Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Newsies. I own any and all original characters not seen in the movie.
This fanfiction slightly refers to things in my Christmas-themed one-shot, "Hope of the Magi". You don't have to read that story to understand this one, but more readers never hurts. =)
This is the story I've been wanting to write for about a year. It was originally supposed to be an original fiction, but it needed too much background story that I didn't feel like writing, so I used something I already knew the background to-- Newsies. As fate would have it, I recently found an old notebook of mine in which I had begun a Newsies fan fiction very similar to this one. Funny how the world works.
Feel free to discuss and ask questions. Enjoy. =D
July 2, 1901
"So… where is it you're headed?"
"Hm? Ouch!" He rubbed his neck as he stared at the window that had just been supporting his head for the last… well, it must have been a while because his neck had gone stiff.
The chipper man who had broken the silence broke it once more. "So sorry… didn't mean to startle you, Mr.…."
"Sullivan. Francis Sullivan."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan. I didn't wake you, did I?"
He shook hid head and yawned. "No, I wasn't asleep yet-- just almost," he said matter-of-factly.
The Man paused from picking some lint off his slacks. "Oh, then I sincerely apologize. I know how difficult it is to fall asleep on the train."
He stared at the golden letters on The Man's briefcase, which had become the trash bin for all the lint. "No worries, Mr. Bronson. I only sleep when I have to. I dream better when I'se awake."
"Of course." The Man tried to scoot closer to the aisle. This Mr. Sullivan's quizzical explanation and slip of improper grammar disinterested him. Still, etiquette called for some polite conversation.
"I'm heading home to see my wife," The Man began quickly and awkwardly, "I'm a traveling salesman, you see." He opened his briefcase to reveal multiple bars of sharp-smelling soap. Noticing that this Francis Sullivan didn't seem impressed, The Man quickly closed his case but continued speaking. "We've been married for about eighteen months or so, but I've only seen her five times, and the visits never last for more than a week. Ten days, if I'm lucky. The wife hates it, but I enjoy the freedom… and money too much to give it up." The Man subconsciously straightened his bowtie. "I always look forward to going home, though. I have to admit-- the business gets a little lonely sometimes." He picked another piece of lint off his suit jacket and flicked it onto his briefcase. "Is that where you're off to, Mr. Sullivan? Are you heading home?"
He looked down at the hand resting between his leg and the train wall. The Man tried to see what was clutched inside of it, but he held it too tightly. Whatever he was holding seemed to be helping him contemplate his answer. Finally, he spoke.
"I don't know."
The Man looked at him with a disturbed brow. He had to be going somewhere.
"Well, what does it say on your ticket?"
"I mean, I'se getting off in New York but--"
"Well, isn't this a funny scene! So am I! Where in New York are you going? Anywhere in the city?"
"Manhattan. But Mr. Bronson," he added quickly before The Man could get in another word, "it's been nice talkin' with you, but I'm going to try and get some sleep, if you don't mind."
"Oh. No, not at all," The Man said smugly. He knew Mr. Sullivan didn't mean to be rude, but he took it as such anyway.
Hours of silence later, he awoke to find Mr. Bronson nowhere to be found, not that he cared to find him at all. The last thing he needed was some would-be tightwad to ruin his nervous excitement. He picked up his belongings with his un-clutched hand and walked to the nearest exit. The people in front of him weren't moving fast enough. Each step he took seemed to lengthen the distance between him and the door, but at last-- he made it.
The Big Apple sun was barely there to greet him as he stepped off the train and into the town that was his. He took several deep breaths as he walked, each one longer than the last, savoring the smell of buildings rather than fields. Of people rather than cows. Of sweat rather than manure. Of… ink.
"Sir, it's me last pape of the day, would you buy it, sir?"
He set down his bags and smiled as he handed a penny to the young newsie he did not recognize. He took the newspaper and, folding it carefully, dropped in into one of his bags. He watched the boy leave and looked around for a moment before deciding it was time.
He slowly opened his clutched hand, wiggling and cracking his fingers. His empty hand grabbed the other end of it and brought it to his neck-- no differently than so many times before. He tied the red bandana and fit it perfectly in its place. He picked up his bags and stood, staring at the streets in front of him. He gave one last, long exhale to rid himself of the nervous butterflies filling his stomach. He cleared his throat as if preparing to give the biggest speech of his life, stood up straight, and smiled his child-like-confidence smile. He was finally back. Jack Kelly had returned to New York City.
Gracias for reading. Updates coming shortly.