Chapter Text
A few days after the end of the strike
New York City was starting to go back to normal.
With the price of papers back down, and the guarantee of Pulitzer eating their losses, the newsies hit the streets with renewed vigour, hawking headlines and carrying the banner as they had done before. The tension that had hung thick in the air of the city was slowly alleviated. Everyone was fine.
Crutchie was fine.
He was, okay? No matter what anyone else said, he was doing completely, totally, 100% fine. Sure, maybe loud steps and sudden movement made him flinch and the bunkhouse felt so suffocating that he thought he was going to die if he spent a single night in it and the thought of eating food made his stomach turn, but he was fine.
The problem was that no one else seemed to think this.
Specs kept casting worried glances at Crutchie, Davey acted like he was walking in a minefield when talking to him, Jack couldn’t even look him in the goddamn eye and he knew that Finch slipped a few extra coins into his bag when he wasn’t looking even though he said he could cover his own papers that day. Even Race seemed like he was on the verge of saying something before deciding against it whenever he saw Crutchie.
It’s fucking annoying, is what it is. He’s not some fragile creature made of glass that will break if someone looks at him wrong.
(He does feel like glass sometimes, but less in the sense that he’s sensitive and more in the sense that if he gives in and breaks he will shatter into so many pieces he will never be able to put himself back together again. But that’s besides the point.)
But back to the original point - Crutchie is fine, completely fine, and if people would just recognize this and stop pushing then everything will go back to normal and he’ll be able to move and and he can stop thinking about that place, why does he keep thinking about that place, he can’t breathe because he’s not even here half the time, but rather there, and -
A loud thump startles him out of his thoughts and Crutchie jolts in surprise, looking up to see Jack flopping into the seat next to him with a heavy sigh.
“It’s finally gettin’ cold outside,” Jack notes, kicking one foot up on the table and leaning back in his chair. His hat is askew on his head and his bag is nowhere to be seen, so Crutchie assumes that he’s stopped by the Lodging House before heading over to Jacobi’s to get dinner with the rest of the newsies.
He nods in agreement, though privately, all he can think about is how the cold worsens the pain and mobility in his already bag leg. Nothing to be done about it, he supposes, but being woken up every few hours due to sharp cramps racing through his leg is not something he looks forward to.
But he knows Jack means no harm, and is merely commenting on the relief from the oppressive heat that’s starting to fade away. He’s about to respond when Race collapses loudly into the seat next to him, tossing a plate with a sandwich onto the table. He nods briefly to the two before grabbing a half of the sandwich and tearing into it with fervour. Jack snorts and gestures to the other half still sitting on the table.
“Aw, not even gonna offer t’share? I’m heartbroken, Race.” Race silently flips him off as he finishes chewing the massive bite he took. Crutchie laughs quietly at their antics.
“For you Kelly? Never, ya gotta get your own. God knows you can pay for it what with ya fancy new job,” he wiggles his fingers and Jack scoffs, batting at his hand and rolling his eyes.
“I can’t believe it, Race, how could you betray me like this?”
He says something else, but Crutchie can’t quite hear it, because all he can do is look at the sandwich on the table, and god he’s so hungry but he can’t eat because he hasn’t earned it and if Snyder catches him stealing something from the kitchen he’ll be so black and blue the next day he’ll barely be able to breath and the thought of food makes his stomach twist and -
Someone elbows him. “Right, Crutch? I know you’re on my side here.” His stomach is still turning and he can’t get his brain to think quite right but he jerks his head up to meet Jack’s eyes, who is looking at him expectantly.
“Uh - yeah . . . ?” He says hesitantly, not quite sure what they’re talking about, and Jack gives him a funny look before turning back to Race, grin splitting across his face.
“See? Crutchie agrees with me.”
“Aw, shut it, Kelly. Either shut your trap or go get ya own.” Race says in between bites, and Jack scoffs but stands up anyways.
“Crutch, ya want me t’get you anythin’?”
NO! his brain screams, and his voice catches in his throat for a second. “Nah, I’m all good,” he says, instead of yes God please I’m so hungry but I’m not allowed to have any and I feel nauseous and -
“Ya sure? I’ve got enough to cover us both . . . ”
“I’m sure.” Crutchie nods, mouth pulled tight in what he hopes is a convincing smile. “I’ll get somethin’ later.” No, he won’t.
“Alright,” Jack says, that weird look in his eyes again as he heads towards the counter. Crutchie watches him go, heart pounding (why? It wasn’t like Jack was going to do anything bad. He was just getting food no no no he can’t he’s in Jacobi’s he’s fine he’s safe he’s okay) until Race clearing his throat draws him back down to Earth. He tilts his head in questioning.
“So . . . how ya doin’?” Race asks, eyes locked firmly on the cigar in his hands that he’s now fiddling with. Crutchie’s eyebrows draw together - did he do something to show he wasn’t okay? No wait that’s wrong because he IS okay, there’s no ‘not okay’ for him to accidentally be showing.
“I’se doin’ fine.” Please please please be convincing. Hopefully he’s smiling and not grimacing. “How’s about you?”
“Fine.” Race finally looks up at Crutchie, narrowing his eyes. He looks like he’s hesitating, debating whether or not to say anything, then opens his mouth. “Hey, Crutch, y’know tha-”
He’s cut off by Jack returning to the table, and Crutchie silently thanks whatever higher power there may be for the interruption. He’s fine and he doesn’t need people to keep bugging him about this.
Jack starts talking about something or other to do with Medda and painting and Race interjects every few seconds with some comment or other about the situation. Crutchie smiles and laughs at all the right times and talks just enough and forces himself to stop looking at the sandwich on the table. He’ll be fine, he tells himself. He is fine.
But damn, is he hungry.