Oh yes, I'm starting another story. I would promise to complete this one, but… y'all know how I am.

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. It belongs to Disney, Alan Menken, and the other creators.

A Christmas Carol, naturally, belongs to the wonderful Charles Dickens. I have borrowed a plot and the occasional phrase from his work for this project, but don't worry, I'll be putting my own spin on things.

Also, I am completely aware that I'm not the first to adapt this concept to the Newsies universe. Author SomedayonBroadway wrote "A Newsie Carol" back in 2019, and it was her story that inspired me to write my own. I recommend you read that one too, as it is spectacular and deserves the same love you may want to give this story.

Right, now that you know everything you need to, enjoy your reading!

A Newsies Carol

Part One: Again, Christmas

Davey was dead, to begin with. That was a fact. It had held true for seven years so far, and was showing no signs of aligning to the contrary. Jack Kelly was certain of it, as were the few witnesses to the young man's death. As were, also, the few family members Davey Jacobs had. All the same, the key point here is that Jack Kelly was certain, as he very well should have been. He had been Davey's sole best friend, business partner, and closest brother- a fact that, unfortunately, insults Davey's biological brother.

But I digress. David Jacobs was as dead as a doornail. If this fact is not distinctly understood, nothing marvelous can come of the story I am about to relate, and my efforts will have been for naught. So I will say, for a final time, that the young man was dead. Though his last name remained printed upon the door of his business- Kelly and Jacobs, as it was known- Davey had departed this earth. His partner was left to take over the firm on his own.

The law firm had come about in an odd way. Firstly, Joseph Pulitzer, Mr. Kelly's former boss, had fired him from his job as a cartoonist for The World newspaper a few years prior. While Jack was a talented artist, it had been apparent that he and Mr. Pulitzer did not mesh well together, hence Jack's loss of a job. It just so happened that Davey, a close friend of Jack's, was fresh out of law school and itching to start a firm of his own. He took Mr. Kelly on at once, first as an assistant and eventually as a partner. Over the years, Jack gained more knowledge of legal sciences. This came through long hours spent studying heavy tomes full of vocabulary he could barely comprehend.

In the end, Jack was properly educated and prepared to do the job well. Not quite so well as Davey, mind, but his efforts were satisfactory. So satisfactory, in fact, that he failed to notice the friends that no longer came to see him, for he was always busy without time for company. This lack of companions did not bother Jack, because he knew he would always have Davey.

Unfortunately, there came a day when he no longer had Davey, and from then on was resigned to the fact that he would never have his friend again. So Jack became accustomed to shutting himself within the frigid offices of Kelly and Jacobs, a building he refused to heat more than necessary, even in the dead of winter. Jack's reasoning behind this was nothing more than a desire to save money on coal, but it was said of him by his customers that he relished in keeping his workplace as cold as his soul.

Indeed, his soul had become cold. There had been a time, in his youth, not all that long ago, when his heart had welcomed warmth. Years of isolation and tragedy had hardened that heart, however, freezing out everyone in the process. It was uncommon nowadays to see a passerby wish him "Good day" when they saw him in the street, or for anyone to inquire the way to one place or another, of Jack Kelly. No young women came calling, at either his home or place of business, to see about going to the theater. Jack was still young, right on the edge of thirty, and a rather good-looking man at that. But his hard exterior and unpleasant demeanor repelled nearly everyone.

Not that this meant a fraction of a trifle to him. He thoroughly enjoyed the solitude. He could go weeks without speaking to any person and emerge at the tail end, perfectly content. People gossiped behind his back, criticizing these habits among other facets of his personality, but Jack did not care. He was fine living his life on the outskirts of society, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance.

Once upon a time- Christmas Eve, you would do well to note- Jack Kelly sat alone in his office, counting out that week's earnings. For the most part, he worked alone, although he did have a single employee; a man barely a year his junior, born with the name Anthony Higgins. Racetrack, everyone called this man. Ages ago, it seemed, Jack had called him this too. Now he was simply referred to as "Higgins!" if he was referred to at all.

