Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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O'Malley's on 12th

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Jack Kelly woke up the next morning, Christmas Eve, with a buzzing head, an empty belly and a heavy heart.

He'd purposely gone straight back to the Lodging House from Bottle Alley after his talk with Mush. Forgoing supper in order to save a nickel, he had paid the old supervisor, Kloppman, his lodging fare with a grim smile. Counting both his meager savings and the handful of pennies his selling had earned him, Jack realized that he didn't have anywhere near enough to buy any sort of acceptable present for Stress.

Falling asleep upon that realization, he awoke with only a faint hope. But it was useless; after double and triple checking his money again, the same paltry amount of coins was there.

It wasn't that early when he woke up—at least, not as early as Kloppman usually woke the boys—and a quick peek out of the bunkroom window told him why. The brief stay of snow had ended. There had to be at least six inches of freshly fallen snow blanketing the city again. And the snow was still coming down.

That, coupled with the fact that it was the day before Christmas, made him very leery about going out and selling the morning World. On one hand, he doubted if many of the other newsboys would head out into the weather just to make a nickel or two; in that case, the competition would be slim to none and he had a good chance of earning some more money.

But, he thought, what if nobody went outside to buy the paper or to even hear the news? Any fool with eyes could see that the biggest news story was the current blizzard. And a loss of any papers he bought off of Weasel but didn't sell would be much too big.

He debated about it for a few minutes as he joined Skittery at the pumps. Skittery's frown was etched into his face and, as per his usual bad mood, he didn't have any words for Jack. No doubt the sudden snowfall had dampened his foul mood considerably.

Jack observed the niceties—elbowing Skittery in the side to move over, flinging shaving cream in the other boy's face—but his heart wasn't really in it. Glancing over at the row of bunks he saw that only half of them were full. Assuming that the vacant bunks belonged to the more enterprising newsies gone out to make money—and conveniently not thinking of those unfortunate enough to have been unable to afford the nickel fare the night before—Jack finished washing up.

After tying his old red bandana around his neck and attempting to sling his hat down his back before remembering it was broken, he scooped up his money and, because he didn't dare enter the winter storm without it, stuck his old cowboy hat on his head anyway; he would just have to take great care not to lose it in the winds. Then, mumbling an apology to his growling stomach, he left the bunkroom behind him.

Now, he thought to himself, the smacking of his boots against the stairs doing nothing for his pounding head, what was the name of that shop again?

--

For reasons she could never fully understand, Mr. Williams liked to celebrate Christmas. At least, he didn't mind shutting down his factory for two full days—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—so that his employees, young and old, could spend the holiday with their families. Of course, Stress Rhian often thought to herself, that could be because, for two whole days, he needn't pay wages to any of his employees.

Which did not benefit her in any way—two days of no wages was just enough to use up the small savings she'd only just managed to scrape together.

And she hadn't even been able to buy Jack a present yet…

Sighing a bit, her mind split between thinking of long past Christmas's of a lifetime ago and the promise of a Christmas that just might be, Stress pulled on her skirt and slipped her feet into her heeled shoes. Callused fingers did up the buttons before attempting their best to untangle some of her knotty curls. With a huff, she gave up and reached for her kerchief.

The wind was fierce and the snow stinging against her face but she was determined enough to look past it. She shivered as she walked, taking careful steps so that she would not slip against the slick snow that covered everything. Her thoughts had strayed again, dwelling on the shop that Mush had mentioned yesterday.

Trades, he had said. Patting the front pocket of her skirt, Stress made sure that she kept her trinket in place. It was a trade she was after.

Rounding the corner on 12th, it took her walking the lengths of the block twice before she finally noticed the small, dank shop tucked alongside a closed bakery and some great department store that, despite the snow, kept its turnstile spinning. Her heart started to hammer against her chest when she spied it, increasing in pace when she worried that it, like the bakery, was closed due to the storm.

Her sigh of relief was barely audible as she pulled on the wooden handle and gave the dingy door a tug. It opened easily and, only a touch cautiously, she entered O'Malley's.

It was dark inside, especially after spending her morning walking through the bright snow, but as her eyes adjusted, Stress saw that the small shop was much larger inside than she would have expected. Shelves upon shelves lined the shop's walls, toys and dollies of all shapes and sizes spread out across the floor. She blinked twice, trying to take the sights in all at once, and shook her head when she realized she couldn't. There was just far too much to see.

"Well, hello there."

She hadn't noticed the small counter just off to her right side. Slightly startled at the voice that seemed to be coming from nowhere, Stress whipped her head around, following the sound. There was an old man standing behind it, his blue eyes hidden behind a thick pair of glasses. His smile was wide and his nose was red; half of his face was covered by a bushy white beard. He had his hands folded neatly over a belly so large that she wondered whether or not it was actually resting on the counter.

