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


Chapter 116: Something Amiss

Oscar detested going out in the snow, especially in the light of early dawn when the drifts were still fresh and untrampled by the footsteps of Manhattan's many passers-by. It made him feel resentful, having to break a path for others who would freely benefit from his work later that morning, the peddlers and school children and housewives hurrying about their business, unaware and ungrateful that a stranger had eased their commute considerably through his own sweat and toil.

Of course, that was his galling lot in life: to step in and save others from their own laziness and apathy, always the one to fix the problem or find the solution or call the bluff. He hated it, loathed it with every fiber of his being. But somehow he couldn't shake it off, which was why he was up at an ungodly hour of the morning, on a work day, trudging through the shin-high snow towards an unsavory part of town when he should have still been sleeping in the shabby but warm room that he shared with Morris under their Uncle Wiesel's roof.

His destination was an old apartment building about half a mile away. He knew the way there like the back of his hand, and could have walked the route blindfolded (if not for the cursed snow), even though it had been months since he'd darkened the door of the place he was headed to. It wasn't likely that his business there would take long, for he wasn't going to linger, not on a work day in the middle of the week, but it was likely to be unpleasant, and Oscar was in a foul mood already without having even crossed the threshold.

Crawford had suggested that he bring some supplies with him: blankets, a bottle of quinine, even some food if it could be spared, but Oscar's hands were empty. He wasn't about to waste his personal rations or his hard-earned cash on an undeserving low-life, no matter how sickly the man was. The fact that Oscar was even bothering to visit him was benevolence enough.

Despite the snow, the walk to the apartment building passed by quickly, and soon Oscar was climbing the stairs to a room on the second floor at the end of the hallway. The key that would have given him entrance had been tossed into the harbor long ago, but Crawford had left his copy when he'd visited the night before, and Oscar fished the metal object out of his pocket to insert it into the lock, letting himself into the apartment without knocking.

All was quiet when he entered. The common room looked more or less how he remembered it - a wooden table, rickety and worn with use, a small, squat-looking stove in the corner, tattered curtains in a shade of rusty red, and odds and ends stacked atop each other in a rather haphazard fashion, covering nearly every available surface. The one stark difference was the layer of grime that seemed to have settled over everything, and upon closer inspection, Oscar saw that the bin of empty bottles situated just out of sight beneath the table was fuller than usual, too.

At the back of the apartment was a single sectioned-off room. The door was slightly ajar, and the faint glow of a lamp shone from within.

Oscar made his way over and pushed against the door. It was prevented from opening fully by a bed that took up most of the cramped space, but Oscar shoved his way in, and as he did so, he saw a man lying there, curled up on his side under a ratty-looking blanket.

"Pa," Oscar said curtly, not caring if he interrupted the man's slumber. "Wake up."

His father stirred, and Oscar repeated the order, adding a none-too-gentle nudge when the other man failed to respond quickly enough.

Finally, August Delancey turned over, blinking his eyes in confusion as he looked up in bewilderment at his son.

"Crawford told me you were doing poorly," Oscar said stiffly. "He insisted that I come to see you."

His father coughed, and Oscar looked on, not bothering to hide his disgust at the man's severely wasted form or at his ragged clothing that smelled strongly of vomit.

"Well, that was charitable of him," August sighed, shifting slightly on the bed in search of a more comfortable position. "Crawford always was a good friend."

Oscar said nothing. His father's landlord and former business partner was a gruff, elderly man, but he was loyal, and he'd done more for August than either of his sons had in recent months, which Oscar was grudgingly grateful for. It was a testament to his respect for Crawford that he'd even agreed to visit his father at all, for if not for the debt that he felt he owed the crusty old landlord, he certainly wouldn't have bothered.

"Is there anything you need?" he asked coldly. "Groceries? Medicine?"

"How about a civil conversation with my son?" the man grumbled, looking up at him through narrowed eyes. "You seem to think I'm some kind of monster, Oscar. That's a pretty poor way to treat the man who sired and raised you."

But too kind of a way to treat the man whose idiocy ruined my life, Oscar thought bitterly. He'd long since ceased to regret the rift that had developed between him and the invalid on the bed, and though a fragile thread of familial obligation lingered, it wasn't enough to make Oscar feel anything other than indifferent disdain when it came to actually dealing with his father. He would do what was absolutely required to provide for August Delancey's basic needs, but no more than that, and he considered even such small intervention an extreme act of charity on his part.

