Newsies Oneshots 2.0

Like Father Like Son-Jack

Jack sighed loudly, sinking into the second-hand couch he'd found on a rather stressful walk through the neighborhood—he needed to clear his mind after fighting with Davey, and that walk only did everything he expected it to; nothing. The couch was a nasty red, covered in sweat stains, old food he couldn't get off after the first fifty times he cleaned it—counted to perfection—and what he hoped was saliva and beer.

He spent countless nights sitting in front of that couch rather than on it, the fear of infection racking his brain like a loose raccoon. Davey seemed to be fine with it, which is why he kept it and didn't complain, but he badly wished he could've found something better and not reminiscent of a party he'd never be invited to. He couldn't afford a new one.

Yet, that was the price he paid for staying in the city that never sleeps, along with countless nights in which he wouldn't sleep because someone was murdered on his street, or there was another protest being paraded through West and East Sides. He still remembers the kid he'd met during one particular protest; Travis Sattle, barely fifteen and a little anarchist young punk. Jack wished a happy protest and demanded he give the government hell.

New York was interesting for many reasons he'd rather ignore, which made it a home he couldn't replace, despite his dying wish to leave the city and move out west, where he swears it's less busy and more friendly—much his speed. Time moves slower in Santa Fe, Davey always says, a small smile on his face. Jack smiled to himself at the thought, taking the time to close his eyes and sink further into their couch.

The soft sounds of speeding cars and singing people filled his apartment, laying rest to his mind like sounds of the swinging ocean on the coast. He wasn't sure what that sounded like; Jack had never been to the beach, not even with Medda. The city had far more better activities than sunbathing, but he always wondered if Medda liked water, and Crutchie definitely liked sand.

Jack opened his eyes at an unusual sound and location—a knock at his door. The occasional knock did happen, usually being Jehovah Witnesses trying to get him to believe in God for a second, or Episcopal Christians wishing his a great day after he accepts a Bible, of which he doesn't touch, afraid he'll burn on the spot.

But this knock was heavy, and excited. It's hard to imagine all of those people are ecstatic to go to work everyday—God is good and all that, but you're promoting in New York—especially to knock to heavily. Jack wondered if someone was here to murder him.

Someone would kick in his door, shoot around the place for a couple of minutes, then find him, shooting a straight and narrow shot at his head, in which he'd bleed on the floor and stain red across the equally second-hand and equally disgusting brown rug, Jack being helpless as he watches them steal everything they can get their hands on. The he'd die.

Jack shook his head of the thought—it was stupid and a phone call away from his online therapist. The stranger could also be Henry, who had better manners than everyone in their friend group, or Davey, who always managed to forget his keys before exiting the building. Likely candidates they were, both would've yelled his name before knocking a second time, just for good measure, then they would've called.

He was beginning to think the murder scenario wasn't as stupid as presumed.

Jack sighed, grabbing his phone and checking the time. A bold bright letters—black numbers—he read 8:40, which obligates him, by law, to open the door. He debated waiting five minutes to call his friends and family, wishing them happy lives and saying goodbye, but he figured the feeling in his chest was worse than dying, and he stood up.

He walked to the door bare handed, wishing that this was just a tired Davey Jacobs who left his phone with his keys, or a hurt Racetrack Higgins who'd finally had his mouth sewn shut—his therapist was on speed dial—and neither of them could communicate to him through the thin wooden door. It beats dying.