Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.


Chapter 23: Persuasion I

The paint wasn't cooperating.

Jack scowled darkly at his artist's palette, setting it down on the table next to him with a little more force than necessary. The backdrop was mostly finished - he only needed to touch up a few spots - but something about it wasn't quite right, and frustratingly enough, the more he painted, the more dissatisfied he became.

He needed a break.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Jack found himself reluctantly pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. He'd only had the letter in his possession for a few days, but the paper was already worn thin from countless readings. His eyes immediately went to the top of the page where Crutchie's sprawling handwriting began.

Dear Jack,

Greetings from The Refuge -

Abruptly, Jack folded up the paper and shoved it back into his pocket. He practically had the letter memorized anyway - it had been running through his head over and over ever since he'd received it. He didn't even have to look at the page to know what came next.

The fact that Crutchie had even written to Jack spoke volumes. And the fact that the letter had made its way from The Refuge into Jack's hands was nothing short of a miracle.

His brother knew him too well, he supposed. Crutchie had rightly guessed that if Jack wasn't at the lodging house, he'd be hiding out at Irving Hall. The newsies knew that Jack made visits there often enough (usually when he was busy working on a project for Miss Medda), but Crutchie was probably the only one who knew that Irving Hall occasionally served as Jack's second home when things got to be too much and he needed to get away...so it made sense that Crutchie would send Specs there with the letter if he'd found out that Jack had not returned to the lodging house.

Accordingly, Specs had shown up at the theater, surprising Jack, who had quickly slunk off into the shadows before the other newsie could see him. Out of sight, Jack had watched as Specs rapped on the door of the theater, quietly first, then a bit louder, until Miss Medda heard him and bustled over to answer. Their conversation had been too quiet for Jack to overhear (he'd sworn Miss Medda to secrecy about his whereabouts, and she'd reluctantly agreed, so he wasn't worried about his presence being revealed, but he wished that he could hear what Specs had to say). Was the newsie acting on his own initiative, or had one of the other boys sent him to look for Jack? The latter seemed like something Race would do after several days of prolonged absence, and Jack had tensed, wondering if Specs would insist on coming inside to search the theater.

But instead, he'd only handed a folded-up piece of paper to Miss Medda, then had tipped his cap respectfully and taken his leave. The woman had walked slowly back to the stage, and Jack had seen the troubled look in her eyes as she'd silently handed him the letter before leaving him to peruse it in solitude. (She'd somehow intuitively understood his need for space, and for that he was grateful).

So Jack had warily examined the missive, half-expecting it to be a strongly-worded ultimatum from Race or an anxious petition from Davey to return to the lodging house. It was only when he recognized the familiar handwriting on the page that the pieces all fit together.

And his composure fell apart.

At first, he hadn't been able to get past the first few lines. He'd laid the letter down, his hands shaking, and had walked a few feet away, trying desperately to calm himself, afraid to read on but equally afraid to let the letter out of his sight. He'd stood there for a moment, plagued by indecision, then had walked back to the letter, snatched it up again, and forced himself to read a few more sentences before he had to look away.

Time had passed - one day, maybe two or three? - since then. He wasn't keeping track of things like the sunrise and sunset - morning and evening made no difference to him - but he'd read the letter obsessively, probably a hundred times or more. The dread had lessened now that he knew what the message revealed, but if anything, the guilt and sadness and anger had intensified, and Jack had found himself emotionally losing himself in his painting, the only thing keeping him sane amidst the anguish that he was feeling inside.

It was a good thing that Miss Medda had requested several backdrops.

Sighing, Jack turned his attention back to his most recent project. He couldn't afford to waste time now. Miss Medda would be coming by at any moment to see the finished product, and she'd promised to pay him, too, though Jack had insisted that it wasn't necessary, especially since she'd been so kind as to let him stay at the theater the past several days. But she'd insisted, and he'd given in, because a little extra money in his pocket would help to offset his train ticket to...wherever he was going next. He couldn't stay in Manhattan - Crutchie's letter (and Jack's unsuccessful attempt to visit him at the Refuge) had only served to remind him of how deep his failure had been - and if the other newsies had been able to function this long without him, they would be more than fine in his permanent absence.

