Author's Note: Here's chapter twelve. Read it. Enjoy it. Review it.

And, since I can't reply to ct's anonymous review (at what point does this have anything to do with newsies!) through the review reply, I shall do so here – Anyone reading the first chapter was warned that it was an OC piece. However, this is a companion fic to Cuts Like a Knife, a newsies fan fiction. Therefore, this – in my opinion – belongs in the newsies section. I write this to expand on that story. Simple as that.

And, because I meant to add this (for midnight1899 – I figure I'll put this here in case anyone else was confused) a union suit is: a type of one-piece long underwear long favored by men in North America until recent times. Traditionally made of red flannel with long arms and long legs, it also traditionally buttoned up the front and had a button-up rear "access hatch" (colloquially known as a fireman's flap) for sanitary needs. (from wikipedia) Basically, it's underwear :)

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

08.10.06

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 XII

Following Mack's poison ivy incident, things went back to normal around the Harlem House. The other boys did not go out of their way to make friends with Rip but they no longer ignored him as they had before. All in all, as April ended and May of 1894 began, things had returned to the way they were before Caitlin 'Spindle' Scott fled from Harlem.

Which is why, when the red-head showed up one day, at the end of May, Rip went to great lengths to hide her return. When Mack asked just why, exactly, he returned to the House that afternoon, dirty and disheveled, he lied. He hadn't just had a tryst with the one girl that Mack despised, of course not. One of the Negro boys had jumped him again, of course. Mack, who hated Negros as much as he hated Spindle, accepted the story without a word.

Like she had in the beginning of their reckless relationship, Spindle saw him first and called out for him. "Rip." Her voice, lacking in its usual sweetness, was gruff and demanding. Despite that, he recognized her at once and stopped in his tracks. Something deep inside of him warned him not to turn around. Nevertheless, he turned.

If he did not know it was her, he might have had a hard time placing the girl. Her hair, the same vivid orange-y shade, was longer and clipped back. Her facial features were sharper than before; she had lost a bit of weight since she had left Harlem.

It was her clothing, however, that marked the most distract change in her appearance. Just like the other girls he had acquainted himself with since arriving in Harlem – all of them workers in Cecilia Rayner's brothel – Spindle normally wore a pressed blouse with a matching skirt. It seemed to be the unofficial uniform for the girls; dainty, yet practical and easy to maintain.

But the girl before him, with her hair tied back, appeared to him as a fellow boy. She was wearing a plain faded blue button down shirt, so like his, and a pair of brown slacks – Spindle was dressed in boys' clothing. She seemed much shorter than he remembered, and tinier – he assumed it was do to the weight loss he noticed. Or maybe it was because he no longer wore those fancy heeled shoes.

And, to top it all off, the girl was smiling. The Spindle he remembered hardly ever smiled; when she did, it was a false gesture. The only way to know exactly what she was thing was by looking in her eyes. Her eyes, those large emerald orbs, were smiling. She was genuinely happy to see him again. Could he say the same?

Rip tucked the three papers he had left of the morning edition – it was approaching nine in the morning, and, though he had been selling for nigh on two hours, he still had three of his fifteen papers left; in Harlem, he sold more of the evening edition – under his arm before taking one step closer to the girl. She was waiting for him at the end of the street. How she saw him and knew it was him was beyond even his reasoning; he learned, shortly after meeting the girl, not to question her.

In that way that she had – she hadn't lost her allure in the two months she's been gone – she was beside him before he even knew it. He had only taken one step; she took the rest.

"Rip," she said again. "How have you been?"

Maybe it was her proximity, or the way that she spoke to him as if nothing had happened, but the trance was broken at once. "What do you want, Spindle?" he replied, on his guard now. He didn't see any sign of a blade but he wouldn't past the girl at this point. What if she had returned to do him in like she failed to do to Aisling?

She laughed and the sound seemed almost foreign to him. He didn't like it. "I came back to see you, silly," she said as she tentatively reached her hand out to him. It fell upon his left shoulder but he couldn't find the strength to shake it off; he noticed, however, that her hand was almost as ink-stained as his was. Was it possible – could it be? – that Spindle had taken to selling newspapers in her absence? He did not know how she could do that; he hadn't heard a word about her since she left – wouldn't someone have seen her down at the Distribution Center?

Her green eyes followed his gaze, where he was staring at her hand. She left it there while smiling knowingly at him. "Did you miss me, Rip?"

Yes. No. Maybe? All different sorts of answers spun around his head but which was the truth? He settled on masking all emotions. His lips were settled in a straight line, which made his face appear longer; his eyes were squinted in her direction. He disregarded her hand. He said nothing. And that silence said everything.