Though a handful of years on the street had given her questionable manners, she realized that it was rude to stare. Sticking her chin out in an assured manner, she met his gaze straight on and, as she walked over to the counter, asked, "Are you Mr. O'Malley?"

The old man seemed surprised but whether it was from her forward manner or the way she assumed him to be the shop's namesake, Stress wasn't sure. "Why, no, miss. My name isn't O'Malley, it's Kringle. And you are?"

It was her turn to be surprised. So much so that, when he asked her her name, she answered immediately. "Stress."

"Stress? I can hardly believe that's the name your Mama gave you."

"All the same, that's what I'm called," she replied stubbornly.

"Alright, Stress," Mr. Kringle asked, his voice rumbling like thunder during a summer storm, "what can I do for you today?"

"Christmas, you see… it's comin' on fast. It's tomorrow—"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted, his voice full of humor now. As big as he was, and as gruff as his voice could be, there was no mistaking him for anything other than a jolly old man. For that reason Stress didn't even seem to notice that he'd cut her off.

She continued, "—and I really wanted to buy a present for a… a friend of mine."

"A friend, hmm? Well, here at O'Malley's we have something for everyone. Why don't you tell me about him?"

Stress also didn't even seem to notice that Mr. Kringle had automatically assumed that the present was for a boy.

"He's, well, he's a good guy. He can be smart, and he's caring. He stands up for himself and for others and, sure, he can be stubborn and maybe he'll lie every now and then, but he never means any harm. He's had it rough, you see," Stress said, suddenly feeling the urge to explain away some of Jack's worse qualities, "and… he deserves a good Christmas. I want—I want to get him something to make him happy this year."

Mr. Kringle didn't say anything right away; he stood there, instead, thoughtfully rubbing the lengths of his thick whiskers. "I do see… yes, I do. Now, did you have anything in mind for your special friend?"

Unused to actually being taken so seriously by an adult—a respectable shopkeeper, at that—it took Stress a minute to answer. "He wears a cowboy hat… at least, he did. There was—" she paused for another moment, wondering how best to describe what happened when Racetrack Higgins got a good idea that involved an old razor and a lot of egging on by his pals "—an accident and his favorite hat was broken. Not the hat, but the cord that kept it in place. I was wonderin' if maybe you had one here…"

Once she had finished with her request, Mr. Kringle nodded once and, with more grace and limber than you would think a man his age and size could have, bent down behind his counter. He disappeared for a second or two. When he stood back up again, there was a leather cord, thick and strong and quite intact, resting in the palm of his oversized hand. "Something like this?" he asked, setting the cord down on the counter.

She couldn't believe her eyes. It was exactly what she had thought of while lying awake in her bunk last night. Trying not to be too obvious, she narrowed her gaze on the small price tag that was looped around the edge of the cord: twenty cents.

Her stomach seemed to drop straight down to her heeled shoes. Though the price wasn't much, it was more than she had. "I heard tell that you might be willin' to trade. Is that so?"

"A trade, hmm?" he asked, his blue eyes twinkling. "Yes, I think that could be arranged. What do you have?"

Stress felt the weight of her broken necklace in her pocket and, for just a second, wondered if it was worth it. She wanted to get something for Jack, something that he both wanted and needed, but was it worth giving up her most prized possession? The old chain had been a gift from her mother, a gift from another life—

Yes, she told herself, but it's broken now.

Besides, she couldn't hold onto the past forever.

Slowly, she reached into the front pocket of her worn skirt and pulled out a fist. Taking a hesitant step forward, she uncurled her hands until a tarnished silver chain, broken at the ends, was revealed. "Could I… do you think I could trade you for this?"

Mr. Kringle did not reach for the necklace. He bowed his head until his glasses slipped to the end of his bulbous, red nose and he appraised the trinket with an experienced eye. "Are you sure it's worth the trade, child?" he asked gently.

"I know it's broken," she said stubbornly, misunderstanding as she held the chain out to him, "but it would be real smart once it got fixed up."

"Yes, I can see that now," he agreed. He could see in the girl's determined face that she did not want to leave the shop without the simple leather cord in tow—and he was equally as certain that her pride would not allow him to give her the cord away for free. It was a swap for her old, treasured necklace or nothing at all. "I'd be honored to trade."

For the first time in days Stress felt her heart lighten. It was worth it, she decided as she handed her necklace over, dipping it into Mr. Kringle's waiting palm. She would miss her chain, like she missed her mother, but it would be worth it to see Jack happy on Christmas Day.

It was worth it, she told herself as she scooped the cord up and let it fall into her empty pocket. It had to be.

