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bijackkellys · 1 month ago

Text

melt your headaches, call it home

fandom: newsies (the musical) word count: 4,990 relationships: jack kelly/katherine plumber pulitzer, david jacobs & jack kelly tags: post-canon, period typical attitudes, canon-typical violence, class differences, racism, character study, hurt/comfort, angst, poc jack kelly, jack parenting the newsies, touch-starved jack kelly, attachment issues, background javid if you tilt your head and squint

Jack might've won the fight but that meant nothing now: Morris was the one still inside. Guys like him would always win where it mattered. The strike; a rare fluke—hadn't he learned his lesson enough times? It was winter in New York; he was a goddamn losing dog.

notes: i wrote this in march of last year and it's been up on my ao3 since then, but i wanted to repost it here with some minor edits. character study with a jatherine focus, but jack and davey refuse not to Yearn in every scene they have together so there's a bit of that. let's call it a testament to my indecision and jack's fatal flaw of loving everyone who touches him.

latino jack kelly is the hc i had in mind writing this fic, but i will live and die by a jack that is anything but white. mild blood, racism, lots of class issues, some crude language, brief discussions of illness, historical inaccuracies abound, generally angsty jack. title from northern downpour. enjoy!

read it on ao3

The weather turned quick, the way it always did: New York in November swallowed up by four o’clock darkness and the kind of cold that sunk its teeth into everything. It wasn’t snowing yet but it would be soon; from the rooftop Jack could see the grey clouds coalescing on the edges of the sky, a looming threat, a boot waiting to fall.

He tallied the numbers in his head. Mush, Scrapper, and Buttons would all need new coats this year; they’d hit their growth spurts, skinny limbs poking out from their sleeves and pant cuffs, Mush nearly as tall as Jack now. Elmer had lost his hat to a bad storm last winter and they’d made it through ‘til spring then but with this kind of weather it’d be a death sentence. They would all need more blankets; Specs, a new pair of glasses after his had snapped down the middle; gloves for the littles who were all growing too quick to keep up with.

The illustrator’s gig paid alright but there were always new mouths to feed and never enough beds. They’d get what they could from the church clothing drive before the neighborhood vultures swept in; break into the slush fund if they had to. Jack took a moment to mourn the wistful little indulgences he’d never get to buy: the shiny pack of Coronas for Racer, the set of used charcoals in the book store, the battered copy of Wuthering Heights he’d thought of gifting Katherine. Penny to penny was no way to live, but at least they’d be living. Better than the alternative: New York in winter, merciless.

There was a creaking from the staircase, the wind almost too loud to hear it. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Cowboy?” Racer had joined him on the roof, stinking of cigar smoke, restless hands alive in the cold. “You dreamin’ of somewhere warm?”

He’d taken off his cap and his hair was a bright swatch of color against the city sky. Jack knew Race would never say it but that he was afraid, sometimes, that Jack would bolt again and leave them all behind for good. Westward bound.

Jack was eighteen now and in a year or two he’d be too old for selling papes, for leading the borough. That was the way of things; all newsies had to grow out sometime. It would be someone else’s job to run things soon and they both knew it.

But not yet. Winter was roaring in; for now, at least, Manhattan was Jack’s to bear.

He clapped a hand on Racetrack’s shoulder and ruffled his curls. “Nah, just somewhere where you don’t stink up the place,” he grinned, and Racer gave that feral little smile of his right back, sharp and bright as an alley cat. “Go wake the others, kid,” Jack said. “These papes ain’t gonna sell themselves.”

Pushing papers in winter was a shit gig; no one wanted to hang around in the freeze long enough to mingle, let alone haggle with a newsie. They’d been starved for a good headline for weeks. Jack got by on practiced charm and a smile that could tough out the worst of the weather, but it was harder when you only had one good leg.

Jack watched Crutchie move down the street, the unsure skittering of his crutch against the rough patches of ice. He had that look on his face that meant his leg was acting up, the wired tension in his shoulders, the twist at the corner of his mouth. And still he was waving papers like they were the goddamn American flag. He was stubborn and he’d picked that up from Jack, but stubbornness only got you so far.

