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Chapter Text

The boy couldn't have been more than a year old when he, along with his family; A mother, father and two big sisters arrived in New York; all of them near death with fever and hunger.
They arrived at the charity hospital too late for the Nuns to be able to do much else than try and keep them comfortable; So they made sure the family were clean and tried to feed them, at least allow them some comfort before they died.
They never found out the family name or they couldn't understand what it was if they were told-It was forgotten somewhere and not written down. Just another nameless family;The situation was sad but nothing new to those that worked there. They dealt with such cases everyday; Crying, begging, hopeless men, women and children that came to America to begin a better life but never got to see it. 
The father was the first to die, once he was separated from his wife and children and placed in a bed on the men's ward, he seemed to give up. He was barely aware of his surroundings and went quickly.
The little girls died next. They shared a bed next to their mother and clung to each other. They were about five or six, perhaps they were twins or with only a year or so in age between them; they had bright hair and pale faces that were flushed pink with fever. The Nuns were gentle with them, desperate not to let them die and the little girls seemed to rally for a day or so. They smiled when a young Sister spoon fed them soup and helped break up some bread for them to eat. Even though they were weak they played so nicely together with some wooden blocks donated for the children of the hospital. But in the night with a sigh and a breath the fever claimed them.
Unaware of the loss of her daughters, in the early hours of the morning, the mother fell asleep. She didn’t wake.
Only the tiny baby cradled in her arms survived. A miracle, somehow this little thing survived illness that none of his family survived. Not only that: he got well.

He slept in a box in the office of the hospital and seemed perfectly content to do so. The Nuns all doted on him, bringing him things to eat and play with. They called him Sunny, on account of his sunny disposition and his bright white hair that stuck out in all directions like sunbeams.
Sunny lived with the Nuns for almost two years; and by then the whisps of bright white hair were blonde curls like his sisters and his bright smile was highlighted by little teeth. He still slept in the office; too big for a box in now, so he slept in a cot moved in from the ward. He played in the hospital garden and wandered around freely. No one minded, all the doctors and the Nuns liked having him around but no one seemed to know what should happen with the boy.
He had no documentation, no next of kin, no true name. Though he was not without love. The Nuns and nurses all loved the baby boy and he became an unofficial mascot for the ward. He was dressed in fine clothes made for him by the Sisters and was a chatty, playful, sweet child.
When the time came he had to leave the hospital and leave behind his fine clothes and all of the toys given to him. Those that worked there cried for him, they would miss him so. But a child couldn’t live in a charity hospital forever. The nuns gave him a token; a little wooden cross, placed around his neck: To remind him what a miracle he was. The three year old just waved the cross around as if it were a rattle and chewed on it. All smiles and waves as he was taken away to a home for orphans. 

