Chapter Seven: In Which an Old Friend is (Sort of) Visited and a Heartfelt Letter is Written

Word Count: 2,002

Manhattan, 1899

Newsies Crushed as Bulls Attack.

That was the headline they'd get after this. Oh, their mugs would be on the front cover of the paper, all right. But not grinning and triumphant like they'd been before, like they'd wanted. Bruised and bloodied and tired because of the bulls.

And Crutchie. What had happened to him? Cassie had tried to step in and help, but she'd ended up getting hurt almost as badly, and the Delanceys had made off with his best friend.

Where was he, Jack, in all this chaos? Watching from a distance. Frozen in place. Helpless.

It wasn't that he was scared. He wasn't scared. Or maybe he was, but he'd been scared in the past. It was like Davey had said before – courage was when you faced your fear, not got rid of it. You can't just get rid of fear, and as the leader of the newsboys, Jack had to be courageous, especially when others weren't. So, it wasn't fear that was paralyzing him.

The refuge.

It was that he'd been to the refuge before. Many of the newsies had, and none of them ever wanted to go back. That place was worse than a nightmare. It was torture. Self-preservation was important, sure, but every one of the newsies would give themselves up for the others in any other scenario. The refuge, though...

Jack sank down into his provisional bed on the roof and shook his head. No. This should be no different. Crutchie was tough, but the refuge could break even the toughest of people. No one should have to suffer like that. He closed his eyes and let the tears come, having long since abandoned any pretense of stoicism.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Crutchie might not make it.

His thoughts were all mixed up and jumbled and he was very confused and angry and exhausted. There were lots of things going on in his head right now.

When he needed to clear his mind, he left.

Left New York, left his frustrating, tiring, low-paying job, left his aches and pains, left his annoyances, the hardships of the street – he left it all behind.

He left for clean air and green grass and a big yellow moon that you couldn't find anywhere except Santa Fe. Santa Fe – or his dreams of it, at least – was his refuge. An actual refuge, a haven, not that torment that Crutchie had been dragged into.

Santa Fe. Clean, green, pretty, bright Santa Fe.

The Santa Fe that his Ma would always talk about, the Santa Fe with beautiful sunsets and skies and mountains.

The Santa Fe that was so, so much better than here.

Though, in all honesty, anywhere was better than here right now.

Anywhere is better than here.

Dreams came true in Santa Fe. They really did. And it was going to take him a lot of savings and a lot of time and a lot of trust to be able to accomplish his dream of going.

Because he hated it here in New York. New York was fine if you had a big, strong door to lock it out. Jack did not have one of those. New York was overcrowded and loud, and he just wanted to be able to get a moment's peace.

Nowhere did it say that you had to be born and live and take your final breath in New York. Nowhere did it say this was where you had to stay, working and slaving away, only taking what you're given and where only the rich had opportunities.

Where nobodies like Jack had no futures.

No hope.

Nothing.

Even at seventeen years of age, he was breaking his back to save someone else's. So why not move? Why not go somewhere you could stand? Somewhere you could breathe without being chased by bulls, by Snyder, by Weasel? Somewhere with no headlines or deadlines or anything in between?

Somewhere like Santa Fe.

New York did have the newsies. He loved the newsies. His brothers. But he could write to the newsies. He could write to them from Santa Fe, about Santa Fe. He could write to them from wherever he was that wasn't here.

He didn't want to be here.

He didn't know where he wanted to be.

But it wasn't here.

He could pass his leadership down to Davey, who'd proven more than competent. Or Race, someone he'd known and trusted for years. Or Crutchie.

It still hurt to think about Crutchie. In the refuge. Alone.

Jack knew he was being selfish. Those boys (and girl...s? Katherine came to mind, but he was undecided on that) needed him. And he needed them. But he felt he'd earned the right to a little selfishness after today's events. The newsies were perfectly capable. He was sure they were fine.

He wanted to get away, to get a fresh start. He wanted space. Anyone could laugh in his face and he wouldn't care because he had Santa Fe.

He needed to have Santa Fe.

Santa Fe what his lifeline right now.

He had nothing if not Santa Fe.

Looking up, finally opening his eyes, he realized that he didn't know how long he'd been on the roof. Eventually, though, his heart for the newsies won out and he climbed down, quiet as he could, and went inside.

As he'd assumed, everyone was sleeping, and the lodge was filled with the sound of gentle snoring. He counted silently. Crutchie's bunk was, of course, empty. Cassie's was as well, but knowing her, she'd probably decided to sleep in the library. Maybe he'd check in the morning. Content with what he saw, to some extent, and satisfied that everything seemed in order, he put his hat back on and went back outside into the cool night air.

The refuge, as one could imagine, was not overtly pleasant. Multiple boys in one bed (though, actually, that wasn't all that different from the lodging house), vermin, rats and other pests everywhere. It honestly didn't look like they'd made any effort to clean this place since...ever.