Jack squinted up at the sky. “’S getting late,” he said, the only offer of an out he could think of, and it was: sundown had come and gone without much fanfare; it was dark all the time nowadays.

“Then go home, Jack,” Crutchie sighed, “I still got papes to sell.”

There was an edge to his voice; he was annoyed, Jack knew, not at him but at the cold, at the ice, at the unsympathetic city and his bum leg. He couldn’t cover the same ground as the others and it made his days longer and duller, hours of shuffling up and down the same indifferent street. Jack half wanted to take him into his arms but neither of them were little kids anymore.

“Give ‘em to me,” Jack said, and held out his hand.

Crutchie threw him a sidelong glare and curled himself around the newspapers, like he was protecting them, like they were precious. Not even two pennies a pape and they meant everything. There was nothing else that was theirs. “I can sell my own papes, Jack.”

“I know you can, Crutch, but it’s freezing.”

“Then go home .” It was a snarl this time, or as close as Crutchie could get to one. “I don’t need you runnin’ after me all the time. You ain’t even supposed to be out here.”

Crutchie was right; Jack had a desk job, and a couple drawings paid more than hours of selling papers. But he was a newsie, and he had his boys to look out for.

Jack dredged up a sure calm, like reigning a storm. “You’s dead on your feet and everyone can see it,” he said, even. “You ain’t doing anyone any good makin’ yourself worse off. Quit tryin’ to play hero.”

Crutchie scoffed at that, “Big words from you, Jackie.” But his eyes had gone huge and tired.

Jack whistled low and long and Albert came barreling around the corner. “Hey Albert, get Crutchie home, wouldya?”

Albert gave him a two-fingered salute. “Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

Crutchie looked ruefully at him; it made him seem younger, like the kid that Jack used to sing to sleep. They were growing and it pushed them up against the edges of the world. Jack opened his hand again, and this time Crutchie gave him the papers without argument, leaned into him like he needed something steadier than the wooden crutch at his side.

“Get some rest, Charlie,” Jack said, and pressed his mouth to Crutchie’s hair. He was not too grown for that, at least. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

—

The first night that it snowed that winter, Jack dreamed of Santa Fe. That old familiar stretch of land and sky, golden under his eyelids; New York, a black hole, and out west a lifeline. It was summer. There was a train ticket, a Palomino, a face he’d follow anywhere—

“It’s just a party.”

Katherine’s hair was a lit flame. All his watercolors were at Medda’s, or he’d have done something to do the burning coils of it justice on the page; as it was she was rendered in charcoal grey, nothing like the living, breathing creature in front of him.

He envied Katherine sometimes; her freckles were paler and her hair was darker but the rest of winter rolled right off of her. He’d never known anyone like that—that the cold couldn’t touch. She was defiant to everything, even New York December.

“Wouldya quit moving?” Jack said, more to avoid her question than anything else.

Katherine, obstinate, twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “Come on, Jackie. There’ll be desserts, and champagne, and everyone from the office will be there. But it’ll be no fun without you.”

Jack smirked. “We can make our own fun.”

She threw an eraser at him and missed. “Don’t be crass,” she said, but she was grinning. “If you don’t come I’ll have to dance with someone else.”

Jack wasn’t sure why she didn’t. It’d be easier, surely, then making clumsy circles with the scrawny orphan boy, dodging taunts about his poorness, his brownness, the rough slur of his accent. It shouldn’t have been permissible but it was because she’d made it so. He wondered, sometimes, if he was another act of rebellion to her, a fuck-you to her father. A strike instead of a person.

She took his drawing hand in both of hers and breathed into it. His fingers were always cramped and never warm enough but under the soft pads of her hands his skin blazed, like coming alive. “I won’t make you go,” she said, and kissed his rough knuckles. “But it’s Christmas.”

“I got nothin’ to wear,” he said softly, lamely; they both knew it was a shit excuse.

