The sky is fading purple when the shuddering of the metal fire escape draws her from the heavy stillness of her slumber and back into the cool and clouded air that sleep had only just shrouded from biting at her skin. Aligning all of her senses takes a beat and a reaching stretch of her aching limbs, back protesting as she draws herself reluctantly upright from the relative comfort of the carefully collected bits of material that serve as her bed.
Her eyes strain through the dusky darkness for the source of the ruckus. A crooked silhouette shifts awkwardly in the still air and Daisy rubs her blurry eyes tiredly with the back of her hand as she fights back the massive yawn that rises up the back of her throat.
"Hey, what are you doing?" She calls through the darkness, not bothering to waste the extra energy it would cost to mask her annoyance. "The morning bell hasn't rung yet. Go back to sleep."
The movements don't cease, and she drops her heavy head frustrated back against the cool railing of the escape behind her, trying to smother the ebbing tide of sleep still fighting to regain control of her consciousness. The creaking of the entire metal platform helps, squeaking reluctantly in her ears as her roommate continues to feign deafness.
"I wan' to get to the square before the others," his heavily accented voice finally mutters back through the shadows between them as her eyes familiarize themselves with the darkness. She can make out the light curls on her friend's head as he leans fully on the railing, guiding himself towards the ladder with one hand, brandishing his heavily used, cracking crutch beneath the other. He doesn't tell her why he is getting an early start, but today's added reliance on the rusty railing answers that for her.
She sighs the last wisps of sleepiness from her lungs and rises reluctantly to her perpetually aching feet, watching Fitz continue his stubborn movements.
"You know how many of the guys fake a limp for sympathy?" She asks, tearing her eyes away and reaching into the ratty bag tied to the rail behind her to find her few threadbare possessions still there. She glances over her shoulder, knowing it is shitty consolation but hoping it gives her friend something to hold onto anyway, "that bum leg of yours is a goldmine."
He pauses, and her eyes aren't good enough to make out the details of his expression through the shadows that still haven't been broken by the lightening sky – but her intuition is pretty solid, and she is pretty sure he is scowling at her.
"I don' need any of them getting the idea I can' take care of m'self," he tells her dryly as he reaches the ladder. "They think I can' an' they'll lock me up in the bloody Refuge for good."
She clenches her jaw at the mention of the place, suddenly far more attune to exactly how cold the New York air feels against her cheeks. She sharply pulls the little bundle of possessions from within her bag, busying herself with untangling the vest she stole from a clothesline a few weeks back when the balmy summer breezes had begun to carry a chill through the streets.
The metal creaks again and she checks again over her shoulder to see Fitz lowered carefully to a seat, good and bad foot hung precariously over the edge of the escape as he surveys his course of action – looking more like the stray he'd been when she found him than he would ever care for her to tell him.
"Just wait a second," she says, letting out another breath as she bends to scoop her cap from where it had fallen at her feet from within the vest, pulling it over her short hair to successfully trap another bit of warmth, "I'll help you down."
Except he doesn't wait a second, clinging to the railing with two hands as he tries to pivot to face the ladder, making a small noise of surprise when his foot slips from the rung and suddenly he is only clinging to the escape with ten white-knuckled fingers. Her heart jumps in her chest as she stumbles over his abandoned crutch and towards him to grasp his wrists before his hands slip, more relieved than she should be that neither of them have had a real meal in a week so he isn't too heavy for her to help him drag his weight back up onto the platform.
"Are you trying to bust your other leg, too!?" She chides, annoyance back in full as a result of the very sharp and very unwelcome wake-up call to her senses. She sure as hell is awake now.
It isn't too dark to see the glare he throws at her this time, but it is too laced with relief to be angry.
"No!" he snaps, but his face is pale from the shock. "I just wan' ta go down!"
She clenches her teeth, trying to swallow the bad mood that is attempting to settle into place for the day as she turns away from him again, stepping over his crutch to fetch her bag from the railing and probably taking out a little more frustration than she should on the tightly knotted strap.
"You'll be down in a minute, just relax and enjoy the view," she tells him, filling her lungs and closing her eyes before counting to ten and slowly letting the air escape through her nose.
She looks up, when she reopens her eyes, taking her own advice. The glimpses of sky she can catch above the grey buildings are warming up into light pastels of pink and orange that contrast the dark depression of the rest of the city. She drinks the calm beauty of the shades in.
