A/N: Bless. I don't own Newsies. If I did, it would still be on Broadway.

Luca Higgins dreaded six o' clock like he dreaded tax collection day. After years of seeing curly-headed ghosts out the corners of his eye, he wondered if the Pier he had met had really been Pier at all. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he had dreamed it up and fooled himself into thinking it was real. He'd done it before. He wanted it to be real, more than anything he had ever wanted. He prayed for it to be real; he had been for years. However, reality had been cruel to him, and many times he had had his hopes shattered, like tiny glass figurines under a steel-toed boot. Every minute that passed sowed another doubtful thought, trying to save himself from another crushing dose of truth, till he had almost convinced himself the morning had never happened.

Yet, still, when the clock struck six, and the church bells rang out over the city, he was back at the dusty corner, hat in hand, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for seemed like hours, standing by a fruit stand and scanning the streets, searching. He kept telling himself it was useless, that he was waiting for a train that would never arrive, yet he stayed. He dared not leave, in case his boy should come back, looking for him. He would wait there till his legs became like marble, and he withered and blew away like sawdust.

Then the train arrived.

Race came sprinting up the street, cigar between his fingers and his hat tucked safely in his back pocket, a panicked look on his face. Luca's eyes lit up, he stood straight, and he uttered a silent prayer. The newsboy ran toward him, stumbling wildly to a stop a few paces in front of him, panting hard and sweating. His hair stuck to his glistening forehead, and his bright blue eyes shone with adrenaline.

"Sorry!" he gasped, wiping his face. "I had to go fartha downtown- two miles- I didn't see de time."

Luca said nothing. He quietly took in the image of the huffing, sweating, lanky boy in front him, storing it away in his memory in case something should suddenly whisk him away. Stepping closer, he reached out, faltered, and gently touched Race's face with baited breath, waiting for his fingers to pass through the specter in front of him. The boy didn't move, his shoulders heaving a little as he took in air. Race's eyes were anxiously scanning Luca's face he reached up and grasped his fathers wrist. He didn't move it; just held it tightly in his dirty hand, silently reassuring his father that he was there.

Luca felt his eyes sting as a small, grateful smile of relief and joy crept onto his tired face. In a sudden bout of ecstatic energy, grabbed the boy's sweaty head in both hands, laughter bubbling out as he did a little bouncing dance on his toes. Race grinned, holding onto both Luca's arms, and laughed right back, swaying with his father's jig. They laughed and bounced a circle till people began to stare. Still laughing, Luca hugged him quickly, then stood back and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"I can't tell you how happy I am," he gushed, the words feeling like they leaped from his mouth. "I've missed you."

Race looked up at his father, his eyes twinkling with glee. He was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His face softened; he beamed blissfully. He knew he had a lot to explain, and was going to hate explaining it, but he was so happy, he hardly cared at the moment.

"I missed you, too, Papa."

Luca grinned and ruffled his hair vigorously. "You did a lot of growin', I see."

"I guess you could say dat," Race replied, putting his cigar in his mouth and tucking a thumb in his pocket. Luca frowned in mock disappointment.

"I also see you've taken up smokin'." The other reddened a little as Luca nodded judgmentally at him. "Nice to see you makin' good life choices."

"Hey, if you t'ink dat's bad, you're gonna get a real kick outta de rest of my routine."

"Oh no," Luca laughed. "How bad is it?"

Race grimaced. "Well, for starta's…"

"You live here?" Luca asked incredulously. They stood outside the Newsboy Lodging House, the street lamps illuminating the shabby building. Someone had written "If you can reed this, your too close" in soap on the downstairs window. However, it appeared backwards to the intended audience of the sign. The windows upstairs were lit, and the ever-moving shadows of the newsies inside could be seen. The shadow of a pillow flew across the room, and a muffle shout could be heard.

"Yup," Race confirmed proudly. "Six cents a night; ten if you wanna private bunk."

Luca glanced at him. "Private bunk?"

"Yea. Nobody really takes dat offa d'ough. Can't afford it. 'Sides, in de winta, two kids to a bed is a blessing."

Race continued to survey his lodging house with a sense of pride and dignity, while Luca gave him a rather perplexed glance.

"Yessir," Race sighed thoughtfully. "It ain't no castle, but it does de job." He gestured to the door. "Wanna meet my boys?"

"If your boys are anything like the house they stay in: absolutely."

Race led his father into the dusty lodging house. Luca looked around, taking in the faded wallpaper and the cobwebs in the corners of a ceiling. Several different banners — crudely crafted of cloth and scrap wood — were nailed to the walls, all with some variation of a protest painted on it in messy handwriting. "Strike", "stop the presses", and "stop The World"; a red portrait of Pulitzer with devils' horns. In the center of the banners, a newspaper with the headline "Children's Crusade; Newsies Stop The World" and a grainy picture of group of ragtag kids tripping all over each other.

