Chapter Text
The only thing Crutchie knew at this point was that he couldn't face the boys. Not now.
He had tied his strike banner around his crutch in a vain attempt to fix it, and he was now dragging himself in some unknown direction. Night was falling, but under the gaslights on the side of the street, he could see blood on the crutch soaking through the banner’s fabric and staining. He felt like crying upon seeing it, but he was all cried out. He felt numb and in agonizing pain at the same time.
“...Where the hell am I going?” Crutchie muttered. He was headed in the opposite direction of the Lodging House, which was the last place he wanted to go. Race would be left in charge, and he didn't want to talk to Race. Race, who was right about his attempts to aid the strike being pitiful. Pitiful.
Eventually, Crutchie found himself wandering near the Bowery. The bright lights of the marquees burned his tired eyes, and the scent of cheap perfume, alcohol, and cigars littered the air, making him sneeze.
He glanced around at the theaters. He didn't want to be taken in for loitering...then again, maybe he did. At least he wouldn't be alone. Even if he didn't, a few seconds in the lobby of a theater couldn't hurt him too bad. Just to get out of the muggy, summer night’s air so he could maybe clear his thoughts.
Crutchie nearly stumbled into a theatre. His good leg was actually the one hurting him now; the bad leg had gone almost entirely numb. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his chest heaving with what would be sobs had he been able to cry.
Jack was in the Refuge again, and it was his fault. Jack wasn't even recovered from the last time; he still had night terrors nearly every night. With the fragile mental state he was already in, how would he last a day in there?
But, it wasn't only Jack's life that Crutchie had put at risk. Oh no, by letting the newsies lose their leader, the whole strike was ruined. He didn't know where his brothers were. More could be in the Refuge. More could be injured. More could be-
“Oh my goodness.”
Crutchie looked up, his neck hating him for moving so quickly. Out of all the theaters he could have wandered into, Miss Medda Larkin was standing right above him.
“Crutchie!” She knelt in front of him, immediately fussing over his injuries. “Crutchie, what happened? What is all this?”
Crutchie opened his mouth to speak but found no words could come out, just another dry sob.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Medda took his hand. “Breathe.”
After a few more moments, Crutchie managed to choke out, “J-Jack. Refuge.”
Medda's face was washed with understanding and anxiety. “Oh no. Snyder got him again?”
Crutchie nodded. “Sh-shoulda got me.”
“Oh no, honey, don't you say such a thing,” Medda shook her head. “Ptooey. He shouldn't get any of you.” She sighed. “Let's...let's get you cleaned up and you can tell me the whole story whenever you're ready.”
Something that was either gratitude or nausea welled up in him, possibly both. Maybe he wasn't all cried out after all. He made a move to stand, but Medda stopped him, opening her arms to carry him.
Crutchie shook his head. “M’fine.” But, he didn't try to stand again. After a moment of resignation, he sighed and opened his arms for Medda take him. She was one of only two people ever allowed to carry him, no matter how badly soaked he was.
“...So, some strike that was,” Crutchie and Medda were in a dressing room. He slowly sipped a mug of peppermint tea as Medda dressed his wounds. “We really stuck it to Pulitzer.”
“Hey. You got out there and fought. That's more than I bet any of those stuffy rich men expected you to do.” Medda replied, wrapping gauze around the gash in his good leg.
“Yeah, I guess,” Crutchie shrugged slightly. “I didn't fight enough, though. Jack...Jack's in the Refuge, ‘cause of me.”
“Not ‘cause of you, ‘cause he loves you,” Medda corrected him. “Because of his hero complex. If it had been you...I don't want to think about what kind of poor shape he'd be in.”
“He can't be in much better shape at the Refuge!” Crutchie's voice shook.
“Shh,” Medda took his hand. “Jack has made it through before. So, I don't doubt his ability to make it through again. I bet as soon as you win that strike, you can get him out of there.”
“...Should we even continue the strike?” Crutchie asked softly. “I-I mean, look where it got us. Jack's gone, maybe more are too, dozens are hurt.”
“But, you're still standing,” Medda assured him. “Look, it's your decision to make, you and the rest of the newsies. But either way, you have to be there for one another. You can't do that if you don't take care of yourself first.”
Crutchie nodded slowly. “...Thank you, Miss Medda.”
“Of course,” Medda smiled sadly. “You're an incredible kid, Crutchie. Things’ll turn out okay. Give yourself tonight to be hurt and angry, but most of all, to rest.”
It was then that Crutchie realized how exhausted he was. His whole body ached terribly. He just wanted to sleep it all away. “Rest...rest sounds good.”
“Don't it?” Medda squeezed his hand gently. “Finish up that tea, and I'll find you someplace cozy to sleep tonight.”
Crutchie thanked her as she left, but he didn't stay awake long enough to wait for her to find a bed. He drifted off in the dressing room, into a tense, restless night.
Someone had wrapped a rope tightly around Jack’s head and tied it sharply, letting it squeeze his until his skin turned paper white.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
Jack wasn’t entirely sure he could lift his head. He definitely didn’t want to open his eyes. But he had no clue where he was.
Blearily, he blinked his eyes open. It was just dark. Just plain dark. But then, the musty smell hit his nose; the scent of dust, rat droppings, and dried blood mingled in the air.
Jack jerked at the realization, his body hating him for the sudden movement. But his heart was pounding too fast to care.
No. No. No.
Jack looked around and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out the other bunks and the boys that lay on them, some groups of three or four crammed into one. Jack’s head somehow felt dizzy and heavy at the same time, and he felt like a snake had somehow wrapped itself around his lungs. He wanted to run. He had to run, he had to get out.
He couldn’t.
The only thing Jack could do in his exhausted state was cry. So he did. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his legs protesting the motion, and let out wheezing, heaving sobs. After what could have been minutes or hours, the sobs turned into half-asleep sniffles as he drifted back into dreams that the walls were closing in on him.
Jack was still just as confused and hurt as he was when he woke up, but he knew one thing now - the nightmare he’d had the night before came true.
Jack failed.