Spindle, one could tell, did not expect him to answer her question with words. She pursed her lips for a moment before pulling her hand back. Despite the tension that followed his silent reply, she drew her hand back seductively and ran her fingers through the lengths of her red ponytail before letting it fall to her side.

He couldn't take the quiet any longer. "What are you doing here, Spindle?"

"What? Aren't you glad to see me?" Her grin widened. The expression made her look like a ferocious beast that had just spotted an appetizing prey. He wasn't too sure he liked that look. It made him feel like prey.

With her standing in front of him, as if she had never left, the reasons behind her disappearance were forgotten. He forgot about Aisling's accident, and Mack's disapproval. He forgot about the weeks that followed, where he was ostracized far more than he had been. He forgot his own disgust that she had been capable of stabbing another person.

The only thing he knew just then was that Spindle had returned. That, and it had been over two months since he was with a woman.

Just that mere thought was enough to get him aroused; while he may not have been prepared to show his surprise at her arrival – stubborn pride getting in the way; how could she have just left me like that? – his penis was not so obliging. It had a mind of its own.

Spindle noticed his discomfort and said nothing; her eyes, trained onto his crotch, told him that she knew. There was another moment of silence before Rip decided to make a comment. "Nice look you got going on, Spindle."

She tore her eyes away from him and looked over her shirt and slacks. When she was done, she met his curious gaze. "You like?" When he didn't reply, she continued. "Well, I figure, now that I sell papers," – I knew it – "I might as well look the part. After all, the girls I met out in Rockaway all dress like boys. They say it is cheaper or some shit like that."

Rip narrowed his eyes as he picked up on one word: Rockaway. "You ain't selling in Harlem, are you?"

She laughed and he felt like a fool for mentioning it. "Are you nuts? I don't do Harlem no more. I'm in Queens, now. Ain't as much money there but at least I ain't spreading my legs for every Tom, Dick & Harry, eh, Rip?"

That's Spindle for you. Referring to her former profession as 'spreading her legs'. He couldn't help but shake his head. "You went to Queens? Isn't that far?" He had only heard of the borough in passing; if it didn't have anything to do with Harlem or Little Italy, he didn't quite care.

"Damn right, it's far. I needed to start over, you know? Can't go back to Manhattan, couldn't stick around in Harlem. So I went to Queens."

She said the words so nonchalantly, without a hint of remorse for why she had to leave behind both cities, that Rip couldn't help but agree with her. It almost seemed like the girl was making perfect sense.

And, besides, the throbbing coming from below was controlling his brain just then. He would have agreed to anything that came spouting out of Spindle's mouth. He got enough information out of her to understand what she had done following her escape. Now he was just eager to get down to business.

There was only one thing that the two of them did together. Talking extensively was not it.

"Come with me, Rip," she said finally, taking pity on him; she knew what he was expecting and she was only to eager to supply it. She looked up and met his eye. There was a lust hidden within their depths that he knew must mirror that in his own. Slowly, he nodded. Deep down, he knew he shouldn't go with her. Knew that it would only make things much more difficult in the future. But he couldn't control himself any further. He had to follow her.

She no longer had a comfortable bed within Cecilia Rayner's brothel to return to but that did not daunt her. Rip's hand in hers – he did not have the energy to deny her any longer, nor did he want to – she led him far away from that spot, far away from any prying eyes that could follow the forbidden pair.

The last three papers that he had neglected to sell that morning served as a blanket, covering the dirt in a mockery of the sheets they had used up until that point.

--

Rip walked back to the Harlem House alone that afternoon, covering his head, one cheek caked with dirt, within his hand. He had spent much of the day sitting beside Spindle, huddled against the coarse brick wall in an alley that hid them away. It was quite the experience, being with the girl again. He had not realized how much he had missed her since she'd been gone. He wasn't too sure if he missed her now.

Spindle had asked him to return with her. As she sat beside him, covering herself with the crumpled remnants of the May 26th New York Sun, her hair – free of its band – sweat-plastered to her hair, she asked him.

"It's a nice place, Rip. You'd like it," she said. She was still somewhat out of breath; they had, after all, been hidden in the back of that alleyway, lying together, for a few hours. Understandably, the insatiable redhead was finally growing tired.

Rip nodded absently. He leaned into her just then, trying not to mash his bare back against the harsh wall. He had grown tired long before she had but knew better than to turn her away. When would he get a free lay again?

She was sitting on his left; she reached over her unbuttoned shirt, flesh hidden by the paper, and began to trace a lazy line along Rip's bare chest. He tensed – she assumed he was just feeling ticklish – but she continued.