Katherine traced the scar on his palm and smiled like a secret, the way she did when she knew she’d won. If this was her defiance he could live with it. “I’ve already got it covered.”

Darcy’s old suit was too big around the shoulders and not long enough at the ankles, but it was jet-black and pinstriped with a shade of cobalt that Kath said complimented the brown of his eyes. Jack felt like he was playing dress-up, even more so after Medda had gelled and combed back the flop of his curls. He looked like the Delanceys, like Pulitzer, like every single man who had ever spat in his face.

When Romeo saw him in his suit he wolf-whistled loud enough to ring. “Cowboy’s running with the big boys now!” he grinned, and Jack hit him with his hat—a porkpie, not a newsie cap, the brim of it jarring.

“Gimme a break,” he rolled his eyes. “One party, and then it’s back to slummin’ it with the rest of you.”

Romeo held a hand over his chest like he’d been shot. “Don’t you forget about us, Jack!” Ever the fucking drama queen.

—

It was Christmas Eve. The Pulitzer palace—the world through a sheet of gossamer, everything shining, gliding past each other without meeting. It was not: the heavy slaps of bare feet on pavement, the playful roughhousing, hands in hair, hands on hands. It was a life so delicate it couldn’t be touched.

“What do you think?” Katherine at his side, wearing lace-trimmed gloves, not touching him. There was a flute of champagne balanced easily in her hand and splotches of high color on her cheeks; she had slipped into the skin of this world like second nature, like she owned it.

He resisted the urge to twist his borrowed hat in his hands. There was a fire roaring somewhere, but lately he was always freezing. “I shouldn’t be here.” The only other brown kids in the room were moving soundlessly through the crowd, silver platters of pastries held aloft.

“Everyone from the office was invited.” Her voice was gentle. Her fingers fluttered near his elbow, but didn’t land. “We can leave if you’d like.”

He shook his head. To go now would be a retreat, a surrender. Across the room the men in starched suits were sizing him up as if betting on a dog fight—waiting to see how hard he’d bite, how many rounds he could go. Jack knew nothing of the Pulitzer world but he knew this.

“No,” he said, and offered her his hand, “Let’s dance.”

Morris had snuck up on him—evidence that he was getting soft. There was a hand on his shoulder and Jack nearly flinched but caught himself, quelled it, turned to face the open palm and hawkish smile of the man behind him.

“Kelly,” Morris shook his hand with forceful geniality. There was a fat cigar balanced on his lip and the smoke was getting in Jack’s eyes. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Kath had disappeared into the crowd; Jack, pathetically, wanted to call for her, but he understood the playacting for what it was. He dug his fingers in, grinned back so hard his face hurt. “Delancey number two, always a pleasure .”

The muscle in Morris’s jaw jumped. Around them the rest of the partygoers moved like water, unaffected by the standoff. “You rob a tailor for that suit, Cowboy?” The nickname in his mouth was as sharp-edged as a slur. “It doesn’t fit you quite right.”

Jack scoffed. “Thanks for the tip, Morris, but I ain’t in the habit of takin’ fashion advice from a guy whose mommy still buttons his trousers.”

Morris jerked forward and for a moment Jack thought he would hit him, but instead he pulled Jack close by the back of his neck, a gesture that would’ve been endearing, even brotherly, if Morris wasn’t Morris and didn’t reek like cheap cologne and greed. Jack could feel the heat from his cigar on his collar. He thought of Snyder, briefly, horribly, and then drowned that image quick.

“It’s a shame about Katherine.” The grip on his wrist was a bear trap, a steel maw. “Dirtying up her bloodline, runnin’ around with trash like you.”

Jack snarled. “Keep her name outta your mouth.”

A smile, cut like the edge of a knife. Morris’s breath on his ear: “Maybe if she had a real man to show her a good time...”

“Morris.”

“One of her own kind, that’s the ticket. None of your immigrant shit. I bet she’d get real loud, too, seeing as she never stops running her damn mouth—“

Jack couldn’t stop himself; he lunged.

