Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is not mine either. It is an excerpt from the poem Portrait of a Lady by T.S. Eliot. I claim no right to that genius.
A/N: We don't have much time. What is really important to you?
Warning:PG (mild adult themes)
xii.)
her hair is all superstition&spiderwebs
unapologetically nonsensical&tangled
fingers wade through mated clumps
they've both been running too long to care
(from what were they running?)
THEY SAY:
"just a little bit further - we're almost home."
His eyes reminded her of New York and time she was sure he hoped she'd forgotten (but she'd hung onto just enough to remember the stench of summer and the endless stretches of concrete and steel). Those memories made her crave her water colors which he had sold. He may have been the artist, but she had her own creative aspirations (but he is a blank canvas she is still not allowed to paint even though he's turned her into his own twisted masterpiece). He never stayed rooted long enough for his eyes to absorb the new surroundings but the colors of his home town ran deep within his veins. No matter how forgetful he was it seemed that New York just wouldn't forget him (the chaotic refinement of Manhattan fit him to a tee anyway).
He pulls her along with him in his escapades into seedy slums and magnificent mansions (he's always one step ahead) and never hears her object that she isn't wearing the right things. Her fussing isn't entirely unwarranted (living out of a car can limit hygiene) but she's learned to revel in the feeling of a bubble bath even if the tub is cracked and leaking (absence makes the heart grow fonder). They're used to the grit of New York even if she doesn't remember that New York is the reason why she's used to being dirty (some of the filth she's picked up can't be scrubbed off with soap).
They are always going faster but they'll never catch up with themselves (though he's tried he hasn't quite cracked the time space continuum). They're closer than they've ever been before (to what – they don't know) but they assure themselves that they've almost found it (it helps them sleep). It's hard to be a shadow chaser when the shadows are constantly changing. Tonight they will keep driving like any other night (to a one horse town or a thriving metropolis) and they will break down at the least convenient time (what time is it anyway?).
On the side of the road he looks up at her with grease smeared on an elegant cheekbone (he's looks too aristocratic to branded with such grime) and catches her staring. They've been as physically intimate as a man and woman can be but she still gets flustered by eye contact.
"We've got just a bit further." Sometimes she swears he can read her mind.
"Just a bit?"
"Just a bit." He smile was wolfish when he continued:
"'And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that's a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn.'"
For all she already knew - she was about to find out how much she really did have to learn.
A/N: Thanks to MushM12 for reviewing.