Chapter Text

At the foundling home, his blonde curls were cropped short and the name Sunny was forgotten.
Charles Ward was the name he was given: Ward because of the hospital ward that he had been living in and Charles; a name chosen at random.
The Foundling Home was large and cold and his name became lost in the noise of all the other children.
For a time he stayed in the room where the very little children were kept. The 'Babies', were the children under four and they would often be sent away to a foster family though some were kept at the home: Charles was still a toddler, but far too old to be sent out to a foster home, it was decided that there was no point. So he was placed in a crib. 
Some of the older girl children had the job of feeding the babies and most of them smiled at him and called him "Baby" as they spooned soup or gruel into his mouth. Or quickly wiped his face with a cloth when he made a mess trying to feed himself. 
He would chatter and babble away to them and at night time he would cry because he missed them. He wished they didn't have to go away each day through a door that he wasn't allowed through. 
His birthday must have passed at some point and he was moved from the small room for the babies to a larger dormitory for boys: a ward of twenty iron bed frames. His bed was pointed out to him and he went to sit on it quietly, looking around at the other boys who sat either on beds or on the floor, some of them talking to each other, some of them just staring into space. Some of them were rocking back and forth, some of them working on some task they had been given; cleaning shoes or writing on a slate. 
He asked for "The nice ladies." who looked after him, meaning the foundling girls that had fed him and the ward sister gave him a sharp slap on the head and told him to go to bed.  
He began having lessons, to be taught how to read and write. He was taught how to behave and not answer back, watching boys get hit with a cane for being bad scared him and so he tried his best to follow the lessons. He tried never to answer back. It took him a long time to answer to the name Charles; no one had explained to him that was his name.
He didn’t like the name Charles, though he tried not to mind it. He learned who on the staff was good and who was not, some were kinder than others so he was careful to speak and smile only around the good ones. 
Between the lessons and the orders, they had some free time in the yard for exercise or if it was raining in the hall where they ate meals. There were plenty of other children and he laughed and played with them as much as he was allowed. There were no toys, so the children made do with anything: buttons, pebbles, pieces of string, anything they could get their hands on they would trade and make up games with and the fun of it was almost worth the beatings if they got caught.
Sometimes rich people visited the home, to admire what the staff there called their good work. If they were well behaved and didn't have any bruises showing, the children were allowed to go to the hall while rich ladies would read out a story. 
Charles was small, always had been as he had been so unwell as a baby and they always liked the little ones best. Sometimes the ladies seemed so sad, so Charles would smile at them and reach out to hold their hand. He figured out that if he behaved really well and smiled at them, sometimes they would give him a piece of candy. One lady even gave him a penny that he kept hidden in his shoe.  
It seemed children at the Foundling Home disappeared often and were replaced with new ones, so there was always someone to play with and run around with. Though none of them were exactly friends, they learned not to make friends. 
Sometimes at night he cried for his old life, that he couldn’t really remember but almost every child cried in this place.
Years went by, following the same routine. Somehow though, he kept something of his sunny disposition despite how gray and cold life could sometimes be at the home. Maybe he had a mother and father out there somewhere; more than anything, he wated 'folks'. 

Chapter Text

Once, illness spread and overcame the foundling home. The children were locked in their dormitories to try and prevent the spread of infection. Those that weren't ill soon caught whatever was going round. No one spoke of the children that died and disappeared. The most unwell children were sent away to the hospital.
So a little boy woke up in a cot that was somehow familiar to him as Nuns bustled all around. He was about seven years old now and back where he had started: Near death and in the charity hospital.
Several children from the Foundling Home had already died, sent to the hospital too late for anything to be done. Some were almost starving and were covered in bruises or had poorly healed broken bones. They cried quietly and begged. They ate any food given to them and some of them would rock back and forth or hide under the beds, their fears made worse by the fevers they fought. Worst of all, some of them would have nightmares and the frightening silence would be broken with screams. 
One of the smallest cried pitifully and painfully, reaching out to anyone that was there and to invisible beings like ghosts that only he could see during the worst of his fever.
He was changed into a clean nightshirt, his clothes were folded and placed on the bedside table with the few possessions he owned in the world: a penny that was found in his sock, a chipped marble, an old handkerchief and a small wooden cross necklace; covered with little teeth marks from where he had chewed it when he was a baby but obviously cherished and loved. 
“Sunny?” One Nun asked as she gently stroked his short hair and tried to encourage him to sip from a cup water.
“No...It’s night time.” The little boy yawned before falling straight back to sleep in her arms, snuggling against her and sighing, the Nun remembered two little girls; this boys sisters as they died. This boy was Sunny: he still had the wooden cross. He was their Sunny.
They nursed him and prayed and some nights they feared he would not make it through but just like before; Sunny survived his illness. Only now he had a painful limp to show for it.
He didn’t complain. Being at the hospital he knew, lots of kids had died and he was glad he wasn’t one of them. He wobbled around the ward, dragging his weakened foot behind him.
Soon he was able to move quickly, almost as if the limp didn’t bother him at all and he didn’t need a crutch or a walking stick, though that would probably change as he grew and got taller. Only occasionally he would cry about the pain in his hip; though when he cried the Nuns comforted him, so he preferred it here to the foundling home. So he stayed a while as his strength returned. 
His hair had grown over the months and stuck out in all directions. Most of his curls had gone now but his hair was still bright and the Nuns that he couldn’t remember were happy to have Sunny back in their lives for a short while.
They called him Charlie now and he liked that name. 

