#idk how to feel abt this fic. inlike the concept but im very unsure if i did it justice

[jack-kellys]

“You were my hero.” with jack and crutchie please?

this is literally such a great prompt like I wanted to write it for so long but then like I kinda died in general BUT IM BACK

shout out to @cream--rises for quickly blurting that I should write from crutch’s perspective

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capeless superman

words: 1340?

warnings: cursing, race instead of crutch is in the refuge au, yeet

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The street was finally empty; all the newsies practically vanished out of Medda’s theater. No one had looked happy, of course. The whole rally had been a sham. Jack had caved, Jack had sold them out, Jack was a sellout, he was..

Crutchie’s own brother was a sellout.

He tried to block out his anger and replace it with confusion, limping alone down the street he saw Jack turn onto. The burning question of ‘why’ felt branded on his heart, its imprint scalding. Even if Jack told him why he had caved for the money, there was no way Crutchie could ever bring himself to understand it. It just didn’t make sense. That wasn’t Jack.

And he knew Jack.

Jack was the one who gave every hand-me-down he could find to any kid with a hole in their shirt or pants. Jack passed around food from the nuns to the rest of the kids, a big grin on his face in the morning even though Crutch knew he hadn’t slept for a minute the night before. Jack would fight anyone who roughed up one of his kids—he had, Crutchie reminded himself, only the day before; it was only a day before—even if he was one of the worst fighters Crutchie had ever seen.

Jack wasn’t any of the words Spot Conlon had called Jack as he had run the theater, screaming after him those terrible things. That Jack was a coward, and weak and useless, and a traitor—how could Jack Kelly be a traitor? How could Jack Kelly be a traitor?

…Was he?

Crutchie gripped his crutch harder as the thought entered his head. That couldn’t be it. Yes, Crutchie knew, the Santa Fe prospect was often mentioned between the two of them…and maybe the money would cover it…but that had to be just a dream. Every newsie had their own Santa Fe in a way. Finch wanted to be a pitcher one day. Mush wanted to be a real doctor. Henry wanted to make his father’s restaurant into a chain all across the country. It wasn’t any different. Couldn’t be.

Crutch saw the flash of a shadow ahead of him, and without thinking, called out to it.

“You gotta tell me, Jack, right fuckin’ now,” Crutchie cried up the block, watching Jack freeze. After a few moments, Jack retraced his steps, facing Crutchie with tired eyes.

“Tell you what?” Jack said, but it sounded rehearsed.

Crutchie stared harder. “That it didn’t mean nothin’. That you ain’t cavin’, not for just some money—“

“It’s not just some money, Crutch,” Jack interjected. “It’s…enough.”

Crutchie took an involuntary step back. What was he saying? “You’re not leavin’. You’re just not, Jack, that money’s too dirty. It,” Crutchie bit his lip, but continued his words stronger, “that money pays to keep places like the Refuge in business. It pays to keep where Race is hurtin’ in business,” Crutchie choked out.

Crutchie’s other brother, Racetrack, had been dragged to the Refuge just the other day. Actually dragged, too, Crutchie had glimpsed it briefly; Race was out cold thanks to Oscar and lugged into the wagon like he weighed nothing. Like he was nothing.

Jack couldn’t think Race was nothing all of a sudden.

“Crutchie,” Jack whispered, his eyes never leaving the ground. “You knows better than anyone that I gotta get outta here.”

“No,” Crutchie croaked. “This ain’t you, not really. You always think about us first—we always think of each other first.”

“Crutch, I can’t, I—“

“Yes you can!” Crutchie blurted, unintentional emotion trembling in his voice. “Why wouldn’t you. We’re all here, Jack. We ain’t out there. This’s your family, why, why…”

Crutchie scrubbed his eye, looking up at Jack with a small glimmer of hope. There had to be a why, even if he couldn’t figure it himself. Jack always had a reason, if not always a plan. He was an artist; he was full of passion. And though that passion branched into many different areas, Crutchie knew that his newsies were at the heart of it. They had to be. They were all Jack had. They were all any one of them had. At least a third of them would probably be dead without the lodge—Crutchie knew he probably would; he accepted that a long time ago. He was a fighter, sure, but some things were just out of his control.