Worse still, Crutchie's leg hurt the worst it had in a long, long time. Most of him hurt at this point. Snyder and the Delanceys had soaked him pretty good. Or bad, depending on how you looked at it. He just hoped the others were okay.

He was trying his absolute hardest to remain his positive, sanguine self, but it was admittedly very difficult to do so in the face of such intractable pain. Fortunately, he'd found some paper, a pencil, a candle, and a matchstick, and was now sitting on the edge of his bunk, trying to write a letter to take his mind off things.

"Who should I write to?" he murmured, thinking aloud. He could write to Specs, who, to his knowledge, was the one who was always able to stop by the refuge and bring news back to everyone else. He could write to Jack, whom he was closest to in terms of friendship. He'd know Jack the longest; he could be most open about his feelings with him. Or he could write to the newsies in general – address every one of them and let them know he was doing fine. He could even write to Racetrack, who was Jack's second-in-command. Race could probably even show it to the other newsies, and they'd all know that he was alright.

In the end he decided to write his letter to Jack. He sat, staring into the darkness past his dim candle, lost for words to write. "Dear Jack," he began.

Greetings from the refuge. Crutchie was so glad he could read and write – he knew that some newsies couldn't and if they were in his situation, they'd have to wait a lot longer to get their feelings across.

How are you? I'm ok. He wrote. Guess I didn't really help much during that fight, huh? Snyder really soaked me with my crutch. He paused; his pencil poised above the page. Oh yeah, Jack – this is Crutchie, by the way. Of course, Jack knew who it was. But it was the best he could do.

These here guards is pretty mean to me. Actually, to everyone. If they say "jump," boy, you jump, or you're screwed. That probably didn't sound very reassuring. And it wasn't like Jack didn't already know that. On the bright side...The food ain't terrible, though. So far. That's because so far, we haven't actually gotten any food...

That definitely wasn't reassuring.

Ha ha.

Did that make it sound any better? Probably not. He was going to have to start being honest – to himself and Jack. You know, Jack, I'm really missing the rooftop right about now. It was true. He was missing the rooftop, and Jack, and Race, and Blink, and Mush, and Sniper and Finch, and every single other newsie, even Davey and Les. They were his family, and the lodge was his home. Not this...what could you even call this?

Sleeping right out there, in the open, up in your penthouse, where there's always that cool breeze. It's even there in July...

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining being on the rooftop with Jack with that breeze washing over him. It was a lovely imagination.

Anyway, guess what? I got this secret escape plan that I made up a while ago. Here it is: I tie a sheet to the bed, throw the end out of the window, climb down, and make like an egg and beat it. He wrote this all in a facetious manner, and he was sure Jack would be able to tell. Maybe he would laugh. Crutchie wanted to make Jack laugh.

I might not exactly be able to go through with it tonight though. Just because I ain't slept yet, and my leg still ain't completely right. But hey! Pulitzer is going down. And then, Jack, well, I was thinking we might just go like you was saying the other day...

He paused writing, suddenly feeling morose. Hadn't he also said that everybody wanted to come to New York, and only indulged in his imaginary Santa Fe scenario-thing with Jack to make his friend happy? All at once, it seemed like everyone wanting to come to New York was a trifling detail. All at once, he wasn't so sure he wanted to be there anymore either.

To Santa Fe. Where it's clean and green and pretty, and there are no buildings blocking your view of the sunsets. And – Crutchie smiled at the memory – where the clean air will heal my leg and I'll be riding palominos every day.

"Once that train makes - "

He was cut off by a rather rude shushing noise.

He picked up his pencil that he had dropped onto his bunk, having been startled by the sound, and muttered curses under his breath as he hoped, prayed, wished for anything to get him out of here.

Don't worry about me, Jack. I'll be fine. There is one favor I wanna ask, though. On the rooftop once, you said that family looks out for each other, right? So, you tell all the fellas for me, from me, to protect one another, ok?

That was all he needed to say, wasn't it? He looked back over the note, satisfied with his writing (and proud of his penmanship).

The end.

Your friend,

No, that wasn't it. He crossed it out and started to write under it.

Your best friend,

That wasn't it, either. He scribbled out his writing and chewed absentmindedly on the end of the pencil. The right word was on the tip of his tongue. They were family, weren't they?

He smiled to himself as the word he was looking for presented itself.

Your brother,

Crutchie.

"Alright, enough already!" whisper-shouted someone from the bunk below him.

Crutchie blew out his candle, still smiling softly.

A/N: So I don't know how I managed to write this entire chapter in the past two days, but I'm definitely not complaining. I was on a writing roll. I focused more on Jack and Crutchie in this chapter, which I really enjoyed writing. That's my take on what happened during these two songs, and I hope you liked it!

-mouse :)