Wearily, Jack retrieved his paintbrush and palette, then walked over to the backdrop and hunkered down next to the part of the landscape where the mauve and lilac-shaded mountains disappeared into their own reflection on the water.

He began carefully dabbing at the canvas, and this time, the paint cooperated.

Just a few final touches, Jack thought to himself as he worked...and then it would be time for him to disappear as well.


Davey wracked his brain, trying to remember which one of the passageways at the back of the theater led to the auditorium. He hadn't returned to Irving Hall since the day Jack had led him and Les there seeking sanctuary from the pursuing Snyder, and Davey's memory of navigating the back of house labyrinth was fuzzy to say the least.

He was actually surprised that he'd even made it this far. The entrance to the theater had been locked, but he'd located a rear door easily enough and was surprised to find that it was actually slightly ajar. He'd slipped inside, closing the door behind him a little guiltily, then had cautiously made his way up a flight of stairs which led to a long hallway branching out in all directions.

He'd accidentally ended up in the basement at first, but quickly retraced his steps, bypassing a row of dressing rooms and wandering down several more hallways until he saw a flight of stairs that looked vaguely familiar. The stairs landed him on a catwalk above the stage, and just as Davey was beginning to finally get his bearings, he heard the sound of a familiar voice.

"Does it matter where I'm goin'? I just gotta get out of here, Miss Medda - I should've left a long time ago."

Jack!

There was no doubt in his mind that it was the newsie leader who was speaking. Davey hurried towards the voice. And sure enough, there was Jack, down on the stage exchanging a few parting words with Miss Medda as she patted him on the shoulder before taking her leave.

Davey let out a sigh of relief.

Jack heard the sound and glanced up sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Davey?" he gaped. "What are you doin' here?"

"What do you think?" Davey retorted, frustration following quickly on the heels of his relief. Making his way down to the stage, he hurried over to the other boy. "We've been looking everywhere for you, Jack! It's been over a week - why didn't you come back to the lodging house?"

Jack's expression immediately became defensive. "You got at least half a brain in that head of yours, right Davey?" he snapped. "Well use it! Why do ya think I didn't come back?"

Davey stared at him in disbelief. "Honestly, Jack, I have no idea," he muttered. Did the other boy have an inkling of what he'd put them through in his absence? Did he even care?

The newsie leader only scowled in reply, then bent down to examine his painting supplies, and with herculean effort, Davey resisted the urge to give further vent to his anger. Scolding Jack wasn't going to help - he was clearly out of sorts, and reprimanding him would only make matters worse.

Glancing around the stage, Davey's eyes were drawn to the giant backdrop that Jack had been painting, and in spite of his irritation, he found himself once again amazed at the other boy's talent. This time, it was not a forest scene that had been rendered, but a sweeping view of the mountains under a gorgeously vibrant sky - a sunrise? A sunset? Had Jack painted the dawning of a hopeful new day, or the melancholy bittersweetness of its passing? Davey couldn't tell.

"Hey, you've really outdone yourself with this one," he said, trying to lighten the mood as he gestured to the backdrop. "I'd almost be willing to give up life as a city boy if I could see this every day." He gave Jack a careful look. "Is this a real place, Jack?" he asked. "Santa Fe, maybe?"

Jack only grunted in response.

Okay...not in the mood to talk about the painting.

Davey rubbed the back of his neck. He wished belatedly that he had waited for Les and Katherine before rushing over to the theater. They'd been searching for Jack all morning, and after several hours of fruitless investigation, Les had suggested looking at Irving Hall. It was a brilliant idea, and Davey had wanted to set off for the theater right then and there, but Les had protested that he was tired and hungry, and it really was almost lunch time, so Katherine had offered to take Les to Jacobi's for a break and a sandwich while Davey continued the search. The plan was that after a brief respite, Katherine and Les would join him at the theater, where hopefully Jack would also be waiting, having been convinced to rejoin the cause and resume his rightful place as the leader of the newsies.