The world was wrenched sideways into disjointed frames of shouts and colors and blows. When it righted again he was freezing, his head ached; he’d been thrown out on the stoop and his lip was busted. There was blood on his collar, in his mouth.

Jack might’ve won the fight but that meant nothing now; Morris was the one still inside. Guys like him would always win where it mattered. The strike; a rare fluke—hadn’t he learned his lesson enough times? It was winter in New York; he was a goddamn losing dog.

Somewhere there were carolers singing. Merry fucking Christmas. Through the bolted door he could still hear the laughter from inside the party, a whole world away.

—

“You look like shit.” Davey, smiling in the window, moonlight rippling over the even lines of his face like water. “Can’t go five minutes without picking a fight, huh Jackie?”

“You ain’t so pretty yourself,” Jack scoffed, but he nearly shivered at the loveliness of someone kind and familiar. “It’s fuckin’ frigid out here, lemme in.”

Davey lit a candle by the bed and the tiny warmth of it was a miracle. It had been snowing hard on the walk over: Jack was soaked to the skin, couldn’t feel his feet. Maybe couldn’t feel anything. His head was still roaring, even with the wind locked outside.

“We need to get you a helmet,” Davey tutted, easy concern on the edge of his voice as he wiped the blood from where Morris had split Jack’s brow. His fingers were steady, unwavering. “Or a self-preservation instinct.”

Jack resisted the urge to lean into his touch. “Too late for that,” he hummed. “Kath’s gonna kill me.”

“She won’t.”

“I ruined her father’s party.”

Davey raised an eyebrow at him. “You really think Katherine Plumber won’t surprise you?”

Jack laughed and then was thrown by it, suddenly: the overwhelming force of how much he’d missed Davey—his surety, his sincerity, his unflinching hands. Davey had gone back to school in the fall and since then they’d only seen each other a handful of times a month, less now that it was too cold for anyone to be out selling papes unless they had to be. Still the fondness in his gaze was irrevocable; they’d slotted back into place as easy as anything. He knew what it was to face the world with Davey Jacobs. They’d done it before.

“Davey,” Jack started, vulnerability heavy in his hoarse throat. He was tired; wasn’t sure what it was he needed to say. For a moment they stared at each other, a silence that stretched so long it ached. Then:

“The lodging house this time of year—it can’t be very warm.” Davey worked his lip between his teeth. “You’ll take the bed, right?”

His fingers hovered, just shy of Jack’s. So close that Jack held his breath. “I can’t stay,” he tried to say, but Davey shook his head.

“It’s freezing and you look like death already, Jack. If I let you leave now I’ll never hear the end of it from my ma. Spare me the lecture, please?”

Jack knew it was a flimsy excuse but it was late, and his head hurt, and he was still cold and too tired for another fight. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. He wanted someone to look after him—

Davey; lovely, within reach; the candlelight moving in flickers. It would be Christmas tomorrow.

Jack exhaled with everything that was in him.

“I can’t.” His chest ached; he felt it down to his bones. “Davey, the boys—I gotta go.”

—

“Katherine came lookin’ for you.”

Specs hovered at Jack’s shoulder like an uncertain bird. Christmas day, the lodging house a jungle; Jack had spent the night trekking back from Davey’s and the morning handing out penny candies to the littles. His head hurt something fierce. He would’ve drawn them something, but his hands wouldn’t quit shaking.

“Thanks, Specs,” Jack passed a palm over his face and squared his shoulders. “She look mad?”

Specs cracked a smile and adjusted his glasses, crooked from where they were taped together at the bridge. “You know Plumber, she’s a hurricane on a good day. Didn’t seem like she was pissed at you, though.”

Jack nodded. He knew what he’d done; he’d be lucky if he wasn’t fired and luckier still if he was ever allowed near Katherine again. She knew what he was and had stuck around ‘til now anyway, but that could only take them so far. They were running down the clock.

Behind him, Specs wrung his hands. “Cowboy,” he said slowly, “there’s something else.”

Jack was tired, his patience thin. “Spit it out then, wouldya?”