The touch of her fingers awoke deeply buried memories within him. It was not that long ago – not even a full year had past – that the prostitute, that Daisy, had been murdered. Murdered at his own hands. And Spindle's touch, so like the fatal ministrations Daisy had performed just prior to her own demise, reminded him of the emotions, so suppressed since he – like a coward, a fucking coward – ran away, that erupted in him. The very same emotions that caused him to snap and take a life.

Rip pulled away from her. It was almost as if he could feel the sticky heat of Daisy's blood dripping across him, staining his hands, staining his chest, staining his penis. The façade he had worked so hard to conceal – and, likewise, seemed to forget; the mask strong enough to protect him, was enough to bring him ignorant bliss – was crumbling about him.

He was on his knees just then and then, as soon as there was a good three feet between the pair, he was back on his haunches, wearing only his own black slacks. Spindle was watching him, confusion written all over her face. Rip was breathing heavy, his bare chest visibly moving in and out with the labor of his breath.

"Rip?"

Her voice, the new voice she had adopted to suit her new profession, was so unlike that of the dead whore that it brought a bit of sense to the boy. He turned his icy cool eyes on Spindle and seemed to remember who she was – who he was – and what was happening; it was enough to bring him down.

Rip shook his head and refused to get any closer to the girl. He needed to get away from her and not just for his sake; he needed to protect her from himself. Just in case.

Spindle didn't see it that way. As he scrambled forward just to grab his shirt before moving away from her, she glared at him with wide green eyes. All she had one was invite him to come with her – so they could be together again – and he was reacting like a crazed animal. She stood up, buttoning her shirt once she was on her feet, as she stared down at him. "What's your problem? If you didn't want to leave with me, you could have just said so, Rip."

He was still resting on his rear, his head in his hands. A massive throbbing was pounding right behind his eyes; he couldn't even lift his head to apologize to her – even if he wanted to. All he could manage to do in his present state was lift his hand and motion for her to move away.

She didn't need another word from him. In her own anger, angry at the boy for treating her in such a manner, she spat at the dirt. "Fuck you, Rip. I don't need you." She gave him a moment to reply; she took the opportunity to button her slacks, making sure she was fully dressed now. But he didn't say a word.

Normally so in tune to his emotions – the conflicting feelings and eerie emptiness that was battling to overcome his upset – Spindle was at a loss for words. He had pulled on his shirt, but it was hanging loosely from his thin frame. He had not lifted his head; it was still resting against the cool dirt.

She repeated her words. "I don't need you." Her voice was at odds with her expression, however; while she sounded like she meant exactly what she said, her eyes told another story. The girl wanted nothing more than Rip to get up off of the ground and hold her tight. She didn't even know what set him off.

Rip was waiting for her to go. He could see her shoes – she had traded in her heeled shoes for a set of dark boots – as she waited in the alleyway. He had to give her credit; she didn't want to leave him. It seemed like forever before she left with a whispered: I don't need you.

And, as Spindle, straightening her boys' pants against her trim waist as she went, walked out of that alley and started her way back to wherever it was she was hiding – Rockaway? – Rip made himself a promise: I ain't never following that girl to Queens. Ever. I just can't.

--

It was not until much later, not until his prayers had already been said – with an extra one for the dead prostitute – and he was lying, wide awake, in his bunk, that he thought about her words: I don't need you.

If she did not need him, why had she come all the way back from Rockaway, Queens just to convince him to return with her? They way she had said the words reminded him of a fight he had with Maria, shortly before she died. Rip had found that one of the nearby boys had made fun Maria for being a tease. When he found out which boy it was – a kid named Carlo – he, with Tonio's help, gave the kid a black eye.

Unfortunately, the boys began to bother Maria all the more; rather than leave her be, they asked why she needed her brothers to defend her. She went from being a tease to being a useless girl. And Maria, hurt that her brothers thought her incapable of handling the neighborhood boys, told them both: I don't need you.

Oddly enough, her words – spiteful words from a twelve year old – hurt much more than those of a fifteen year old whore with a knife. Maybe it was because he knew Spindle could handle herself – she didn't really need him, did she? – and Maria hadn't been able to take care of herself. She had been murdered, after all.

Or maybe it was because he loved Maria. He wasn't sure that the feelings he had for Spindle were anything akin to love; at the most, it was lust.

He couldn't love Spindle, he knew. She was too dirty, had been used too many times. She was not sweet and innocent. She was a tramp.

And that's when he knew what he wanted. He wanted a girl, a girl who was a mix of both his beloved and his companion. Someone who was sweet, innocent, kind and loving – yet would be willing to give herself over to him when he felt the need to partake in the pleasure of the flesh.

He wanted to know the touch of a virgin. A virgin's touch that would cure his guilt and wipe clean the blood from his hands.

What I want is a virgin who is a whore.