Chapter Text

Once Charlie was considered as fully recovered as possible from his illness it was decided by the Foundling home that the boy wouldn't be returned to the home, instead he would be sent to out to work:
The Nuns all wished Charlie goodbye; He was old enough to understand that he was leaving now and couldn't help but cry. The wooden cross around his neck, precious only to him and those that gave it to him. The rest of his possessions and some clothes and a nightshirt from the hospital were wrapped up in a bundle for him to carry and He was led down an unexplored corridor and outside by an unkind Matron from back at the foundling home. At the gate a man was waiting and Charlie was handed over to the stranger. 
"This is Mr Morris, you're going to work for him. So you do as you're told and be good." Matron said sternly.
"Yes miss." The boy said meekly, glancing up at the man.  
Mr Morris worked as a chimney sweep. He was quite old now and needed a boy to help him: A small boy that could climb the chimneys. Even though the little boy offered to him was described as having a troublesome limp, he was small and small could be useful.
Mr Morris seemed to Charlie a very tall man and in the few moments they were acquainted, he coughed a lot. He was covered in soot and wearing all black, Charlie wasn't sure if that was because of the soot or if it was a style choice.
The man held onto the child's hand tightly as they walked away and Charlie kept looking back tearfully at the closest thing to home he had ever known.
 
“You don’t gotta be frightened. I was a foundling boy myself.” The old man explained, smiling down at the little boy. His teeth looked very white in contrast to his dirty face. He walked slowly enough that Charlie could keep up with him. “I said to myself, if I ever adopt a child into my business then I’d look after him. You’re my apprentice now, son and that’s an important job." he said proudly. "I’ll teach you everything I know. Would you like that?”
Charlie nodded as they continued to walk.
"Almost there." Mr Morris said as he led the boy down a dark, narrow street and stopping at a small apartment building. “Welcome home.” The man said as he opened a door. He hurried inside to light a fire in the grate and some candles. The room was not very large but soon it was warm and comfortable. There was a narrow cot with a blanket set up in the corner for Charlie.
They had a small dinner of toast that they cooked over the fire. Mr Morris let Charlie hold the toasting fork but was careful to make sure that the little boy didn’t burn his hands.
“There’s enough bread left over for toast for breakfast and a sandwich for your supper, how does that sound?”
“...Good.” Charlie smiled “Thank you, sir!” he said quickly, remembering his manners.
“No trouble.” The man smiled, reaching out and ruffling the boy's hair. Charlie flinched and the man looked at him with sad understanding then held up his hands to show that he meant no harm. 
He called Charlie ‘Son’ from the moment they met and Charlie liked that.
Mr Morris was like folks.
The old man's wife had passed away a long time ago and their son and only child had died not long after, when he was only a few days old. Mr Morris thought of them and missed them always. They were his greatest love and greatest sadness.  
A few months into his apprenticeship, when Charlie, almost by mistake began to call Mr Morris "Pa", he smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. Charlie didn't flinch anymore.
By now everyone just assumed that the sweep and his apprentice were Father and Son. That’s who they were to each other.
Charlie was his joy. 
As the year went on, Charlie realized how lucky he was to have a kind master; that most of the climbing boys and chimney sweeps were treated terribly, even worse than at the Foundling home. So Charlie worked hard, even with his bad leg bothering him. Charlie was good at sweeping and after jobs when his leg hurt, Pa would carry him proudly on his shoulder.
Pa couldn’t read or write very well anymore, he had always struggled with it but now his eyes were bad but Charlie was happy to be able to help. He had learned basic reading and writing at the foundling home but thanks to the Nuns at the hospital who had quietly taught him whenever they had a moment at the hospital and he was well enough to learn. 
Like his Pa, Charlie was almost always covered in soot. It made his eyes and smile look even brighter and it made him and Pa look like father and son.
Sometimes the little boy still had nightmares, or he became afraid that he would be sent or taken away. He would wake up in the night screaming, the horrible howl that children from the orphan homes and refuges screamed. The hopeless cry of the unloved. 
But he was always reassured that he had a home with Pa.
"You're alright...Don't cry, there now." Pa would say softly as he lifted Charlie up. He would hum softly and sometimes sing as he walked around the room with him as if he were a child much younger than the eight years they guessed that he was. This was how he had rocked his son to sleep, when he was a young man.  
"I love you Papa." Charlie would cry. Finally settling down and falling asleep as he was tucked into bed. 
"I love you too, son." 