But Jack was in control. At least, he could have been in control, easily. And yet decided not to, instead turning on his brothers.

“Why?” Jack scoffed. “Why? ‘Cause I don’t wanna any of yous ending up like Racer! I don’t want any more asses beaten so hard into the ground that we’s gotta peel ourselves off’a it! Crutchie, I can’t watch that. I can’t let any ‘a you get...I can’t let you die over this.”

Confusion burned in the back of Crutchie’s throat. “Like we wouldn’t die of starvin’ on the streets with these prices so high or somethin’,” he found himself blurting. “We already got all five boroughs on our side, Jack, a city-side strike could end it, and…”

“No it wouldn’t,” Jack said with force. “Pulitzer don’t give a shit about us, Crutch, he’d keep those prices until we can’t take beatings no more. He thinks this is a war, and he ain’t plannin’ on losin’.”

Something about that struck Crutchie as a little more than strange. A bit personal for just some money. “How...how long didja talk to him?” he asked slowly.

Jack hung his head. “Ain’t gonna lie; it was a while.”

Crutchie stumbled back, incredulous.

“Jack, w-what’d he do to you?”

Jack took a step towards Crutchie, who chose to move back yet again. This wasn’t his Jack. “We just talked, Crutchie,” Jack muttered. “‘S all.”

“It ain’t,” Crutchie could’ve laughed in disbelief. After all this time, Jack still thought Crutchie couldn’t see through him. “You’re lyin’, to me, oh my god. I can’t believe this, I…” Crutchie shook his head, mouth slightly agape.

Jack Kelly was a traitor.

The boy who had never once lied to his face was standing a foot away from him on a street corner in the dark with the guiltiest expression Crutchie had ever seen.

“Crutchie,” Jack was pleading now. What kind of topsy-turvy nightmare was Crutchie living in? “Please. I’m sorry, you gotta know that, but I had to. I had to. I had to do it.”

“No you didn’t,” Crutchie scoffed, a faint ironic smile on his face. This was unbelievable. “No you fucking didn’t. Coulda rejected the money right in front ‘a Spot, shown ‘em all you were on the right side—“

“I’m on your side, Crutch, c’mon—“

“—and instead you cave, man. Caved for those fuckin’ monsters at the top.” Crutchie scrunched his nose slightly. “Jack, I wanna trust ya, but that’s dirty, you know that.”

The look on Jack’s face made Crutchie’s heart sink, but he willed his expression to stay strong; stay strong like he didn’t care that he was losing his brother.

“I’m so sorry, Crutchie,” Jack choked.

“But you ain’t, I mean,” Crutchie let out a bitter laugh, “that wad ‘a cash must feel pretty great in you pocket.” Crutchie’s skin was beginning to crawl just talking to Jack and hearing him flat out lie to him. He had to get out. He couldn’t hide his breakdown for long, and he couldn’t let Jack see that. Especially after the night’s events. “You were my hero, Jacko.” His own voice was too devoid of emotion; it scared him.

“If you’d just let me explain, Crutch, I swear you’d understand,” Jack sounded too desperate, it couldn’t be real, “please, man.”

“Go get your Santa Fe, Jack,” Crutchie muttered, acquiescing to the new reality of Jack’s new backward personality. “We’ll still all be waitin’ here with ours.”

With that, Crutchie adjusted his crutch and turned around, heading back to the lodge, trying to block at Jack’s desperate calls after him, pleading with him to stay, to believe him, to trust him. But Crutchie had to start forcing himself to face the truth.

How could you trust a traitor like Jack Kelly after what he’d done to them?

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YOWCH get em crutch

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