"I'm not here to chat," he said stiffly. "But if you need something, I'll pick it up and bring it by after work."

His father regarded him shrewdly for a moment, and Oscar unflinchingly returned the was a time in his life, years ago, where he might have shifted uneasily under that calculating stare, but that time was long past.

"You always were the obstinate one," August muttered, finally breaking the impasse and looking away. "Just like your mother - stubborn to the last with a bitter streak a mile long. Morris took more after me."

In more ways than one, Oscar thought darkly. His father and younger brother shared some obvious similarities in temperament and, infuriatingly enough, a common vice as well. It had taken Oscar a while to definitively prove Morris' gambling addiction, but in the end the evidence had come to light, and though it had rankled, it hadn't been a surprise. What could you expect, after all, when the man who'd raised you modeled that kind of dissipation with seemingly little regret?

Morris had always been a little more attached to their father; in fact, he'd wanted to come along on this visit, but Oscar had forbidden it, not wanting his brother to be influenced by their only remaining parent any more than necessary and, more importantly, not wanting the restriction of having to soften his own ire towards his father for the sake of sparing his brother's feelings. Fortunately, Morris' lingering connection to the man paled in comparison to his loyalty to Oscar, so in the end, he hadn't protested the decision, and his brother was left to make the visitation alone.

"Your Uncle Wiesel treating you well?" August asked, breaking into Oscar's thoughts.

"Well enough," he answered curtly.

Better than you ever did.

He was not particularly fond of the crotchety man who was his late mother's half-brother, but Wiesel was nothing if not consistent, and that alone was a mark in his favor. Oscar knew exactly what his uncle could and could not be relied upon for, and Wiesel never failed to deviate from those expectations. He did not indulge or assure, but neither did he disappoint, and at this point in life, Oscar would take that kind of consistency over something more affectionate but vacillatory in nature. Any perceived need for warmth and tenderness had been proven superfluous over time, for Oscar had come to realize that it was really uniformity of character and not expression of emotion that he craved. Sentiment was easily spoken aloud but rarely followed through on; a person's repeated actions, however, told you what they valued and who they were.

"There you go again with that disapproving frown, just like your mother," his father interjected, his tone laced with scorn. "Nothing ever was good enough for her. And nothing is good enough for you, it seems."

"Don't bring Ma into this," Oscar spat. "She had a right to despise you." His mother had been far from a saint, but her inheritance had provided a comfortable existence for her sons and for the far less deserving man whom she had married.

"No woman has a right to despise her husband," August retorted churlishly. "And any woman who does deserves what she gets."

"She gave us everything, and you threw it all away," Oscar shot back. "You failed us."

If Edith Delancey had had her way, her family would still be living in their commodious uptown apartment, not lodging in one of the shabbier parts of town, but the incompetent, lazy boor that she'd chosen to wed had squandered every last penny of her money at the card table and had run the family into destitution. Even Edith's eleventh hour attempts to mitigate their losses hadn't been enough. She'd connected August with one of her father's business associates who dealt in real estate, hoping to propel the former into a career that might have turned the family's fortunes around, but he'd wasted that opportunity as well, and everything had fallen apart after that.

"Look, if you're talking about the Baxter Street deal, I'm not the one who's to blame," August asserted, as though he'd read Oscar's thoughts. "I stuck my neck out for you and did what had to be done to save our pride - you were the one behind the snafu in the first place."

Oscar's hands clenched into fists, but he refused to acknowledge the accusation.

"I have to get to work," he said instead, deciding that he was done with the situation. His father was clearly in a bad way, and his health might not hold much longer, but if he was going to insist on blaming others for the past, Oscar would let him suffer and die alone. "Sounds like you don't need anything, so I won't be stopping by again," he added stiffly.

"I'm not done talking to you," the man warned, his voice taking on a dark tone that was all too familiar, but before he could levy any further threat, a fit of coughing seized him, and Oscar took the opportunity to turn on his heel and exit the room, shutting the door pointedly behind him.

He left the apartment without looking back, stopping by Crawford's office on the first floor to slip the key under the door.