Chapter Text

On Christmas eve, Charlie lay in his bed feeling warm and comfortable. 
“Not asleep yet, are you son?” Pa asked, putting a plate of freshly buttered toast on the small table.
“No!” Charlie grinned, sitting up and letting Pa help him to the table and to sit down.
“Good?” Pa chuckled, watching Charlie eat large bites of toast.
“Great!” Charlie nodded “Thanks, pa.”
It was their first Christmas together.
The previous day they had been to the public baths: a much better experience bathing than the small metal tub they would wash in most Sundays. At the baths the tub was so big that Charlie held onto the side of it and kicked his legs. “Pa! Look! I’m swimming!” he had yelled out.
“Very good, now stay still!” Pa had laughed as he sat on the side and helped Charlie wash his hair with soap. They had soap and towels and warm water for half an hour, costing five cents.
Charlie had used his nightshirt as a bathing suit and still now it smelled of the soap.
When the toast was finished, the crumbs eaten and the plate licked -
“That’s enough now, son.”
- Pa carried Charlie over to his little cot and tucked him in.
“Can you tell me a story, Pa?” Charlie asked.
Pa went to his own bed and glanced over at his boy; cleaner than usual and his hair looking golden in the firelight.
“How about you tell me one?” Pa asked with a knowing smile; this was a fairly regular routine. The little boy would chatter for a short while, usually recounting their day but occasionally making up some childish fantasy until he fell asleep.

When Charlie woke up on Christmas morning, Pa was sitting beside him with a parcel in his hands.
“For me?”
“Who do you think it’s for?” Pa said with a cough.
Charlie giggled and carefully unwrapped it; his first ever Christmas present:
It was a sturdy little wooden crutch padded with cloth.
“I made it for you.” Mr Morris explained.
“When!?”
“When you’ve been asleep.” he smiled, pointing to the initials carved into the wood.
“C.M…For Charlie Morris!” Charlie cheered.
Later that day, they ate what the little boy called a Feast: They each had a small plate of turkey with lots of stuffing and cranberry jelly and some potatoes.
“This has been the best day of my life.” Charlie yawned as he was tucked into bed.
The crutch leaning on the table ready for him for the next day.

Charlie was able to skip alongside his Pa now, no need to be carried. Soon he was able to rush ahead of his Pa, even on the slippery winter ice. Though the cold still hurt his leg, he didn’t think of it as much now.
"Come on keep up!" he would laugh at his old Pa as the months went by.
Winter turned to Spring and Spring to Summer. 

‘Charlie Morris’ the little boy practiced writing his name on a cracked slate that Pa had found cheap at the market for him.
“Here you go, son. You can draw some pictures and practice writing. You don’t want to play with them.” The old man had smiled sadly, knowing that Charlie felt left out when the other boys in the alley would play makeshift games of baseball or tag. Charlie knew that he was fast enough to play the games but none of them gave him the chance. None of them wanted to play with him or even properly speak to him.  
"They call me mean things, because of my leg."
“You don’t need friends like them.” Pa told him and the little boy sniffed tearfully.
Mr Morris looked at the slate where along with his name, Charlie had drawn the figures of a tall man and a boy with a crutch.
Charlie nodded in agreement. He didn’t need friends like them. “You’re my friend, Pa.” 