Specs, hesitating—bad news, and not the headliner kind they prayed for; Jack ran through the worst-case scenarios in his head and still it didn’t prepare him. “Elmer’s sick.”

“What?” But he’d heard him fine. The freeze: worse than the snowstorm, worse than New York winter. Jack’s hand made an unsteady fist. “How bad is it?”

He knew the answer to that; head colds had rippled through the lodging house all month and they’d dealt with it fine, but Spec’s fear was foreign. It had to be—something awful, something he couldn’t think about. Jack shuddered with his whole body, and in his periphery he could see Specs pause.

“You ain’t lookin’ too good yourself, Jackie—“

“How bad is it, Specs? ”

Specs’ long dark fingers, twisting; his knuckles popped. “He dropped like a fly yesterday,” he said at last. “Just hit the ground. He’s got a bad cough and a worse fever; Romeo’s looking after him now. We tried to give him—food and water and such, but he won’t take nothin’.”

Elmer, laid up and dying while Jack drank champagne at a party. The thought of it made his stomach roll. “Okay,” he said, a trembling exhale through his teeth, “Get a cool washcloth and meet me by his bed. Tell the littles to give us some space—I don’t want no one else getting sick.”

Specs lifted his eyebrows. “You sure you’re up for this, Jack? You look like hell—”

“Who’s runnin’ this borough, you or me?” Jack pinned Specs with a stare. For a moment they faced each other, an impasse.

At last a sheepish smile split Specs’ face. “You are, Cap’n,” he said, with a fond roll of his eyes, and Jack grinned.

“Attaboy.”

It took three terrifying days for Elmer’s fever to break. The interludes: Elmer, small with sickness, dwarfed even by the cramped little bed of the lodging house; Racer and Specs arguing over who would take the night shifts; meals skipped to pay for cold medicine and the rest of them working overtime. There was a period where Elmer threw up everything they put in his mouth and Jack was sure he’d starve before he got better, but he didn’t; the kid was a fighter. By the end of it Jack was dead on his feet and the slush fund was nearly empty, but the relief of it—

Elmer, looking up at him from under his heavy lashes. It might’ve been a summer’s day. “Hiya, Jackie,” he said hoarsely, and smiled, and everything else was secondary.

—

“I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

Katherine, in the doorway of his office. The stretch of her shadow took up all the air in the room.

It was almost New Year’s. The World was mostly empty by now: it was late; Jack was making up for the time he’d lost after the party. The lodging house had felt so goddamn small, inescapable; he’d needed—the space. The quiet. The pen between his freezing fingers.

He didn’t look up from his drawing, Roosevelt’s caricature in sprawling ink. “Did you think I’d been fired?” He nearly had been, but his boss had taken pity on him. It probably helped that he was the best artist they had, but it was a near miss even still.

“I didn’t think I’d find you anywhere,” Katherine amended. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It was not an accusation; it was a statement of fact: this was Katherine the reporter, non-fucking-partisan. Jack wasn’t sure if he would’ve preferred—the rooftop, the fight, her fist under his chin, him leaning into the punch. In the summer it had been so easy.

“Elmer was sick.” Jack’s pen fumbled, a stray dip in the line. “Between that, and beggin’ for my job back…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.” There was a waver in her voice, then. “I’m sorry about the party.”

He looked up at her, and then found he couldn’t look away: the bright heat of her gaze, the red shock of her loose hair. She was still peppered in snow, and it glittered like starlight.

“What’re you sorry for?”

Katherine stepped through the doorway and then hesitated, her movements slow and telegraphed, like she was afraid of spooking him off. Maybe she was right for it; he had a habit of running away.

“I shouldn’t have brought you into that,” she said quietly. “You didn’t want to go, and I pushed it—and you got hurt.”

“S’nothing,” he gestured offhandedly to the cut over his eye. “You think I ain’t tangled with Delancey before?”

She made a soft noise in the back of her throat. “That’s not the point,” she said. “And honestly, Jack, you look like death.”