There would be no need for it anymore.

Making his way back to the street, Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head against the early morning chill. The sun had almost fully risen now, and the streets were beginning to awaken, the sounds and smells of the city intruding upon his consciousness with an unwelcome clamor as he joined the foot traffic traversing the snow-covered roads.

It was too early to head to the distribution center, but Oscar had no desire to trudge back to Wiesel's apartment, so he continued walking, letting his anger coil in his stomach as his thoughts turned over in his head.

He hated being reminded of what he had lost, and it was just like his father to bring up the past like that, shifting the blame onto Oscar, onto his wife, onto everyone but himself.

Oscar hadn't been particularly attached to his mother, but she'd at least attempted to take care of her family, and for that reason alone he felt a residual sense of respect for her. She'd been foolish to fall in love with a man far below her station (foolish, indeed, to fall in love at all), and that man had ended up ruining her life, but she hadn't shirked her responsibilities to provide for her sons and had, to her dying breath, attempted to see that Oscar and Morris were taken care of (which was how they'd ended up under the care of their Uncle Wiesel in the first place).

If Oscar's father had been a different man, Oscar would likely have been poised to inherit a successful business enterprise, on the verge of taking over the management of the family's properties and assets with Morris on the advent of their father's passing. But, as it was, their days were instead occupied with the dead-end jobs that they held at the distribution center, doling out newspapers to a never-ending queue of scruffy, insolent newsies. The only money that Oscar had was that which his own hard work had put in his pocket, and beyond that, the only asset that he still possessed was his pride - all because of his hotheaded, shortsighted rat of a father.

It had felt satisfying to walk out on the man one last time, particularly in the knowledge that it was unlikely they'd ever speak again. Oscar could still recall the grim satisfaction that had settled upon him when he and Morris had taken on the task of roughing up the striking trolley workers and had recognized their own father amongst the crowd of men they'd been sent to thrash. Morris had been conflicted for a brief moment, but Oscar had urged him on, his own anger towards his father fueling his fury, and in the end they'd done what they'd been paid for.

He wasn't surprised that his father had refrained from mentioning the incident - there had been a look of almost-resigned acknowledgement on his face when he'd caught sight of his sons at the confrontation - but Oscar almost wished that he had broached the subject, because he would have liked some acknowledgement that he'd won and that his father knew that he was exactly the type of scumbag who deserved to be beaten up by his own sons, because he'd failed them and furthermore had taught them to hit hard and unremorsefully regardless of whom your opponent was long before Oscar and Morris had ever thought to put that admonition into practice.

It was that feeling of utter dominance - of knowing that you'd completely bested your opponent both physically and mentally - that made Oscar's ire simmer down and his thirst for revenge finally subside. Seeing his adversaries' anguished defeat was what he lived for, the reason why he replayed their insults in his head and nurtured his grudges and painstakingly filed away bits and pieces of information about his enemies: so that he could unleash the kind of reprisal that wasn't just physically painful but emotionally devastating as well. Once he'd been treated to the sight of his enemy's collapse, his mental ledger was satisfied, and though he never forgot, he no longer felt the need to bother with them either, instead moving on to the next target for retribution.

His father, it seemed, would remain an unfulfilled line on that account, for he was too stubborn and prideful to admit defeat. It rankled Oscar, but there was little that he could do, and in any case, his father wouldn't be around for much longer, so in the end there was really no question of who'd beaten whom.

Turning down Broadway, he continued to walk at a brisk pace, stewing in his thoughts and keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

Eventually, it was time for him to head to work, so he turned his footsteps in the direction of the distribution center. When he arrived, Morris and Wiesel were already there, unloading the day's delivery of papers from the wagons that looked like they had just arrived. Oscar silently joined them, ignoring their questioning looks. His brother and uncle knew that August Delancey's situation was dire and no doubt suspected that something was amiss, but Oscar's darkened countenance must have convinced them not to pry, for neither asked any questions as he silently went about his work.

All too soon, it was time to ring the circulation bell. Its merry chime sounded louder and more galling than usual, and Oscar ground his teeth at the noise, thankful when Wiesel finally left off tolling the bell upon seeing the newsies assemble.