Chapter Text

“How comes you got a cold, Pa?” Charlie asked on a Saturday Summer morning as he walked alongside him, deliberately slowing down his pace so the old man could keep up. “It’s the middle of July.” the little boy chuckled, “...And we work in fireplaces!” he grinned. Nodding triumphantly when he saw a smile from Pa; a quick flash of white teeth on his soot covered face.
“It is silly isn’t it?” Pa admitted, with a nervous laugh. Not quite believing it himself. He coughed again and it sounded painful.

Pa’s cold never got better.
Mr Morris’s illness only got worse as time went on: Many nights Charlie was kept awake by the sound of the painful coughing and it began to be that the old man couldn’t go to work. 
He would rest in bed while Charlie went out to work cleaning fireplaces.
“You’re a good boy.” Pa would tell him tiredly when Charlie would return from work or the market and make them both a slice of toast.
“You gotta eat, Pa.” the little boy would tell him seriously.
Any money was used for their rent, food and medicine for Pa. Charlie gave up the weekly five cents they always set aside so he could have a trip to the baths, so he could buy more cough syrup or balm that might help Pa. Every new medicine, potion or sweet. Charlie would somehow try to scrape up the money. 
"This will make you better, pa!" he would grin as he tiredly held out whatever prize or trick out to his father. 

By the winter months Charlie looked like a little shadow in the snow; almost covered completely with soot. He would trudge with determination through the streets, offering chimney cleaning. Crutch in one hand and chimney sweep in the other. In the middle of winter though, when fireplaces were being used almost constantly there was not much demand for a chimney sweep. His leg ached terribly and he had to stop to rest very often. Occasionally someone passing by would throw a coin at him, believing him to be a beggar. The first time that happened, Charlie was furious he chased after the gentleman to return the penny.
“I’m no beggar, sir!” he had told the man, baring his teeth and frowning.
Soon after that incident the little boy gave up carrying the sweep that made it difficult to move and found himself sitting on the street, begging for coins and collecting any leftover food that had fallen from the market stalls. 
He thought of when he returned that penny bitterly, almost tasting the bread it could have bought him, as a lady and her family walked past. Charlie stopped singing his Christmas carol and he gave his best smile and held out his hand, doing his best to straighten out his fingers. 
“Please miss? I’m hungry” he whispered.
The family walked on by: Father, mother with a baby tied around her front and two children; a boy and a girl.
They carried on walking but then at the last moment they turned round, the mother rushed over and gave him a penny. She didn't throw it either, she lent down and placed it in his small hand. He glanced at the sleeping baby, though it was very small and almost completely covered, Charlie could see that the baby was smiling in it's sleep. Wrapped up in warmth. The other children too were wearing hand made mittens and scarves and big old coats that had been repaired and cared for as much as their owners. 
Charlie didn't notice for a moment that tears were streaming down his face. 
“Sorry. It’s all we have to spare.” the man said in broken English, smiling at him gently. 
“You poor little thing!” the woman said, crouching down beside where he was sitting in the snow. 
Charlie wiped his eyes with his hand and gave her a genuine smile. 
The little baby tied to her front remained fast asleep. It looked so warm and comfortable. Charlie wished he was at home, cuddled up with pa. Wished he could sleep without listening to the sound of Pa's rattling breathing and fearing the time - probably soon- that he would hear it no longer. 
“I like your singing.” The girl told him with a genuine smile that snapped Charlie out of his thoughts. Charlie couldn't place her accent.     
“Where are your parents?” The woman asked.
“Are you a real beggar?” The boy, maybe only a few years older than Charlie asked, his own voice wobbly and his English broken. His sister looked at him and rolled her eyes before pushing him into the snow.
Charlie giggled but he knew better than to let them get too close or ask too many questions, he shuffled away from the woman.
“Mama, Sarah pushed me!” the boy complained, starting to cry and speak in another language. The father was laughing also and scooped his son out of the snow, talking to him in the same language before gently telling him "English, my little Davey." 
"Yes Papa." The boy answered softly. 
"I'm speaking English too, Papa." The girl reminded her father.
"Well done, my Little Sarah." Papa chuckled. 
“Have you a home? A place to stay?” the lady asked, continuing to question him. She had a kind smile. Charlie appreciated her talking to him, seeing him. Not just throwing a penny at him and walking by like he was something disgusting that made them feel bad.
“Yes.” Charlie whispered with a little nod, his voice swelling with emotion because he was so worried for his Pa.
The lady glanced at the crutch by Charlie's side.
“That happened a long time ago.” The little boy quickly explained with a little giggle, ignoring the pain in his leg. He couldn't tell if resting it in the snow made it feel better or worse so he tried to ignore it. When he walked he just let his leg drag along behind him now. 
The woman stood up and the little baby began to cry. She hugged it gently and it quietened down as they started to walk away.
The brother and sister waved to him.
The girl took hold of her brothers hand as they walked away and Charlie felt an inexplicable loneliness.    
“Thank you.” Charlie called out after them weakly. He didn’t wish them a merry Christmas, he just watched them walk away.