Racetrack was the only reminder of the past Jack allowed in his office, and as such was treated with the same level of care as all of Jack's other memories: pushed to the side and forgotten. An afterthought, left to meet a frozen demise. Higgins was not even allowed the simple luxury of rejuvenating the small stove within his tiny corner of the office. So stingy was Jack about the price of coal that when the fire died down, Racetrack had to resort to wrapping himself in a down comforter- he'd brought one from home for specifically this purpose- and attempting to carry on with his work, only permitting his hands to venture into the icy air.

The chilly silence, broken only by the scratching of pen against paper until that very moment, met an abrupt end as the door burst open, making way for a tall, brown-haired young man with a cheerful smile on his freckled face. "Merry Christmas, Jack!" He cried out in a voice exactly as happy as his smile. Placing a wreath upon the door, the man inclined his head toward the icicle that was Higgins. "Merry Christmas to you as well, Race!"

Race smiled, though his teeth chattered. "Happy holidays, Les."

"Bah!" Jack uttered, witnessing the interaction from within his office. "Humbug!"

Les bounded into the older man's room, eyes sparkling, cheeks rose-red from his walk in the weather outdoors. "Still think Christmas a humbug, Jack?" He shook his head. "You can't possibly mean that."

"'Course I do," scoffed Jack. "Merry Christmas! You got no reason ta say so. Or have ya forgotten how poor you are?"

Les perched on the edge of Jack's desk, despite the hard-backed chair offered to any person who dared enter being in full view. "Alright then," said he, "if that's the way this all works: you got no reason to be dismal. Or have you forgotten how rich you are?"

Stunned by this snappy retort, Jack had no response prepared. He simply repeated, "Bah!" followed by "Humbug!" and returned to his work.

Not yet done with the social call, Les pleaded, "Don't be angry, Jack!"

"I got no reason ta be happy," muttered the older man. "Forget Christmas! It's nothin' more than a time ta pay bills when ya don' have money, to be overly jolly with no sane reason. If ya ask me, ev'ry person who goes 'round wishin' people 'Merry Christmas' deserves ta be dead!" At Les' appalled look, he added, "They do!" to further cement his point.

"Jack-" Les started.

"Lesley!" Jack roared. "I'll celebrate Christmas my way, an' you celebrate it yours! Ya got that?"

Les let out a puff of air, visible in the icebox around them. "I wouldn't say you celebrate it."

"I'll leave it alone, then," agreed Jack. "An' you can go off an' pretend it'll benefit youse."

"It might not benefit me personally," admitted Les, "but it does make a difference to spend some time celebrating somethin', 'stead of always working."

"Jack ain't heard of not workin'," Race offered from his corner, applauding Les' words to warm his hands. "He's neva' taken a day off, not in seven years."

Mr. Kelly returned this remark with a glare, and Race fell silent immediately, shrinking against the wall behind his desk.

To prevent any lectures at Race's expense, Les spoke again. "I know you loathe the festive season, and believe me, I understand, but I was hoping you'd like to stop by tomorrow night. Sally and I are having a holiday party, only ourselves and a few friends. We'd love for you to come."

"I'm sure ya would," grunted Jack. "But I won't be attendin'."

"Figured you'd say that... I could come here, instead. Just me. Would you like that better?"

"I wouldn't."

Les implored, "Why not?"

Far from eager to provide an answer, Jack changed the subject. "Why did you get married?"

"Because I fell in love."

"You fell in love," Jack rolled his eyes. "Please."

"Maybe you should try it," Les fired back.

"Good afternoon," growled Jack.

The younger man did not take the invitation to leave. "What does my being married have to do with your not coming to our party? You always used to visit, before-"

"Good afternoon," Jack repeated. He did not wish to talk about before.

"Does loneliness make you happy, Jack? Does hatred warm your heart?"

"Does love keep your electricity on? Does it put food on your table?"

"At least Sally gives me a reason to wake up in the morning. At least she tries to help, even when there's nothing she can do."

"Good afternoon."

"I don't want anything from you, I'm not some impoverished beggar asking for your services. I've never asked you for anything." By this point, Les had turned to desperation. "All I want is for us to be friends again."

"Good afternoon!"

Les sighed, hopping to his feet. "I'm sorry I bothered you. My invitation stands." Then his cheerful demeanor returned, perhaps due to the prospect of leaving the building for the wintry weather outdoors, where it was warmer. "Merry Christmas, Jack. You too, Race!"

Race nodded pleasantly, while for a fifth time, Jack repeated, "Good afternoon!"