"Hiya, Kloppman," Race crowed, waving to the elderly man behind the counter. "Papa, dis is Mr. Kloppman. He runs de house. Wakes us up in de mornin'. Gives out soap."

Luca reached over the counter and shook Kloppman's wrinkled hand. "How do you do, Mr. Kloppman."

"How do, sir," Kloppman replied, eyeing the other man with friendly curiosity. "And you are?"

"Oh, I'm Pier's father," Luca explained.

Kloppman seemed confused. "Who is—?"

Race interjected: "He means me, Kloppman."

"Ah," the old man said, nodding understandingly. He glanced at Race. "You have a fatha now?"

"Long story," Race informed him. He fished in his pocket and set a half dozen pennies on the counter. "I'm gonna show him around."

Kloppman waved at him dismissively. "Whateva ya like, my boy."

"C'mon." Race gestured for Luca to follow and then ran up the stairs, going three at a time.

As they crested the top of the stairwell, a great wave of noise hit Luca's ears. Not useless, horrid noise, like a squeaking door or metal scraping across sidewalk. The sound of exuberant children having a good time is never useless.

Race made a sweeping gesture at the chaos. "D'ese are my boys."

One the kids, who was actually trying to sleep, looked up as they entered and gave an exhausted smirk. "Heya, Racetrack."

"Hey, Corky." Luca peered sideways at his son suspiciously. Racetrack? How ever had he come by that nickname, he wondered.

Corky squinted at Luca. "Who's that you got witcha?"

Suddenly, as if on cue, the din in the room subsided, till one boy was left swinging a pillow wildly at the newsies standing around him. Someone smacked him in the back of the head and told him to shut up.

Luca felt all eyes on him. Despite the crowd consisting entirely of children, he was extremely uncomfortable, as though he were being judged in his union suit in front of a gathering of well-dressed gentlemen.

The silence was becoming somewhat unbearable. Then someone sneezed.

A taller boy hopped down from the bunk he had been standing on and sauntered toward them. He was clearly the leader; none of the previously rambunctious kids moved, waiting for his signal.

"Who's dis?" the boy asked.

"Hello to you too, Jack," Race snorted. He cleared his throat, clearly far more anxious than his voice let on. "Well, uh… actually…" He glanced back at Luca, as if for some sort of support. "…Dis here is Racetrack Senior."

Silence.

A kid gasped. "Your brother!?"

The room erupted into exasperated name-calling and flying hats.

"No, you moron!"

"It means his father, stupid!"

"Shut up, Barrel!"

Jack ignored the riffraff and looked at Race with a mixture of shock and amused suspicion. "You got a fadda?"

Race shifted uneasily. "Well, yeah," he retorted defensively. "Everybody's got a fatha. Some of 'em just ain't around."

"Your's seems to be," Jack noted, jabbing a thumb at Luca, who was now warding off several boys, all of whom were bombarding him with a barrage of questions. He gave a short laugh. "Why didn't you eva say nuttin'?"

Race's expression steeled. "'Cause it weren't any of your business, is why," he growled icily. "You wasn't exactly truthful about your fatha. Don't go tellin' me I was outta line."

"I wasn't–"

But his eyes had gone cold, and his usual smug smirk had set into a thin, mirthless line. He glared hard at Jack, daring him to say anything else. Then he stepped away to join the flock of inquisitive newsboys. Jack almost stopped him, but decided against it. He really didn't care whether Race told him anything or not. However, he was suddenly aware that he knew almost nothing about his friend's past. He'd always personally assumed his parent's were dead, like everyone else's. In fact, he'd almost forgotten that Race would've even had parents, ever. Like he sprouted out of the feeding troughs at the racetrack or something. Now that he knew that not only the racer a normal product of the populace, but that his father was also still around — and on good terms with his ridiculous son, no less — Jack had questions, and by golly, he was going to get answers.

But not yet. Jack had seen that look before, on himself, and he knew he wasn't going to get anything out of Race for while yet.

Sighing, Jack stood back, crossed his arms, and watched the interrogation of Luca Higgins:

The man was backed against the wall with his hands raised, a bustling semi-circle of dirty boys yammering around him like baby birds screaming for food.

"You're his fadda?!"

"Are you dead?"

"Where do ya live?"

"What was Race like as a kid? Was he stupid?"

Luca laughed. "Hush up! Be quiet!" he shouted. "I can't hear you when you're all talkin' at once!"

They quieted to excited whispers. Boots, a small black boy with a pink shirt, raised his hand. "Why are you here?"

"I was in town deliverin' some furniture to a store."

