Chapter Text
Thomas stretched out his spine, feeling a couple of cracks. It had been a slow, long day. The headlines were more boring than ever, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the damp, cold and miserable weather. His socks were soaked through from stepping in puddles, and his newspaper bag was still heavy with soggy papers.
Beside him, George Crabtree, his little companion, heaved a small sigh. He had a crutch under his arm, purely for sympathy’s sake. It had been nearly six months since he’d sprained his ankle. “Sir?” he said.
“Yeah?” asked Thomas.
George shifted his feet. “Are you hungry?”
Thomas let out a breath. “Yeah. You?”
“I’m starving,” breathed George, holding his stomach.
Thomas rummaged through his pockets, pulling out the day’s profit, a meagre handful of coins. “Well,” he said. “We don’t have a lot, but there’s just enough to get something from the bakery.” He passed George two nickels. “You can go grab us something.”
George’s eyes lit up. “Can I get—”
“Bread, Crabtree. No pretzels, no muffins, no cookies.”
George’s face fell slightly. “Okay.” He scuttled off down the street.
Thomas smirked, shaking his head. He’d known Crabtree for two years now, and the kid never failed to make him smile. He’d first met the kid in an abandoned house that Thomas had ducked into to escape from the big, tough gang of newsies who sold the Globe , the Globes, as they were called. He had just caught his breath when he saw a pair of huge, brown eyes peeking back at him from under a bed.
Ever since that day, the two of them stuck together. They were a pair, and Thomas would do anything to keep things that way.
A few minutes later, George reappeared, trudging along in the rain, his arms wrapped around himself, clutching a loaf of bread in one hand. As he got closer, Thomas could see that he was soaking wet, with streams of water dripping off of his clothes.
"Bloody hell, what happened to you?"
George shrugged. "I fell in a water trough," he admitted. "But I got the bread!" He held it up proudly.
Thomas rolled his eyes, snatching the loaf out of his hands. "I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?" He tore the bread in two and handed half to Crabtree.
"Nope!" George took a bite of the slightly soggy hunk of bread. "And I don't want you to leave me alone." He shivered.
Thomas lifted the kid's cap and ruffled his sopping hair. "We should dry you off," he said. "I don't think they'd mind if we popped in the church. My papers are all ruined anyway." They weren't believers, not strictly, at least, but they knew that church was a fine place to go on a Thursday night if you wanted somewhere warm and dry.
They made their way down the street toward the church.
"Sir?" Asked George, swallowing a mouthful of bread.
"What?"
"Does it rain on other planets?"
Thomas blinked, shrugging. "I don't see why not. It rains here, doesn't it?"
George looked down at a puddle, kicking the water so it sent a shower of droplets splattering onto the ground. "Do aliens like the rain?"
"How am I supposed to know that?" They arrived at the front steps of the cathedral. A warm, yellow light shone through the windows. "You better stop talking about aliens and all that nonsense," advised Thomas. "If the priest hears you, he'll try to convert you again." He pushed open the heavy doors, holding them open as George shuffled inside.
George shuddered as the doors creaked shut with a resounding thud. He finished off the last of his loaf of bread, gazing around in awe. “It always seems smaller on the outside,” he whispered, tugging at Thomas’ sleeve.
Thomas had to agree. The cathedral looked like a fortress or a castle on the outside, but inside, it was like its own world. No matter how many times he came here, he was always taken aback by the scale of the building.
The two boys stepped into the nave, feeling utterly dwarfed by the enormous, domed ceiling and the rows of pews that seemed to go on forever. The apse and the altar seemed to be a thousand miles away from them. The pipes of the organ towered above them, gleaming in the candlelight. The stained glass faces of the apostles looked down on them, their eyes seeming to follow them no matter where they stood.
George, tucking his crutch under his arm, grabbed onto Thomas’ hand.
Thomas glanced down at him in surprise. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“No!” George said quickly, looking down at the floor. “It’s just a little creepy when there’s nobody here. Not that I’m scared.”
Thomas chuckled, giving Crabtree’s hand a squeeze. It was about half the size of his and fully fit into the palm of his hand. It felt cold.
The priest quickly found them and ushered them into the hall. He gave them a large fluffy towel and a bench to sit on. “I’m afraid there isn’t any food for you boys,” he said apologetically.
“That’s all right,” said George. “We’ve already eaten.”
“And you cannot be permitted to stay here overnight.”
“We know,” said Thomas, holding back an eye roll. He knew that if the priest let two little kids off the street sleep overnight, the cathedral would be overrun with bums and street rats by next week. You could count on the church to provide a warm place for a few hours, maybe a small meal if you were lucky, but it had its limits.
As the priest left, Thomas got to work drying George off. He managed to get most of the water out of George’s hair. His clothes were still wet, though not dripping, and even after a few go-overs with the towel, they stubbornly remained damp.
There was a faint but persistent shiver in George’s spine, and he hugged himself.
“That’s what you get for falling in a water trough in the middle of the pouring rain,” chastised Thomas, folding up the towel. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to find somewhere to sleep tonight. The rooftop will be flooded.”
George sighed, standing up. “Can we go to the stables?” he asked, wrapping his arms around himself.
Thomas normally would have objected. The stables at the Imperial Hotel were nice and warm, but the consequences were dire if they got caught. One of the stable hands had driven them out the last time with a riding crop. They’d both had welts for days. But seeing the way George shivered made his heart soften. “All right,” he said. “But we’ve got to be careful.”
They thanked the priest and left, stepping down the large stone steps and onto the street. The rain was still coming down, harder than it had been earlier. Thomas pursed his lips. “Come on,” he said tightly. “We’ve got to get out of the rain quick, or else what was the point of drying off?”
The rainwater soaked through their shoes, but they tried their best to stay under buildings and awnings. Thomas’ clothes were only faintly damp by the time they arrived at the stables.
The horses glanced their way as they stepped inside, but paid little attention to them. George skipped over to a bright-eyed black mare. “Hi, Blackey,” he said. “How are you tonight?”
The horse didn’t react.
“I hear that,” said George, giggling.
Thomas shook his head, rolling his eyes at his silly little companion. “Come on,” he said, sitting down on a pile of hay and patting a spot beside him. “If we don’t want to get hit with a riding crop again, we’ve got to be up before the break of dawn.”
They settled into the straw. Thomas piled handfuls of the stuff on top of Crabtree to act as a sort of blanket. George took off his cap and laid it on the straw, laying his head on top of it.
A rogue smile spread out on Thomas’ face. He ruffled George’s hair. “Goodnight, Bugalugs,” he said.
“G’night,” murmured George, his eyes already closed. Within moments, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.
Thomas put his arms behind his head, looking up into the rafters of the stable. He breathed a sigh, closing his eyes, falling asleep under the indifferent watch of a dozen horses.