"You are crazy." Fitz breaks the silence after a moment, and despite the words her friend's tone is affectionate. The escape creaks as he drags his crutch beneath him and uses it to rise back to his feet.
"How is hating this dungeon crazy?" She challenges, drawing herself away from the comfort, raising an eyebrow at Fitz. "What is crazy is that the rest of you don't care about being able to see the stars."
He shakes his head, his messy hair beginning to shine in the stray sun rays between the buildings, as he lets out a dry little laugh.
"You see th' stars alright Daisy, no one is questioning tha'."
She grasps the cool railing, peering down at the contrast of the foggy, dark streets below them and shrugs.
"I've seen enough people have the life dragged out of them working their asses off to please the city," she says dryly, watching a tiny speck of a rat skitter out of the gutter and between the cracks in the stones. "It just takes and takes. Call me what you want, but I am not gonna let that be me."
Fitz is shaking his head.
"It doesn't have to be like this," she prods, drawing away from the railing and towards her friend. "We don't have to live like we do day in and day out. Everyone coming here has got the wrong idea. Out West, that's where living is easy," she coaxes and then pauses, eyes drifting to his bad leg and then pointedly back to his eyes. "no one cares about a bum leg in Santa Fe."
The shaking of his head has grown more profuse as she continues, and when she names the city he lets out a long-suffering sigh.
"You've never even been ou'side o' New York. You don' know any o' that."
"Maybe not," she shrugs, even though the truth in Fitz's words stings. "But I sure as hell know that nowhere can be worse than here."
Fitz looks like he has plenty more to say about it, but when he opens his mouth he is interrupted by the first of the five echoing toils from the church a few blocks down the pebbled road.
"Guess that means the time for dreaming is done."
The joke is halfhearted, but she offers Fitz one more small smile before crossing to the broken window set into the bricks that the escape hangs precariously off of. She ducks her head through the shards with a practiced precision, blinking past the darkness.
"Hey! Boys, get a move on," she calls into the shadows that are just beginning to shift in response to the dual disruption of her wake-up call and the church bells, just chiming to a stop on the fifth note. "The papers aren't gonna sell themselves!"
She waits until she begins to hear frustrated complaints in tired voices before she retreats from the window, finding the last few buttons on her vest before moving towards the ladder and helping shift Fitz fully onto it. She watches him reach the ground safely before pulling her messenger bag snuggly over her shoulder, balancing his crutch on an arm and following.
A few of the boys have already gathered when she joins them, muttering a couple dreary "mornings," as she situates Fitz with his crutch and "mornings" them back while they wait on the others.
It is a remarkable smell, all the street rats gathered together – one that they all pretend not to notice anymore. There are a few faucets in the old tenant house that still run water, but soap is a luxury that none of the boys are particularly inclined to put out for, not when they'll only be dirty again after a day in the streets – the only motivation they have to clean at all is that no one wants to buy a pape from a kid that smells like the back alleys of the city. Or at least that is what Daisy tries to tell them, mostly for her own sanity – but it is clear that today, like most days, no one has bothered.
She doesn't say anything.
"Hey Fitz, what's the leg say?" Romeo asks when he pops out the door, "Gonna rain?"
"Oh, uh –" Fitz pauses, touching his knee with a dramatic air and staring past the boys with an exaggeratedly focused expression. "Eh, no rain… partly cloudy… clear by evening."
He stands back upright, grinning around at their laughing friends.
"You've got it made, kid –" Henry chuckles, "that limp alone sells 50 papes a week."
Fitz feigns offense.
"It takes the limp," Romeo smirks, but his tone is nearly consoling.
"He would sell even more if he was also blind," someone else chimes in.
"And mute," Fitz agrees, joining into the game with a smile.
"They'd feel especially bad if he was dead," Daisy adds with a roll of her eyes, "bet he'd make a solid 70 sales a week."
Hunter is the last of the boys to scuttle tiredly out from the house, still rubbing sleep from his eyes – and they are off together as soon as he appears. It is Saturday so they trek two blocks south to the church first, for the stale scraps the Sisters stand outside and give them. Then they retrace those blocks plus another four to Newsie Square where they crowd up against the bright silver sheen of the World's front gates, finish whatever scraps they are still clinging to – and wait.
Fed, the boys' energy picks up, and Daisy leans against the brick wall and watches them hurl affectionate insults to and fro as the town slowly wakes up along with them – well-dressed people with clean faces passing through the square in what seems like an entirely different plane of existence from Daisy and the boys – never even seeming to see the hoard of dirty children in ripped up clothes just beneath their noses.