Well, Jack had been found, but the successful convincing was yet to be accomplished. And if Davey had overheard the conversation with Miss Medda correctly, Jack was actually thinking of leaving town soon (though it hadn't sounded like he had a clue as to where he would be heading), so someone needed to step in quickly to persuade him not to go.

Of course, that someone just had to be Davey - probably the worst-suited newsie for the job.

What would Race, or one of the other boys, do? They wouldn't have started things off with a direct reprimand, no matter how well deserved - that had been Davey's first mistake. And they probably wouldn't have asked any leading questions, either, so he supposed that was his second. He hadn't been around the newsies long enough to really understand their culture of communication, but he'd picked up a few things here and there, and now he desperately tried to recall some of the tactics that he'd seen employed - anything to help him get the angle that he needed to get through to Jack.

Suddenly, Davey remembered something that Race had said to him in a conversation on their way back to the lodging house. We gotta celebrate when we can. When things were difficult, the newsies didn't focus on their troubles - they put up a bold front and laughed and joked instead, letting their confident bravado carry them through situations that could otherwise overwhelm and completely discourage. They highlighted their victories and downplayed their defeats. They didn't worry about the day to come - they simply lived fully in the day at hand. It wasn't Davey's way of dealing with things, and affecting the kind of carefree, self-assured attitude required for this type of mindset would be rather out of character for him, but if that kind of approach would make Jack listen...well, maybe it was worth a shot.

Here goes nothing, Davey thought to himself.

He cleared his throat.

"Have you seen the papers, Jack?" he asked, unfolding the copy of The Sun that he'd brought along to the theater. "We made the front page, just like Katherine said! Our story is all over New York, and that's not all," he added quickly, seeing that Jack looked unimpressed. "Just this morning, one of Spot's boys stopped by the lodging house to say that they're with us for the next event! Great news, right?"

"Too little too late," Jack muttered darkly, selecting a paintbrush and pushing past Davey to walk over to the backdrop. "You forgettin' what happened at the distribution center?" He knelt down and began dabbing at the canvas.

"Yeah, they caught us off guard that time," Davey conceded, setting the paper aside. "But we've stood our ground since then, and we haven't backed down." He walked over Jack. "They're going to have to start listening to us soon, especially if Brooklyn and the rest are on board. This battle isn't over yet - not by a long shot."

Jack paused to look up at him. "Oh really?" he scoffed. "And here I thought that your father taught you not to lie." Shaking his head in disgust, he turned back to the painting. "I've been watchin' the distribution center, Dave, and you know what I saw this morning? Huh?" He jabbed the paintbrush at the canvas. "All of the newsies, back to work, linin' up for their papes like the strike never happened!"

Davey grimaced. It was true - the boys had voted to go back to work at the lodging house meeting the night before, much to his disappointment. But he and Race had decided to follow through on whatever decision was made, so accordingly, they had shown up at the distribution center the next morning. It had never occurred to Davey that Jack could have been watching the proceedings from afar and had drawn his own conclusions.

"I was there in line with the rest of them," Davey admitted, hoping that he could make Jack understand. "We're in a tough spot right now with the strike dragging on - it was either sell papes or dip into the Newsie Fund -"

Jack cut him off. "The Newsie Fund?" he exclaimed, surging to his feet. "The Newsie Fund? What was Race thinkin,' talkin' about lettin' the boys dig into that? It's supposed to be for emergencies, not for - " He broke off, scowling as he began to pace angrily. "That idiot!" he growled. "I oughta soak him for even thinkin' of doin' something so stupid!"

"Race is trying his best!" Davey retorted, unwilling to let the unwarranted criticism pass. "And so am I." He grabbed Jack's arm. "In case you've forgotten, Jack, you left us! But if you'd just listen to me for a moment - "

"Oh get down off your high horse," Jack interrupted, shaking away Davey's hand with a derisive scoff. "I ain't here to listen to your sermonizin.'" He motioned to the door, giving Davey a pointed look. "Exit's that way, Dave."