It was a small favor that the upstart ruffians were relatively mild in their teasing that morning. Other than the usual quips from Kelly and Albert and a few others, not much was said, and before long, all of the papers had been distributed and Oscar was closing the bars on the circulation window, thankful to retreat behind its partition for a few hours until it would be time to dole out the afternoon edition.

He worked in silence for nearly the rest of the day, saying little to Wiesel and brushing off Morris' attempts to draw him into conversation. The arrival of the newsies for the second time that day drew him partially out of his ruminative state, and he found his anger towards his father momentarily diverted as he observed the upstart ruffians filing past the circulation window, joking and jostling with each other with the familiar camaraderie that he had never partaken in before but had only observed from a distance.

It seemed a simple-minded thing, this kind of upbeat chumminess and ever-present humor in the midst of what really amounted to rather desperate circumstances. Oscar was no fool - he knew that most if not all of the newsies' situations were financially more dire than his own and that most of them were only a bad headline or two away from sleeping on the streets. Their meager existence held very little to be happy or excited about, and yet they seemed to be oblivious to all that, going about their days in a cheerful, idealistic manner despite the hardships of life and the many disappointments that fate had dealt them with seemingly little regard for the injustices of the past or the unknowns of the future.

It made no sense to Oscar. Life wasn't meant to be skimmed through - it was meant to be grappled with, and when something was taken from you, you ought to fight back tooth and nail rather than simply smile, shrug, and go about your business. The newsies, he concluded, must have all been simply in denial - or perhaps they were just too stupid to realize that their freewheeling attitudes towards life would get them nowhere.

Of course, as hard as the newsies' lives were, Oscar considered the hand that he'd been dealt far worse. It was easy, he thought bitterly, to be content with an impoverished life when you had no expectation or hope of rising above it. The newsies were satisfied with their lot because that kind of existence was all that they'd ever known. They hadn't been given a taste of a comfortable life and then summarily forced to relinquish it. They hadn't had their aspirations unfairly dashed by their father's poor decisions. They hadn't had to give up their own pursuits in order to support themselves, hadn't had to take on menial work far below their intellectual capabilities simply to make ends meet. Their contentment, therefore, must have stemmed from callowness and nothing more.

And Oscar begrudged them even that blissful ignorance.

The queue of newsies slowly sidled past, its members still joking amongst themselves even if they were slightly less jocular than they had been in the morning due to the later hour and to a rather poor set of headlines for the afternoon. They ignored Oscar completely, and in the absence of any jabs or pert remarks, his thoughts once again returned to his father.

The man's approaching death would no doubt cause a slew of irritating inconveniences: his apartment would need to be cleared out in a timely fashion so that a new renter could assume the space, burial arrangements would need to be made, and any outstanding debts would need to be settled, for Oscar was certain that his father still had creditors who would likely come out of the woodwork once they heard of the man's untimely death. It was this business that he anticipated with the most distaste, both because it would be a galling reminder that his father had been a gambler - and a losing one - to the last, and because the cost of paying off those creditors would likely be levied to Oscar and Morris' own accounts.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in bitter rumination as Oscar went about his work in a laconic but irritable fashion, mulling over his father's situation and growing more and more angry as the day wore on. His vexation only increased when he and Morris ended up having to stay late at the distribution center due to a number of newsies returning to sell back their unpurchased stock at the end of the day.

When all of the buybacks had been processed, Oscar curtly informed Morris that he was going to hit the bar for a drink before heading home, then promptly left the distribution center, leaving his brother to close up and not feeling remorseful at all in the slightest (for Morris had left him in a similar position often enough).

He headed for his usual spot, the unassuming pub on Worth Street, stalking through the snowy avenues that by now had been partially cleared by the snowplows or at least packed down by a full day of foot traffic. Just as he had turned onto the last block that would lead to his destination, his attention was suddenly arrested as he caught sight of a familiar figure walking down the street ahead of him.

It was Davey Jacobs, surprisingly accompanied not by his little brother, but by a young girl who was chattering animatedly away about something, clutching a pair of books under her arm. As she spoke, she turned slightly, and Oscar's interest was piqued even further, for he had the niggling feeling that he'd seen her somewhere before.