He scoffed. “So everyone keeps telling me.” Unfair, he thought, because it had been a long few days, a long winter. He hadn’t slept and had barely eaten and was cold all the damn time, but he couldn’t admit that to her—he wanted to be untouchable, invincible the way she was. Katherine Plumber, the king of New York.

He missed her so much. Even now, she was a whole world away.

Her pale hands fumbled with something in the pocket of her coat. “I got you a Christmas present, but I didn’t get a chance—I wanted to—” She laid a parcel on his desk, lovingly wrapped in newspaper, the print running in careful, creased lines. “Here.”

The sight of it made his stomach curl. He shoved it back towards her. “You shouldn’t have got me nothin’.”

“Of course I did.” She was being so gentle. He wished she’d stop talking to him like he was a goddamn stray. At least when they were fighting he knew what to do: they were both tooth-and-nailers, they were good at it. It was the only time they felt like equals.

“Katherine,” he said, and ground his teeth into the soft consonants of her name. “I don’t want nothin’ from you.”

“Alright.”

“I think you should go.”

He heard her breath hitch. There was a pit in his stomach: hunger, surely, but something else too.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I do.” He dug his teeth into his split lip and fresh blood burst forth, the pain of it bright and grounding. In the weeks after the refuge, he used to split his palms open on his nails; the old habits died hard.

She said, “I wish you’d just talk to me.” At last her voice had earned an edge, frustration ripe at the corner of it. “I didn’t think Jack Kelly was a quitter.“

“Don’t call me that.”

“That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you get it, Ace?” Jack stood up so fast his head spun; he’d knocked the bottle of ink over the page. Black bloomed like spring flowers across Roosevelt’s face. “Your world ain’t mine. We ain’t supposed to be together—“

“When has it ever mattered what we’re supposed to do?” she demanded. “Just because some assholes at a party—“

“This ain’t about the party.”

Her gaze, a steady burn. A searchlight. “Tell me what it is, then.”

He thought of the first time she’d kissed him, the way it had been hard enough to hurt. The way he would’ve done anything.

“I can’t be the guy you want me to be,” he said, an exhale that rattled his core. “I ain’t a rich man, I ain’t a white man, I got nothing to give you—I got no money, no Christmas presents—hell, I can’t pay for my boys to eat half the time. What we’re doing here, the things people will say— “

Katherine stepped toward him. “Does it look like I care about that? I’m not asking for you to be anyone else.”

“Then what’re you doin’ here ?” His voice was raw. His whole body ached. “I’m not some charity case. And I won’t be your—your revenge trip against your father, neither—“

She reached out. Her touch: just a trace of the purpling bruise on his cheekbone with her fingers, but the sensation of it was like sunlight; it spanned the whole room. He wanted to beg like a fucking dog for more, for it to mean something.

“You’ve got a fever.” She swallowed. “You and your godforsaken pride. Jack—“

They had lived their whole lives on hyperboles, on names that weren’t theirs. They were both so good at lying.

“Say the truth,” he said, a plea.

Her hand steadied. “I just want to be with you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Do you trust me?”

There was no answer to that. He hated her so much for asking. Jack trusted nothing but his borough and his boys and his own resolve, and lately not even that—but she was here, she had stayed, she was something to believe in. She had never asked him for anything, except for this.

In the winter he was always so afraid. But Katherine—

His eyes shuttered closed. “I don’t know—how to do this.”

She did not kiss him. But her hands touched his hair, his brown skin, the raised scar behind his ear, careful and reverent, like he was worthy of that. The rareness of it shook him.

“Come home with me,” she said softly. “Or anywhere. It doesn’t matter; somewhere where I can—” She broke off and tangled their fingers together. “Your hands are so cold.” But she held on.

Jack thought of it: her world, with space carved out for him. The Santa Fe of the east, a lifeline, everything he wanted. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It ain’t that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Well your father, for one,” he said. “He’ll probably kill me if I show my face back there.”

Katherine laughed. “My father can rot in hell, for all I care. The Delanceys, too. You think I’d let them touch you again?” Her eyes were aflame, defiant to the winter, to the world. She was a revolutionary; it was wired in her, every pen-to-page a new century. She never lied where it mattered. The soft pad of her thumb against his busted lip was a promise.