Then he abruptly turned away and went back to painting.

Davey didn't move. "So that's it, then?" he asked quietly. "You're just going to walk away and leave the newsies to their fate?"

Jack's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "I ain't gonna risk any more of 'em endin' up in danger," he said rigidly. "One of 'em's in enough trouble already, thanks to me."

"Jack, we knew from the beginning that we were taking a risk," Davey pleaded. "Of course it was going to be dangerous! But we can't give up now - "

"Oh, so you's willin' to just write Crutchie off like that?" Jack interrupted. "Keep movin' forward like he ain't lyin' beaten and bruised in The Refuge and might not even make it outta there alive?"

Davey winced. "No one's writing Crutchie off, Jack," he protested. "We're all worried about him, and we want him out of The Refuge just as much as you do!"

Jack inhaled sharply, and for a moment Davey thought that maybe he'd begun to see reason.

But then the newsie leader shook his head. "You can talk all you want, Davey," he said, sounding at once both angry and tired. "But it won't make a difference to me. I ain't comin' back."

He stood up and began walking over to the table of art supplies.

Davey's frustration grew.

"Okay, Jack," he said sarcastically, fed up with trying to be patient. "Fine. That sounds great. Nothing says 'loyalty' to your boys like hiding out while they're fighting for a cause that you got them into in the first place." Jack whirled around, looking stunned at the implicit accusation as Davey added, "And I'm sure quitting will do Crutchie a world of good, too!"

Jack stood there for a moment, completely dumbstruck, and Davey couldn't help but smirk a little. Finally he'd stumped him. Let's see how you like being cornered, Jack, he thought, remembering the times the newsie leader had trapped him with his leading statements and confounding logic. Two can play at this game.

The smirk turned out to be a mistake.

Jack's eyes blazed, and he strode forward, quickly closing the distance between them. "You questionin' my loyalty, Davey?" he growled. And before Davey could answer, he was being roughly jerked forward by his shirt, and Jack's fist was under his chin. "You think I don't care about my boys?" Jack demanded, his voice rising to an almost-hysterical pitch. "Huh?" He shoved his fist angrily against Davey's jaw, forcing his head back a few inches. "You sayin' I don't care about Crutchie?!"

His eyes were furious and wet with tears.

Davey swallowed, his heart pounding. "No, Jack," he answered, willing himself not to flinch. "That's - that's not what I'm saying." He paused for a moment, trying to calm himself before adding fervently, "I know that you would do anything for Crutchie and the rest of the newsies."

The statement seemed to mollify Jack somewhat, and after a moment, he stepped back, abruptly releasing his hold on Davey's shirt. His breathing was ragged and uneven as he stared blankly at his own hand which was still balled into a fist, almost as if it had acted on its own accord. Then with apparent effort, he uncurled it and swiped it across his eyes, dashing away the unshed tears before glancing warily at Davey.

"Sorry," he mumbled after a moment, scratching his head. "It ain't like me to get all riled up like that."

"That's okay, Jack," Davey replied, still shaken but grateful that the heat of the moment seemed to have passed. "I'm sorry, too," he added quickly. "It's not like me to talk the way I did, either. And I didn't mean to imply that you weren't loyal to the newsies."

Despite Jack's angry outburst, Davey could see that the other boy was hurting - the guilt and pain which had been initially hidden under a front of defensive surliness practically emanated from him now, and for all that Davey didn't particularly like being threatened and hauled around by his shirt, he felt anxious to reassure Jack that there were no hard feelings.

Impulsively (and before he could think the better of it), Davey spat in his hand and held it out to the newsie leader. "Truce?" he asked tentatively, giving the other boy a hesitant smile.

Jack's face broke into a half-grin, and he promptly spat in his own hand and shook with Davey. "I ain't gonna say no to that when you's clearly sufferin' so much just to make it pax," he joked.

"Yeah, well...anything for the cause," Davey muttered, resisting the urge to wipe his hand off on his trousers. He regarded Jack closely. The tension between them had lessened significantly, but there was still the unspoken question of where the newsie leader stood that hung between them, and Davey knew that he hadn't accomplished his mission yet.