New York was a big place, maybe he would see them again.    
“Poor little thing.” The mother mumbled again as they disappeared. 

“Home.” Charlie called out when he walked into his and Pa’s little room.
“I got us some bread and some potatoes and a slice of turkey for tomorrow!” Charlie chatted, “...and some rich lady was handing out candy canes so I got us one of those too.” he said cheerfully, going over to poke the at the fire that had dwindled down during the day. 
Pa was asleep so Charlie made himself some toast then sat on the floor by the fire to play with the tiny wooden horse that Pa had whittled for him while Charlie went out to work. Charlie’s slate was by Pa’s bedside now, sometimes it was easier for the old man to write than to speak out loud.
Christmas day was quiet, Pa was tired but he surprised Charlie with another little wooden horse to match the first.
“Oh pa they’re wonderful!” Charlie smiled hugging the present and then the old man who was still tucked up in bed.
Pa nodded but didn’t say anything. He laughed and it turned into a quiet cough. Charlie sat beside him on the bed, keeping his arms wrapped around him. Like holding onto him could keep him there with him.
By the new year, Pa was asleep more than he was awake and when he was awake he was coughing and in pain. He wasn’t able to eat and none of the medicine or cough syrups were working.
Charlie felt like he couldn’t leave him and only did so when they needed food. He would go to the marketplace with a little tin cup and sing songs in return for coins. He would smile like he did at the foundling home to get a sweet. Then he would crawl around the market stalls for any dropped or discarded food.
One day in the middle of January, Charlie got home triumphantly holding a loaf of bread under his arm and in his pockets he had some potatoes, carrots and cabbage leaves. 
Pa chuckled as he watched the little boy almost dance around the fire.
“I’m making soup! That will get you well!” he said cheerfully, throwing the ingredients into the one pot that they had, adding a bit of water and stirring it all up. He cut two thick slices of bread and toasted them.
He helped pa to sit up and then spooned some of the mixture that was more like mashed potatoes than soup into the mans mouth.
“Thank you, son.” Pa whispered after a few mouthfuls.
“Sure you don’t want anymore?” Charlie asked desperately.
Pa shook his head, no.
Charlie finished the soup and scraped the pot with another slice of bread and ate that to make sure that nothing was wasted.
Then he played with the wooden horses and drew some pictures on the slate before he noticed Pa watching him with a smile.
“I know, I know! It's time for bed.” Charlie laughed, just knowing what Pa was trying to say.
Pa nodded again.
Charlie got into his cot and cuddled up under his blanket. Without thinking he asked: “Tell me a story?”
Pa was quiet but Charlie glanced over at him; he was nodding, asking with his eyes: “How about you tell me a story?”
So Charlie did.
He spoke quietly and told a story about a boy and his pa, riding away together on two wooden horses come to life.
Pa fell asleep with a smile on his face.
He never woke up.