--

It took Jack much longer than he would have liked to find the shop called O'Malley's. By the time he arrived there, covered in snow and with a dubious plan in mind, he'd wondered why he'd even bothered. He was sure there were pleasant enough stands and stalls carrying good, cheap merchandise much closer to the Lodging House. But Mush had talked up this tiny shop so much that, when he set out that morning, he'd had no other destination in mind than O'Malley's on 12th—and that was where he came.

With a hand that was numb from holding his broken hat down against the wind Jack gently gripped the handle and opened the door.

Later on, when he was back on Duane Street, and Christmas had already come and gone, he thought about the place and the way that it immediately made him feel. It was a small shop, closed-in, and he suddenly felt as if he was like Medda during one of her performances over at Irving Hall. He didn't see anyone straight away but it was like there was eyes everywhere, watching every move he made.

He couldn't explain why but the plan he'd been forming during his long walk was scrapped almost immediately. There was no way that he could steal a present for Stress. He would have to rely on the small amount of change in his pocket to pay for a suitable gift.

On the upside, though, his second impression of O'Malley's assured him that he would, if the price was right, be able to find a perfect gift for the girl.

All sorts of great ideas for presents seemed to jump out at him straight away. There was a whole shelf off to the left that held hand-carved and whittled little toys that he appreciated but deemed too young for his sixteen-year old friend. A row of dolls in beautiful dresses was too prissy but there was a paddleball that seemed promising. After all, used to working in a factory during the day, Stress was never comfortable unless she had her hands busy.

"Can I help you find anything, son?"

As if out of nowhere, a rather large man appeared right at Jack's shoulder. Feeling guilty though he, for one of the first times ever, had no need to, Jack quickly answered, "Nah. I'm just lookin'."

The hurried answer didn't shake the whiskered man. Patting his round belly comfortingly, he cast an eye over Jack. "Looking for a gift, perhaps? A nice Christmas gift?"

"I might be."

"Why don't you tell me about your young lady? I could be of some assistance," he offered cheerily, punctuating his offer with a nice, jolly laugh.

But the jolly laugh wasn't enough to fool Jack. He felt his eyes narrow and his reflexes tense as he turned to look at the white-haired man out of the corner of his eye. "I never said I had a young lady."

"But the gift would be for a girl, wouldn't it?" the old man replied. The glasses he wore had slipped down his big nose and his blue eyes were piercing against Jack's brown ones.

There was that feeling again. It was stronger this time and little more different—not so much that he was being watched but that he was being understood. Jack felt as if he could lie all he wanted but this old man wouldn't buy one word of it. He already knew the truth, whether or not Jack gave it to him. "Yeah," he admitted instead, turning his back on the man so that he wasn't looking into those innocent-seeming, all-too-knowing blue eyes.

"I thought as much." The old man, unbothered by Jack's rudeness, went back to his counter. Once he was in place, he rapped one of his meaty fists against the top. "What's your name, son?"

As if the lure of his voice was a magnet, Jack found that his head was turning to follow the sound. He could no longer deny that the overpowering urge to lie in an effort to protect himself was weakening against this strange man and his odd shop. Still, there were some lies that went bone deep and his identity was one of them. "Name's Jack."

"Good to meet you, Jack," he said, without offering his own name in return. Jack just thought he was the man called O'Malley. "I like your hat."

Before he could help it his hand was reaching up to make sure that the cowboy hat was still there. It was and he mumbled a quick thanks as he strolled forward and met the man at the counter. He was uncomfortable and he could already sense that he wasn't acting like himself; usually, when he was as uncomfortable, he let his loud and flashy persona take over.

He blamed his sudden desire to remain quiet and somewhat respectable in front of the shopkeeper on the lingering cold. Jack, despite living in New York all his life, was never one for the cold—he couldn't wait until he could make it out west and become a real cowboy.

"Now, down to business," the man said before bending his knees and reaching behind the counter with one hand. When he straightened up, there was a small tin case in his hand. Smiling a bit to himself, he opened the case and tilted it so that Jack could see the hand-crafted tin necklace that reflected the flickering candlelight that flooded the small shop. "How about this? Do you think your lady friend would approve?"

Jack didn't know how the old man knew. All last night, when he wondered what sort of gift he would buy Stress if he was rich like Joseph Pulitzer instead of being a poor street rat, he dreamt of buying her a beautiful necklace that she would wear around her pale throat. The idea had come to him, admittedly, after he heard her hurried confession that he'd broken her favorite trinket yesterday and it had stuck with him. And now, sitting in the tin case before him, was a necklace that would suit her—and one that would have been from him.

But, as his eyes strayed downwards, it wasn't meant to be. The price tag that announced the necklace as being worth ninety cents was just the same as if the tin case had been snapped shut and removed from his line of sight. There was no way he could afford that.

"It's… it's perfect, but I ain't got enough," he said, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated having to admit that he didn't have the money; his fingers already itched to just grab the tin necklace and run. "Ya got anything else?"