He forged ahead.

"Jack…" he began, choosing his words carefully this time, "I know you wouldn't run on us for no reason. It's exactly because I know you're so loyal to the newsies that this hiding out business doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah...guess it don't," Jack admitted. The troubled expression returned to his face. "But I ain't no good to the boys, Dave." He gestured helplessly. "I couldn't -" his voice broke. "I couldn't keep 'em safe - "

"No, Jack, that's not true," Davey protested. "There wasn't anything you could have done - we were outnumbered. I saw you trying your best to keep the newsies out of danger. You did everything you could!"

"Yeah, well...it weren't good enough," Jack responded bitterly.

The guilt was consuming him, and Davey gritted his teeth, trying his best to think of a way to stop the other newsie's self-deprecating train of thought.

Give him the good news - focus on the victories, remember?

"It's not as hopeless as it looks, Jack," he asserted. "Please...just listen to me, all right?" He was doing a rather poor job of convincing Jack, but in the absence of a more qualified party to assume the responsibility, he had to keep trying.

Jack didn't respond, but he didn't say anything more, so Davey continued. "This morning, you saw the boys line up to get their papers," he acknowledged, "...but did you see what happened after that?"

Jack shook his head, turning away. "Didn't think I needed to see anything more," he muttered, the disappointment clear in his voice.

"Well, here's what happened," Davey said quietly, walking around so that he was in front of Jack again. "We walked away." The other newsie looked up in surprise. "We put our pennies back in our pockets, and we turned around and walked out of the distribution center," Davey continued. "And do you know why? Because when we got close enough to see the faces of Weasel and the Delanceys, we could see that they were scared - really scared."

He looked the newsie leader in the eye. "And that's why this isn't over, Jack. They may have licked us that first day at the distribution center, but they haven't made a strong showing since then. They're afraid of us, especially now that the rest of the city is sympathetic to our cause, thanks to Katherine's article." He paused to let that sink in before continuing, "We've got the upper hand, now. They may have gotten us the first time, but they have no idea what our next move is going to be, and it's making them nervous. We have to take advantage of that before they get strong enough to strike back. It's like - " he trailed off, grasping for anything that he could find to strengthen his argument.

"...it's like a snake!" he finished, inwardly wincing as soon as the words left his mouth.

Really, Davey? Of all the analogies to pick...

Jack stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Like a what?"

"Like a...snake," Davey repeated. The simile made perfect sense to him, but of course Jack wouldn't understand what he was thinking. "Snakes can only make so much venom at a time, so once they've used it up, it takes a while for them to replenish their supply," he explained. "That's not to say that they can't still bite you, but they won't be able to discharge their poison for a while, which means that they're temporarily more vulnerable, and..." he broke off, giving Jack a sheepish look. "Sorry," he apologized. "It sounded a lot more convincing in my head."

"Nah, I think I get what you's tryin' to say," Jack answered. "The newspaper owners is layin' low right now 'cause of that big brawl at the distribution center, and they's in a bit of a tight spot right now, so we gotta hit 'em hard while they's down before they get back the strength to bite us again."

"Yeah, that's….that's pretty much it," Davey agreed, thankful that his rambling explanation had been correctly interpreted and received. And Jack had said "we" - so did that mean he was back on board?

Deciding that it was time to seal the deal, Davey summoned all of his persuasiveness for a final push. "This is our time, Jack," he persisted. "The window of opportunity is going to be short, but if we can take advantage of it and rally our forces for one strong stand, it might be all we need to defeat Pulitzer - once and for all."

Davey put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "So come back with me," he pleaded. "Lead the newsies - and help us win this thing. You're the best of Manhattan's best, Jack. We can't do it without you."


A/N: I know that it's a crime not to have some of Davey's best one-liners in the entire musical in this chapter, but for the sake of stretching my interpretive skills (and because I know you all already know why a snake starts to rattle), I tried to capture the essence of the scene without relying on those lines. The second half of it, including the arrival of Les and Katherine, will be covered in the next chapter.