But even if they don't see her, she likes watching them - in all of their soft colors and bright faces – she can stare at them all she wants, and they'll never notice. Not from the parallel universe they all live in.
She wonders if the city only treats these pretty people kindly because they have the money to put a nice strong door up to block it out.
"Think it'll be a good headline today, Daisy?" Albert calls over the heads of the other boys, nodding at the blackboard over Pulitzer's wagons behind the gate, where the headline will be written up just before they are let in to buy their papers and take to the streets.
"Dunno," she answers. "Probably not. What do you want it to be?"
He smirks.
"I hope it is somethin real bloody. With a nice clear picture to go along with it."
"That pape would sell itself," she laughs as he returns to whatever conversation he is having with Fitz, and she returns to watching the pairs and trios of real people with real lives press on through the square.
Her eyes falter on a man with particularly bright blonde hair that catches the sunlight and burns a shade of pure sunny gold that is so natural and near in appearance to the light that shines from the sky that she is transfixed. He stands out in an odd contrast to the unnaturally colored clothes dressing the people around him and the stark grey streets they walk on.
She is startled when his eyes settle on her own, subtle and clear like the sky beyond the clouds of the city – seeing her.
He offers her a lopsided smile that makes her heart patter before disappearing past her into the crowd and out of her sight. She doesn't realize she is still staring after where he disappeared until one of the boys prods her shoulder, letting out an obnoxious wolf-whistle.
"And here I thought the great Daisy Johnson was too otherworldly to experience good ole attraction," Romeo smirks, and she shoves his shoulder, glaring halfheartedly.
"Ever consider the issue might not have been that I don't experience attraction at all, but just that I don't experience attraction to you?" She asks, sweeping her eyes up his body pointedly and earning laughter and low whistles from the rest of the boys for the hit. Romeo snorts, nodding in acknowledgement of his defeat.
"Hey, they're puttin' up th' headline!" Fitz calls from the fence, and Daisy shifts up against the cool metal along with the others, straining to see the shaky letters being chalked up onto the board in the distance.
TROLLEY WORKER STRIKE ENTERS 6TH WEEK
"Again!?" One of the boy's whines, and the rest join in with their own mumbled disapprovals.
"That ain't news anymore."
They're right – it isn't, and it makes it damn hard to sell.
"Move back," a man calls from within the fence, and Daisy steps out of the way with the others as the boys turn their griping onto the squirrelly Delancey brothers – who scowl at them from behind the safety of the gate and have absolutely no trouble giving shit straight back.
"Come on, move so we can get in and get our papes," she speaks tiredly, but certainly not out of any sympathy for the bullies who are having little success with their harsh biting words - and the boys reluctantly do as she says, stepping out of the way so that the Delancey's can unlock the gate and swing it open.
"What a terrible smell," Romeo muses as he passes the duo, looking them up and down disdainfully. "I hear'd a rumor you boys took money to crush heads at the trolley workers strike."
Morris shrugs, but a smug grin comes over his twisted expression.
"Paid damn well," he says thoughtfully after a moment with a pointed bravado, and Specs has to grab Romeo's arm to keep him from throwing a fist between his eyes.
They file through and Daisy takes the rear, shooting the brothers a threatening glare when one of them snaps something unintelligible at Fitz, certainly completely unbidden - as unlike the other boys, Fitz was rarely interested in discourse of any sort. He pretends to ignore them with the same practice with which he had ignored her that morning, and when they continue snarling after him, protectiveness flames up more fully in her gut.
"Don't be mean," she says coolly as she passes by them, scowling between their two pairs of working legs before remeeting their gazes in turn, "One day one of you might have a bum leg, and I don't think you'd like us treating you the same way."
They glare at her but value themselves enough not to talk back, experienced enough after years of her beating up on them to protect the boys to know better.
They pass the wagons that are still unloading, and Daisy steps past the loitering boys to pick up her papers first, reaching deep into her pocket as she approaches the stacks.
"Morning, Weasel," she smiles bright and sarcastic and the burly man who runs the stacks, and he breaths a long sigh.
"It's Wiesel. You know that."
"That's what I said, isn't it?" her smile melts into a smirk as she finally finds the coin in the bottom of her pocket, dropping it in front of him. "I'll take the usual."
He shakes his head tiredly.
"The usual for Daisy," he tells the man beside him, who counts her a stack and hands it over for her to shove into her empty bag. She does, and steps aside as the others begin to follow her lead – griping at Wiesel, buying their papers and slipping back out the gate to stake out the streets.