It's the youngest Becker chit, he realized, the pieces suddenly fitting together as he got a better glimpse of her. The bookish one who's always got that suspicious look on her face. He hadn't spoken much with her in the past, for the girl was unapologetically taciturn (and Oscar no amiable conversationalist himself), but he was certain that it was her, though he'd never seen her as cheerfully at ease as she appeared to be now. Clearly, there was some kind of rapport between her and Jacobs, for they were conversing comfortably like friends despite the marked difference in age. Oscar couldn't put his finger on what their connection was, for from the scant bits of information he'd picked up while observing Jacobs in the circulation line and eavesdropping on his conversations, he'd never heard any mention of the Becker family, but maybe he'd missed something there.

Interesting, he thought, his attention now fully consumed as he watched the pair turn down a side street and disappear. Filing the thought away, he continued on, glancing down the side street as he passed. Jacobs and the Becker girl were nowhere in sight, so they must have gone into one of the shops, but Oscar wasn't going to follow them - at least, not today.

He'd keep his ears open, though, for further clues. Despite the fact that he'd pieced together a clearer picture of Jacobs' salient traits and idiosyncrasies over the past few months, he hadn't been able to discern yet what any possible areas of weakness might be. That the newsie in question was less confident and confrontational compared to his cronies was certain - but Oscar had figured that out shortly after the strike began, and it wasn't enough to go off of if he wanted to truly find a way to pay the other boy back for his cooly defiant insolence months ago at the circulation window. Jacobs might have been more soft than his compatriots, but Oscar knew that he was no fool, and sometimes there was a look in his eye that seemed to indicate an uncanny sort of insight, as though Jacobs could read the thoughts and intentions of others without them divulging a single word.

It made Oscar uneasy. He would have far preferred a cheeky sneer or even open disdain to that inscrutable, knowing look, and remembering how unsettling it had felt to be on the receiving end of it that day at the circulation window only made him more resolved to gain as much leverage over Jacobs as he could, for he never liked the feeling of being thrown off balance by anyone, because that meant that they had some kind of control over you, no matter how fleeting.

There was no reason to pursue retribution now, especially since Jacobs hadn't done anything since the strike to rekindle Oscar's ire, and not when there were other more disagreeable persons on the latter's mind...but the reminder not to forget the slights of the past or the potential offenses of the future was timely, and Oscar found his latent bitterness towards Jacobs renewed as he continued down the street, mulling over this recently-discovered connection between the enigmatic newsie and the youngest Becker girl.

It was only a small thing, all told, but it was another piece to the puzzle. And Oscar was sure that he'd be able to find out more if he kept his eyes and ears open.


A/N: More clues are dropping... :) I know we've had one mystery come and go already in this story, but there's another one that's been slowly unspooling since even earlier on, and I hope that it's been intriguing enough to pique your interest and to raise questions as you read. We'll join Abby and Davey in the next chapter (so you'll get to find out where they're going on their errand), but until then, thanks as always for hanging in there with me! I'd be so grateful to hear your thoughts on this chapter if you'd be so kind as to leave a review - let me know what you thought of Oscar and of the developments in this chapter, leave a guess as to where Abby and Davey are going (hint: they're making good on something that they promised to do earlier in the story), or just share a word or two of your reaction, all of it is welcomed and very much appreciated! :)


Guest Review Responses:

Guest: Yes, indeed! The incident in the previous chapter will be a catalyst to some interesting developments to come for Jack and Katherine. Thanks so much for sharing your feedback! :)

Greyhound824: Well, now it's my turn to not know where to begin... ;). Wow, thank you so much for your sweet review! It means a lot that you would take the time to share your thoughts, especially since you said that the words don't come easily - but what you expressed truly touched me! As you've probably gathered from my author's notes, I've been feeling pretty discouraged with SWW the last several months, but hearing how you came to this fic, and how you've been coming back despite life getting busier is a really special thing and brings me a lot of encouragement. It makes me happy to know that this story still makes you smile, and also that you've seen the improvement in my writing as I've grown with the characters whose stories I'm telling. I'm so glad that you're looking forward to more, and thank you for taking the time to leave such a thoughtful remark to boost my spirits. No comment is ever too long (truly), and please know that I appreciated every word - it's feedback like yours and others' that gives me the impetus to keep polishing up SWW so that it can be shared, because it reminds me that there are still people out there who haven't gotten maxed out on this story yet. ;) Thank you so much! :)