Mutterings. So he worked for a furniture company. Not very interesting.

"How old are ya?"

"I'm not tellin' you."

Whispers of approval. A secretive furniture man was far more interesting than a regular furniture man. Heck, for all they knew, maybe he wasn't a furniture man at all. Maybe that was his cover story. Maybe he actually guarded the President!

From a bright-eyed, curly-headed boy called Mush: "Mr. Racetrack, did you hear 'bout our strike?"

"I did," Luca grinned. "I saw the paper downstairs, too. Real good to see kids standin' up for themselves."

Proud nodding amongst the newsies. They really had done well, holding their own against the mighty giants. They were beginning to like Mr. Racetrack Senior. A secretive fellow who may or may not be a guard of the President, who also supported their strike efforts. He seemed like a great guy so far.

"Did Race do dumb stuff when he was a kid?" inquired black-haired boy in the front, dubbed Pillowcase.

"Of course," Luca responded with a snort. "One time I came home from work and his mother had tied him to a chair with bedsheets to keep him out of the bread dough."

Giggles and loud obnoxious cackling. Yes, this man was definitely an ally. Willingly telling embarrassing stories about the cigar boy? Yes, please!

A boy with an eyepatch and wide, leering grin punched Race's shoulder.

"Dough boy! Ha ha!"

Race elbowed him. "Shuddup, Blink."

More laughter.

"So wait, he's got a motha, too?" a ginger haired boy named Albert implored.

Luca didn't answer immediately.

"No," he replied flatly. "Just me."

Albert nodded, satisfied. "Nice."

Jack mentally hit his head against a wall.

Loud chattering resumed, drowning Luca in garbled questions and odd stories, telling him about the most arbitrary things. Race joined in, yelling and laughing with the rest. Luca seemed to enjoy the nonsense, talking loudly back at them with an bemused grin. Then someone the back shouted: "Did Race run away?"

The boys all began to echo the question, nagging him for an answer. Race, however, fell silent.

"Uh—" Luca saw Race glare at him shamefully. "—yes. Yes, he did."

"Why?" a smaller newsie piped up.

"Yeah, why did he?"

"Did ya hit him?"

"Did you take away his lucky dice?" someone quipped. The boys laughed.

"A'right, a'right," Race interrupted gruffly, shoving kids away from Luca before the man could answer. "I brung him here to show him around, not grill him."

The boys began to protest, but Jack stepped up.

"Shut it, fellas," he ordered. "You can ask questions layta. 'Sides, Kloppman's gonna start wonderin' why we ain't getting' ready for suppa. So git."

"Aw, come on, Jack—!"

"Git," Jack repeated, swatting playfully at the indignant newsboys. "Don't make me knock you out."

Grumbling, the boys receded back to their respective bunks, muttering among themselves and heading to the bathroom to wash their hands and cups. Race tapped Jack's arm.

"Thanks," he whispered.

"No problem," the older boy whispered back. "But I'll admit, I'm just as curious as de rest of 'em."

Race clenched his fists. "Stay out of it," he gritted. "You'll get told when I feel like tellin'."

Jack held up his hands defensively. "Don't go woykin' yourself up, pal. I'm jus' curious."

Race scoffed resignedly, starting toward the door. "You ain't the only one." He jumped down the stairs. "C'mon, Papa."

Luca muttered some goodbyes to the boys, then turned to Jack.

"It's nice to meet you," he said.

"Nice to meet you, too," Jack replied.

"You comin'?" Race called.

"Yeah!" Luca shouted back. He hesitated. "He never told you guys about his family, did he?"

"Not once in all de six years I known him. Made a couple jokes 'bout tradin' his ma for a box of cigars, but those was jus' jokes." He paused. "I dunno why he left ya, but I'm guessin' he tried to forget you. Didn't really need ya; he had us, afta all."

Even in the dim light of the lamps, Jack could the hurt on Luca's face. He bit his tongue.

"Sorry, dat didn't come out de way I meant-"

"No," Luca shushed him. "You're probably right. You were what he didn't have. What I couldn't give him."

He shrugged and smiled gratefully at Jack, but the boy could see the injured flicker in his eyes. "Thanks for watchin' him all these years." He stuck out his hand.

Jack grinned. "If you could call it dat," he snickered, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. Luca laughed.

Race came clambering loudly up the stairs. He raised his arms impatiently. "Are you comin' or what?"

"Calm down, Pier." Luca followed him, giving one last nod to Jack before descending the stairs. He turned to his son jokingly. "Or should I say: Racetrack Junior?"

"Don't make me come ova d'ere," Race threatened.

To be continued...

A/N: I apologize for any grammar of spelling mistakes made outside of their endearing accents. Advice and encouragement is appreciated! :)