Daisy hesitates, however – because a few spots back in the line, mingled among the familiar faces of her boys are two faces she has never seen before.
When the girl reaches the front of the line, she requests 20 papers with a nearly comedic air of authority, considering who and what the lot of them are.
"That'll be a dime," Wiesel says, and the girl squares her small shoulders as the younger boy in front of her steps forward to take the papers.
"I'll pay you after I sell them," she says with that same perfect diction and air of respectability, and Wiesel looks so completely affronted that Daisy snorts out loud – quickly covering her mouth with a hand as she watches the riffraff unfurl.
"Funny, kid. Come on, cash upfront."
She hesitates, calm demeanor only cracking when she runs an anxious hand through her copper hair.
"Whatever I don't sell you do buy back, yeah?"
This time it is Wiesel who laughs out loud.
"Certainly, and every time you lose a tooth I'll stick a penny under your pillow," he says sarcastically, and Hunter chortles behind the girl until Daisy shoots him a glare that pointedly reminds him to remember whose side he is on. "Pay up, kid."
She lets out a breath, nodding slowly even if her shoulders have sunk slightly – offering up her dime and moving forward to take the papers from the little boy that Daisy assumes is her younger brother by their matching wideset picture-of-innocence doe-eyes.
Daisy continues to watch as the girl purses her lips and flips down the papers – counting them.
"Wow," Fitz mutters, limping up beside Daisy with a smirk, leaning sideways on his crutch and watching the girl alongside her.
Daisy shakes her head in disbelief.
"Wow," she agrees.
They watch her count them twice, nimble fingers flipping carefully through the soft pages.
And then she steps back up to Wiesel.
"Excuse me, sir – I bought 20 newspapers and you only gave me 19."
"Are you going t' help her?" Fitz asks, predictable empathy seeping into his tone, and Daisy sighs.
"I probably should, shouldn't I."
"It woul' be nice of you."
Daisy sighs again, deeper this time, but steps back up to the table, pulling the papers from the surprised girl's grasp and holding them out of her reach as she counts them herself. Wiesel looks shocked to still see her there as she slowly goes through the pages, not bothering to actually count them but mocking the girl's movements close enough for it to look like she does.
"She's right," she confirms after a moment, turning back towards the table and holding up her hands in surrender when she snatches her papers angrily back from her - but not looking away from Wiesel. "You owe her another pape. Pay up, kid," she mocks with a confident smirk. The boys chime in behind Daisy's lead, calling out for the new girl to be given what she is owed.
Alone, the girl didn't stand a chance against the men. But by claiming the stray, Daisy has made her more trouble than she is worth – and Wiesel shoves another paper angrily at her chest.
"Give her an extra 10," Daisy adds after a moment, reaching back into her pocket for the last coin she has – eyes on the chubby-cheeked brother who can't be over ten years old – who is watching her back with admiration in his wide eyes.
"I'm not a charity case," the girl snaps, fiery eyes on Daisy. "And I don't want extra newspapers or your help."
"What kind of Newsie doesn't want extra papers?" Daisy asks with a raise of her brow, ignoring the rest of the girl's angry words. "Anyway, don't worry, they aren't for you."
She takes the extra stack Wiesel holds out to her and drops them neatly into the little boy's arms, smiling when his already saucer-sized eyes widen further.
"Believe me," Hunter interrupts over his shoulder, finally putting down a coin for his own papers, "You want her help. This is Daisy Johnson. You got her help and you're learning from the best."
The distrust in the other girl's eyes doesn't falter, despite Hunter's shining endorsement.
"Gee," the little boy muses excitedly, "The same Daisy Johnson who escaped from the Refuge in the back of Governor Roosevelt's carriage!?"
"That never happened, Les," the older sister chides, and Daisy just shrugs with a smile, guiding the kid – Les – away from the stand and helping him adjust his satchel across his small shoulders.
"Hey, how old are you, kid?" She asks when she is happy with the situation of his satchel. He stands up taller.
"I'm 10," he announces proudly, but then hesitates. "Almost 10. Jemma –" he nods towards his sister, "is almost 18. And I'm almost 10."
Daisy nods, sizing him up with narrowed eyes.
"If anyone asks, you're seven," she tells him, and he nods obediently without a question, but she goes on anyway in a slightly lowered voice, "see, if you're younger you sell more papes, and if we're gonna be partners—"
"Wait, who said anything about partners?" Jemma interrupts – perpetually angry.