He shuddered with the earnestness of it, almost too much to bear. “I got my boys to look after.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Just one night—they’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.” Elmer, frail and shaking in his bed. Jack hurt everywhere. “It gets so cold in that lodging house, Kath. You got no idea.”

She pulled him close to her and held him there. “I wish you’d be selfish, for once.” He could feel the meter of her heartbeat against his chest, a pull like gravity. “Can’t you see that you’re no good to them if you’re dead?”

The blue world outside the window was still moving, but in here everything had narrowed down to this: her hands, her eyes, her breath on his cheek. For once the snow was too far away to touch them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this warm.

“You’ve taken such good care of them,” Katherine said, almost too quiet to hear. She pulled back to trace the outline of his jaw. “You take care of everyone. Just let me do this.”

She had never asked him for anything. Only this.

Medda had said, a long time ago— run towards something. Jack was so sick of dead ends. He wanted to be full, to be held, to sleep just long enough to dream. He wanted—

Katherine, in the lamplight. The surest thing he’d ever known.

“You ain’t gonna get sick of me?” He had to be certain.

“I’m sick of you now, Kelly, but I’m still asking.” She smiled; it was springtime, it was the sun.

He pressed her palm into his chest, like he’d done in the summer, a million years ago. His pulse surged under her fingers, like coming alive—winter was a beast at his back, but there was a new century ahead of them. It would be theirs soon.

“Alright then, Ace,” he breathed at last, and squeezed her hand. “Take me home.”

#manawrites #jack kelly #katherine plumber #katherine pulitzer #newsies #newsies the musical #newsies fanfiction #newsies fic #jatherine #jatherine fanfiction #yes i did post this on tumblr at one point but i wanted to reformat and plug it again #i still think this is one of my fav things i've written....#otp: faith in a new beginning

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diedieri · 3 years ago

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Jason Todd x Peter Parker

I started writing something but UGH. Just not feeling it.

I haven’t reread any of it. Don’t think i’ll even push it to my ao3 but posting it here just well...I don’t know. Maybe inspiration will come back to me.

Half if it will be under the read more so it doesn’t clog up anyone’s dash.

====================================================

Peter Parker was not running. He was relocating. Metropolis had a good newspaper, he aced the interview it was more than the Bugle. Getting an interview at S.T.A.R. labs hadn’t been going as planned. With the disappearance of Harry, Norman had told Peter Parker to get lost. Get lost and he would forget what Spider-man had done. Oscorp was on the resume but without a solid referral it was not going to be easy to get his foot in the door.

Aunt May wished he’d taken more rather than sold what little he did own. He had a small place lined up, it came partially furnished. It was however a popular space and a shit part of town, the less advertised part of Metropolis. It was good enough for Peter, he had sent a reservation hold that would go toward the down payment.

All he had was in one checked bag and his carry on. Two boxes had been mailed via freighter for cheap delivery. His suit was under his clothes, his cowl tucked into his gloves and stashed in his pockets. Being a super who couldn’t fly really had its downsides. It was a rare thing to be thankful for crime. People paid off the airplane staff to often overlook certain items packed. Someone shady was here, but no one wanted any trouble while flying. Good and bad, everyone could agree air travel was the worst. Peter thanked them silently when his webbing and tools all passed through security.

Santa Claus wasn’t the only thing coming to New York, Winter Storm Merry was on its way and he was glued to the TV screens. Several East Coast flights had already been cancelled. Metropolis was still safe! His flight and the next.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Today we have an overbooked flight. All standby passengers will need to prepare for the next flight and at this time we are offering a fully comp’d first class plane ticket on our next flight.”

No one offered up the space, but Peter heard someone hiss.

“You got to be fucking shitting me. Bruce. I can’t get on the flight. No one is going to give up their ticket in this wea—. Hey! We can argue about who should have bought what plane ticket later. You want this package delivered?”

