because it that, the shoe was not knotted closed – and yanked at his sock. He jammed his foot back into the boot and checked over his shoulder to make sure that is action went unnoticed; he was sure that Mack would probably prefer a clean sock but Rip was down to his last pair and had none clean to offer.

Mack was preoccupied with removing his arm from the stained union suit and did not see as Rip soaked his dark sock under the spout of the water pump. Once it was good and wet, he cradled it and brought it over to the shirtless boy. He walked around Mack so that he was looking at his scrawny back; a rather large red rash, complete with blossoming blisters, was spread across the top of the pale flesh.

Making sure that his hands did not make contact with the contagious bumps – there was no way in Hell that he was going to contract the poison plant's rash again – Rip placed his sock on Mack's back. At once, Mack let out a sigh of relief and Rip had to hide a smirk. When he, Gabriel and Maria were all infected by the pianta del veleno, his mother had scrubbed them until the cause of the rash – the poison plant's oil – was gone from their bodies. The relief he had felt at his mother's strong hand and the wet wash rag that she used had felt marvelous to him at the time; no doubt, Mack was feeling the same thing.

After a quick wash of the entire red area, Rip chose the source of the rash – the are where the blisters were the largest – and laid the sock on it. The sock had been soaked when he began to wash Mack's back; after the first few swipes, much of the water had run down and wet the edge of his union suit and the brown slacks underneath.

Once the sock was in position, Rip turned to face Mack. The older boy did not look as distressed as he had upon discovering the extent of his discomfort; instead, he appeared relieved. A small smile came to his face. "Thanks, mate. That felt great."

Rip shrugged off the gratitude and, instead, placed his wet hands on his hips. He wanted to know why, exactly, Mack had come to the bunkroom so early, especially when it was known that Rip always went there following dinner. Considering Mack rarely came back to the House before Smith's enforced curfew – if he even came back at all – it only went to serve that he had a motive behind seeking out Rip. And he doubted that motive had to do with his rash. "What did you want, Mack?"

Mack, he could tell, aimed to shrug his shoulder but stopped almost at once; he did not want to dislodge whatever rag Rip had placed on his back – it felt too good. Rather, he assumed a cheeky grin. "Now, why do you say that, Rip?"

"Because you haven't said a word to me following Aisling's accident."

The cheeky grin did not even waver. "Don't you mean Spindle's attack on Aisling?"

Rip lifted his arms from their position on his hips. With his right hand, he tried to reach around Mack and retrieve his sock. If he had known that Mack came only to try and make him feel like shit – it's working – he would not have offered his mother's remedy for the poison plant.

Mack saw that he had offended Rip and that, because of his careless words, the younger boy was going to take his rag back. Hurriedly he tried to back away, still hunched slightly over so that the rag would remain in place. When he back up as far as he could go without leaving the bunkroom, he lifted his right hand in an effort to stay Rip. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Honest."

Rip stopped. In the eight months that he had known Mack he was sure that the Harlem House leader had never used the word 'honest' once. "What did you mean, then?"

"Nothing, really. I just came to talk to you."

"About what?" replied Rip, reaching up to scratch his head slightly. The lice had all been exterminated with his last hair cut and he was being extraordinarily careful to not pick up the vermin again; however, watching Mack scratch away at his back before had made him itchy.

Mack groaned under his breath. The cool rag had alleviated much of his feverish itches but now, after watching Rip scratch, he was feeling the minute stings again. This time, though, he refused to scratch at it. "Aisling," he spat out finally. When Rip stopped his scratching – and Mack breathed out a silent sigh of relief – and raised his eyebrow, he continued. "Aisling, she's back at work. And she had a message for you."

Rip's stomach dropped. He was wondering if, like all the other boys, Aisling had blamed him for what happened to her. All he knew about the exchange that night came from Mack before he had stopped talking to him. According to him, he and Aisling had been in the middle of something when Spindle entered the room and, waving a blade wildly, sliced the fatty flesh on the back of Aisling's arm. The sight of the blood, gushing below onto Mack, seemed to snap her out of whatever trance that had induced her to strike out at her comrade. Without another word, Spindle was gone, along with everything she had owned. No one had heard from the redhead since and the blame of her actions had fallen onto Rip; turned out that Gimmick, upon Spindle's disappearance, had told Cecilia about Spindle and Rip's hidden relationship. Everyone, it seemed, believed that Rip had gotten his girl to attack poor Aisling for some reason. He was afraid to hear what it was she had to say to him. "Did she?"

Mack nodded. "Me and her sat down to talk about this morning. She wanted to apologize to me for spilling her blood and not finishing what we started," he said and Rip had to look away disbelievingly. The girl got stabbed and all she could think about was that she didn't bring her client – and it's not like Mack is a client, really, since he never pays – to his climax. Whores… "Anyway, she wanted me to tell you, since she didn't think you'd be coming back to the brothel any time soon, that it weren't your fault. And that we shouldn't all blame you for what some girl off her trolley done did." He took another pause before wiggling his back; the itchiness was starting again. "I'd have to say that she was right. It really wasn't your fault – even if you did what I told you not to and fucked that dame."

Figuring that was the closest thing he was going to an apology from Mack, Rip actually spared a smile. He was a loner – had been since his sister died and his family fell apart – but it hurt even him to be spit on by all of his fellow lodgers. He stood up a little straighter. "That's good."

Mack nodded but, for no reason, he just stopped. His eyes narrowed at Rip and the younger boy grew nervous under his intense stare. "What?" he finally asked when he couldn't take the silence any longer. Mack was beginning to creep him out.

Mack tilted his head slightly to the left, his hazel focused on some point of Rip. He didn't say anything but took a few steps forward. When he was just in front of Rip, he reached out his hand and lifted the tarnished silver cross around his neck, resting it upon his pointer finger. "You own this cross, mate?"

Rip was uncomfortable at the proximity but even more wary of the question. The cross – the same cross that Maria had been wearing when she had been murdered; the cross that Rip had taken to wearing underneath his shirt – was normally hidden; he only took it out when he was praying. Since Mack had come into to speak to him while he was praying, he had neglected to hide it away when he was done. Considering the fact that Trace had tried to steal it from his neck twice now, he had been very careful not to let anyone else know he had it. "Yeah. What of it?" he asked testily.

Mack ignored the attitude that had found its way into Rip's voice. "I could almost swear that I've seen this before."

Rip couldn't take it anymore. He jerked the cross out of Mack's hand and quickly slipped it under his union suit. He did not bother to respond to Mack's statement.

There was a long pause just then. Mack tried to fight it with a smile but, when Rip continued to stare fiercely at him, his smile wavered before fading entirely. "I think I need to wet this rag again," he said, trying to cut the awkward tension that had just filled the bunkroom. His hand was still hovering too close to Rip for his comfort and he, nonchalantly, tried to pull it back. Rip watched as Mack reached behind him slowly and peeled the damp sock from his back. He took a few steps away, toward the water pump, when he finally realized that what he had assumed was a piece of cloth was, in actuality, Rip's sock. "Rip, is this your sock?"

Rip's knuckles became very interesting at that moment.