Les had one foot out the door before he popped back in. "And a happy New Year!"

"GOOD AFTERNOON!"

Jack tried to resume his counting, distract himself from the encounter. His ideal of perfection would have been silence for the rest of the day. To his chagrin, merely a minute after Les' departure, he was interrupted once again. The visitors this time were a pair of men around Jack's age. They wore threadbare suits with numerous patches, as well as newsboy caps atop their dirt-smudged faces. Despite their grubby looks, they were both smiling, and Jack would have thought them the same man had one's skin not been darker than his companion's. Also, the lighter-skinned one wore an eyepatch.

"Hiya, Jack," he greeted, approaching the desk.

At once, Jack corrected, "That's Mr. Kelly ta you."

"Ya mean ya don' know me?" The other man, the one with two working eyes, asked. "It's Mush, one a' yer old friends."

A small piece of Jack felt that he did remember this man, from some encounter years ago, but he could not place it. "I don't have any old friends."

"So it's true," remarked the man. "Ya really are an ass-"

"Mr. Kelly," his companion cut in, lips pursed in a tight smile. "It bein' the holidays, some of us are of the idea that we should be makin' some sort a' contribution to the poor. My associate an' I are here today ta ask if you might like ta take part. We're collectin' specifically for the newsboys of Lower Manhattan, seein' if we can't raise a few bucks ta pay for their lodging, and perhaps some meat and drink."

"What makes you think I would have interest in lookin' after those rats?" Jack spat.

"Well," the man who had called himself Mush lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. "Seein' as you used ta be one of 'em-"

Jack leaped up, slamming his hands against the top of his desk. "Who've ya been talkin' to?"

The two men exchanged an eyeroll, or an attempted one in the case of the man with the eyepatch. "I'm glad you feel strongly about this," continued Mush. He procured a list, on which he had been recording donations. Very few names filled it so far, from what Jack saw. "What should I putcha down for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Ja- Mr. Kelly, you of all people must remember how hard it is for many newsboys to pay for lodging."

"There's plenty a' streets for them kids ta sleep on!" Jack yelled, fed up with these men and their assumptions. "An' plenty a' prisons, if the streets ain't good enough!"

"Mr. Kelly," said the man with the eyepatch. "Many of these newsboys are very young children. Lots of 'em are crippled. It ain't safe for 'em ta sleep on the streets. They could die of starvation, or frostbite, or-"

"Then they'd betta' do it!" bellowed Jack, "An' decrease the surplus population!"

The pair backed away, staring at Jack with dropped jaws.

He sat, returning his gaze to the paperwork before him. "Good afternoon."

Aware that their presence was less than welcome, the gentlemen exited. While Jack did not watch the retreat, he clearly overheard his assistant step up to make a small donation before ushering them out the door.

The rest of the workday followed in silence. Outside, the darkness grew deeper, though a delighted hum also filled the air, brought on by the festive season. Among the falling snow, people rushed about, busying themselves with last minute preparations for the next day's celebrations. Carolers roamed the sidewalks, spreading cheery attitudes through song. One such youth made the mistake of stopping at Jack's doorstep.

Upon hearing the first notes through the keyhole, the man strode to his door, wrenching it open to look upon the tall, skinny boy, who was dressed in a red shirt without sleeves, despite the weather. He removed his cap and held it out, full of eagerness. "Penny for the song, mista'?"

In response, Jack seized the pine wreath Les had left adorning the building and chucked it at the young man, sending him bolting from the doorstep to avoid being hit. Slamming the door, Jack became blind to the rest of the scene outside. Had he waited another moment, he would have witnessed a strange sight.

As the youth ran down the road, he collided with a trio of men. One slowed him down and dusted the snow from his shoulders in an almost brotherly way. The second and tallest of the group inquired as to what had just occurred. He and his fellows listened to the explanation with thoughtful expressions, then looked in unison at the door of Kelly and Jacobs as they passed by. Finally, the third member of the group noticed the wreath laying forgotten on the ground. He picked it up, shook off the snowflakes, and quietly returned it to its proper position on the door. Then, the quartet walked on, vanishing into the night.

I'll leave you here.

Second chapter tomorrow, potentially.

Review please, if you've got thoughts to share.

Happy holidays!