Try as he might, Peter could not stop listening. He was invested. The poor guy joked about calling in a personal jet, that if he had to he’d jack Santa’s sleigh if that wasn’t going to be two weeks too late.

What was one more New York heroic act? He could take the later flight, get this guy home, and…He’d get to spend a little longer here.

“I don’t know Bruce. Maybe you can call Batman and he can send one of his twenty jets to pick me up, huh? Hold on. What?” The stranger snapped at Peter’s approach. Even in the full airport none had sat near the surly individual. New Yorkers who couldn’t be bothered by much had given him a wide birth.

He’s not angry with you, Peter hoped, he’s upset about the flight.

“I didn’t mean to overhear but I. Uh. I don’t have any commitments. I can take the later flight?” He had considered it anyway. Gambling to see how high the airplane would comp the would be detained flyers, but this guy needed resolution.

“Bruce. I’ll text you.” All attention had shifted to Peter. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his skin vibrated with warning. This what all the other passengers had felt, an intensity not to fuck with him.

“Are you serious?”

“Sure man, it’s the holidays am I right? You need it. I just need to get there eventually.” Peter smiled and held his hand out,

“Peter Parker.”

The stranger smiled, “Jason.” He didn’t shake Peter’s hand but squeezed it. He didn’t ask why or why else, it was a bargain he was going to act on before he lost his chance. The staff however, did try for the push. The had been the ones insisting on someone trade their tickets but hadn’t expected this at all.

“Lady. The flight is boarding soon. We can do this now or,” Jason flopped his hand up. Silence. There was no choice other than now.

“Mr. Parker, the next flight isn’t for another three hours. Your belongings are already on the plane. We’ll hold them for you at your final destination. Is that alright sir?”

“It’s fine. He’ll spend it getting lunch. You could use it kid. On me.” Jason reached in his wallet and Peter backed up.

“Oh, no thank you. I just wanted to help. I’m not looking for anything.”

“Great I’m not looking to argue. Enjoy.” Jason pushed a single bill into Peter’s chest. He didn’t see it but felt it, crisp and fresh. It said expensive and valuable with touch alone. He would have been fine with McDonalds and he would be despite the intend restaurant.

“Thanks, Jas—on.” The name fell of his lips. The stranger was already back on the phone and on the move. With no place to go Peter sat still in the same gate, the night flight would use the one right across the way. When they called to board Jason never checked his ticket, he waited until it was last call and finally walked down the empty corridor.

It wasn’t until midflight, on his own flight, that Peter regretted his choice.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the flight attendant began again, having already advised them of turbulence, she braced herself and spoke. “Due to inclement weather this flight will have to make an emergency landing in Gotham. All flights in and out of Metropolis have been suspended as have many other airports. We do apologize for this inconvenience. Please see us at the gate for questions on cancelled connecting flights and details on how to make arrangements after the storm passes.”

The plane descended into Gotham, into a dark but bright snow glow covered night. Peter’s knee began to bounce. Gotham city. It was hardly a tourist destination. There was crime everywhere, but in Metropolis there was Superman who dealt with world problems!

Gotham was local and constant. Spider-man could handle himself but Peter had been excited for the break and opportunity to focus on something other than web slinging.

Flights were cancelled for three days. Three. Days. He had 90 dollars in cash. He could catch a subway, get across town, then trudge through the snow to some hotel that didn’t have online reservations and hope he had a place to stay?

“Is the airport open?” Peter asked. With a city of this size, it was. Peter was grounded but at least wouldn’t be in the snow. He had cover and internet. It was hardly anything, but he still thought it was looking up. His body rippled in disagreement. A shiver and sense warned him, Peter turned and found a tall man in a familiar leather jacket.

“Peter Parker.” Jason gestured to him with a coffee in his hand. His bag was gone. “So I hear your flight has been cancelled?”

#peter parker #jason todd #the red hood #spiderman #spider man #spider-man #what even is their ship name lololol #manawrites #wip of something that who knows if i'll ever finish but i really do want practice with these character types #marvel #dc

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