"Come, Jack, why settle for anything else when you said yourself that this is perfect?"

He wondered if the old man was hard of hearing or just plain dumb. "I told ya, 'cause I ain't got that much money."

Mr. Kringle nodded knowingly then before removing the necklace from its tin case and placing it on the counter. With a skilled hand, he moved it until it was sitting right before Jack, tempting the thief in the young man. "I know. And I'll tell you what. I really do like that hat of yours, Jack."

Jack Kelly had never had the good fortune to receive any education greater than what his mother had given him as a boy. Still, he could be pretty sharp at times and it only took him a few seconds before he'd placed his old, broken cowboy hat on the counter.

The tin necklace was cool in the palm of his hand. He wondered if it would retain the chill when Stress placed it around her neck.

--

There was no wiping the exuberant grin off of Mush Meyer's youthful face. Not even the trailing end of another New York winter storm could dampen his mood.

Even though he was soaked to the bone and had to duck into any store kind enough to offer a little warmth as he made his way towards O'Malley's, he was quite excited. Though he'd spent most of the morning and half of the afternoon selling the New York World, he'd finally been able to sell enough to ensure that he had enough for that dark brown cap he wanted to buy Kid Blink.

The brightness of the stark white snow had not yet been sullied by the dirt that comprised the city and the sunlight reflecting against the foot-high banks blinded him enough that he lost his way once or twice. Mush's sense of direction wasn't exactly something for him to boast about but he'd spent enough time in the little shop over the last few weeks, ogling the stock and checking the price of the cap he was eyeing, that he knew where to spot the tiny, dusty windows that led into a whole new world.

All too eager, Mush pulled on the handle and swung the door open so fiercely that it seemed like the old door might drop off its hinges from the force of his tug. Wincing, he let go and waited until the door settled calmly behind him before hurrying right over to the counter.

The old man was busy counting his receipts for the afternoon. As a rule, O'Malley's closed early on Christmas Eve and he was just about to leave himself. "Mush! I was hoping to see you before I closed up for the night."

Mush's dark eyes widened as he took a look at the near-empty shelves around him. That confused him somewhat, considering that the shelves had been stock full the last time that Mush was in the shop—yesterday— but he didn't worry about it. He was too concerned with the time. "I'm not too late, am I, Mr. Kringle?"

"Not at all, son. And, look!" Bending right down and rising almost as quickly, Mr. Kringle emerged with a brand new newsboy cap in his hand. "I kept that cap of yours right behind the counter with me. Just in case," he winked.

"Oh, thank you!" Mush cried, reaching out excitedly for the cap. He flung all of his hard-earned pennies on the counter. They were already a memory; he only had eyes for the gift he had worked so hard to buy.

Mr. Kringle took the pile of coins from Mush but didn't bother counting them out. He knew for sure that the boy would not give him one penny less than the sixty-five cents the brown felt cap had been marked at. He waited a few moments as Mush ran his ink-stained hands all around the edge of the cap before starting to speak again. "Now, Mush, I was wondering if I could ask you a small favor."

It was the sound of his name that caught Mush's attention. Caught with his mouth hanging slightly open, his brow furrowed as he glanced over at Mr. Kringle in confusion. He ran the words through his head again and, when he realized what the old man had asked him, he said, "A favor, Mr. Kringle? Sure! What is it?"

"I had a couple of your young friends in here today," Mr. Kringle said warmly, "and I promised them that I'd box up their purchases for them. I have other business to tend to tonight, and I thought you might be so kind as to deliver them for me."

Mush wasn't sure where the two gifts had came from. He might have been prepared to swear that they weren't sitting on the edge of the counter a second ago—but, then again, he had been pretty preoccupied with his newly purchased cap. All the same, there were two boxes in front of him, one much larger than the other, and he could read the tags easily.

"Jack? And Stress? They both came here?" he asked, before swapping his puzzled expression for a knowing grin. "'Course they did, Mr. Kringle. I told 'em both about this place, 'bout how great it was and everything." Nodding happily to himself, he reached his hands out and, after placing the smaller box on top of the larger and adding Blink's gift assuredly on top, picked up the pile. "I'll make sure they both get their presents in time for Christmas," he promised solemnly before walking a bit lopsidedly over to the front entrance of the shop.

"You're such a good boy, Mush," Mr. Kringle said kindly as he stepped out from behind the counter so that he could open the door for Mush.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Kringle," Mush said, maneuvering the boxes and the cap so that he could offer the old man a wave of his hand, "and thank you!"

Mr. Kringle gave one big laugh, a jolly one that made his big belly shake like a bowlful of jelly. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Mush," he said, patting the newsboy once on his shoulder before he disappeared back onto the snow-covered street.

The boy never even felt the weight as every one of his sixty-five pennies was slipped back into his pocket.