"Me," Daisy says, patience beginning to wane, "just now."
She deserves the scowl Jemma throws her.
"If you're so great, why would you want to sell with us?" She asks accusingly.
"You've got a kid brother," she answers easily, "I don't. His face could sell a thousand papes a week."
She still looks dubious.
"Kid, look sad," Daisy orders. Les widens his watery eyes on cue, pulling a pout across his lips and staring emptily into the distance. Daisy nods sideways at the heartbreaking expression, biting down a triumphant smirk as she stares back at Jemma. "We're gonna make millions."
A long moment passes, but Jemma finally nods.
xx
"Factory explosion leaves 3 dead and more wounded!" Daisy calls loudly when she catches sight of a movement at the end of the street, extra motivated now by the lightness of her empty bag. "You heard it here first!"
She feels Jemma's ever-dubious eyes prickling at the back of her neck and makes a point of ignoring it as the man approaches, eyeing the paper with interest. "Read all about it!" she adds, offering it out to him. He nods, taking the paper and dropping a coin in her outstretched palm. She watches him disappear down the road, then smirks back over her shoulder at Jemma.
"Easy," she tells her.
"You lied," she responds. "You just made that story up!"
Daisy smirks, shaking her head.
"I told him he heard it here first," she challenges. "And he did."
Jemma scowls fully at her, reaching out to pull Les, who is staring up at Daisy with eyes full of admiration, back up close to her.
"Misleading and lying are the same thing. Our parents taught us not to lie."
"My parents taught me not to starve," she shoots back with an unfriendly smile. "Sell papes your way, put them to sleep – it isn't my problem."
Jemma shakes her head, reaching into her bag and coming up with a paper – going on as if she hasn't heard Daisy.
"I've just got one left," she says, and Les swipes it from his sister's hand, hopping out onto the sidewalk as a young woman approaches. Daisy sinks back into the shadows with Jemma, watching the little boy.
"Buy a pape from a poor little orphan boy?" he pleads with the sad look he put on earlier.
The lady begins to shake her head, and he catches on quickly, ducking his little head to the side and faking a gut-wrenching cough that stops the woman in her tracks. Daisy tries to bite back her smile as she glances sideways at Jemma, who lets out a defeated sigh as the woman forks over a dime and takes their final paper.
"You're a natural, kid," Daisy praises as she hops from the shadows after the woman has disappeared. She runs an approving hand through the boy's hair, and he grins brightly, clearly proud of his work.
"This is so much better than school!" He announces with excitement, and Jemma quickly steps between them.
Daisy feels her spirits drop at the reality of the kid's words.
"Don't even think it, Les," Jemma says sharply, holding out her hand for the change he has gathered. He forks it over in three little handfuls from his pockets, and she carefully divides Daisy's share out, holding it out to her but still watching her brother. "This is only until father gets his job back."
An awkward stillness falls between them as Les nods at his sister's words, and Daisy searches for something to fill the pressing silence as she buries her coins into the depths of her pocket.
"Look, lets get outta the streets," she says. "We'll find you two some food and a safe place to stay the night –"
"Actually…" Jemma interrupts, shifting uneasily beneath Daisy's eyes. "Our mum'll be expecting us home for supper."
Daisy recovers quickly, smiling crookedly to prove that the words don't mean anything to her - however taken aback she might actually be. She doesn't often meet kids that've got a home.
"Right, yeah – you'd better get going then."
"You should come to dinner!" Les proposes excitedly, and Jemma actually smiles a bit at the suggestion, nodding her approval.
"Mum is a great cook, she'd love to have you."
But Daisy takes a step away, insides turning at the offer – however kind.
"No, I forgot, I've got someplace to be," she lies, taking another step back into the alley and faking a smile. "I've got someone to meet and I've already kept him waiting."
"Is that him?" Les asks, pointing down the road in a direction she can't see. "He's been waiting."
Her brow furrows as she steps uneasily back out of the alley, following the little boy's pointed finger down the block. A man in a dark suit loiters on the corner, sharp eyes only searching a moment before settling on her.
"Shit," she mutters, glancing side to side as she sizes up an escape route that the new kids won't have trouble following. It is only a beat before the man at the end of the street is making a pointed beeline towards her.
"What is it?" Jemma asks, forehead lining with concern as she looks between Daisy and the man.
"Grab Les," she says under her breath, heart pounding. "Follow me. And run."