Chapter Text

Twelve year old Jack Kelly walked down the street with a spring in his step and coins rattling in his pocket; There had been a good headline today. The promise of a new season meant people were out and about and spending money. The sun was shining and the snow was melting. Jack had sold all of his papes and was making his way to the deli to buy himself an early lunch and a soda. He'd have enough money leftover for his papes tomorrow, to buy himself a good dinner later on and some food for any of the boys that needed it. It was unlikely there would be anything leftover from that but if there was then he would save to get to Santa Fe. 
Jack’s smile quickly faded when he saw a little kid lying on the ground in the snow. 
The little boy was filthy and covered in soot, beside him was a wooden crutch and a small bundle of clothes and belongings. Everyone walked past, ignoring him.
Jack swore under his breath as he went over; He hoped the kid was still alive. He’d seen dead bodies before and he wasn’t keen to see another.
Jack knelt beside him. The boy's nose was bleeding and he looked like he’d been beat up. For a moment Jack felt panic and wanted to run away but he put his hand on the boy's chest and sighed with relief when he felt him breathing and his heart beating. 
“Hey, wake up!” Jack told him, giving him a little shake. “Not a good place for a nap.” he said with a slight smile as the boy blinked awake.
The little boy groaned and opened his eyes.
Jack tried to help the boy sit up but the kid held out his fists as if ready to fight.
“Go away. I ain’t got nothing.” He spat.
“Woah!” Jack said, showing his hands in surrender with a little laugh, he was relieved that the boy was alive, “I ain't trying to rob you. I’m trying to help.”
“Don’t need help.” The boy said with a sniff and a wince, sitting up by himself. He grabbed his crutch then started wielding it like a sword.
"Get away or you'll be sorry!" 
“Yeah?” Jack said with a raised eyebrow, impressed with this brave boy.
Jack grabbed a rag from his pocket and held it out to the boy, waving it like a flag of surrender and offering it for the kid to wipe his bleeding nose and dirty face.
The boy finally lowered the crutch and took the handkerchief with a lopsided smile.
“...Thanks.” he said weakly.
“No problem. What’s your name, kid?”
The boy didn’t answer, he had fainted again.

“He’s dead.” Eleven-year old Racetrack said solemnly, taking off his cap in respect as he looked at the kid that Jack had carried into the lodging house and placed onto his bunk.
“He is not, he's asleep....quit smoking that cigar around him, let him breathe.” Jack said firmly.
“But you put him on my bed!” Race cried with a fake sob and a laugh, stubbing out the cigar on the window ledge.
“Your bed that I’m payin’ for.” Jack reminded Race with a raised eyebrow.
“I can pay you back, Jacky!” The younger boy said quickly, a worried look briefly crossing his face. 
“Don’t worry about it.” Jack quickly told Race with a nod and a reassuring smile.
Race visibly relaxed and sat down on the floor beside the bunk, looking at the boy in his bunk. He was filthy and looked pretty beaten up. 
“He coming to sell with us, when he wakes up?”
“Probably.” Jack nodded “Don’t think he’ll be good for the evening pape though. We’ll wait a couple days or so.”
“You paying for a bunk for him?” Race asked, interested.
“Nah, he’ll bunk with us. Don’t need to pay for no extra bed.”
“I suppose that'll be alright. He's pretty small. What’s his name?” Race asked, picking up the crutch that was leaning against the beds and starting to play with it. 
“That don’t belong to you.” Jack told Race with a frown and Race put the crutch back down and an apologetic look.
“Shall I go buy us all some grub? New kids gotta eat. I did well selling my papes today.” Race shrugged with a grin. I owe you anyway, Jack.” 
Jack reached out and ruffled his hair.
“Thanks Racetrack.”
Race grinned and gave the boy he considered his brother a quick hug, “See you in a little bit then fella’s.” he said with a salute as he left.
Jack chuckled and shook his head then turned his concern back to the sleeping boy. He looked little. Maybe seven years old? Jack felt a little sick and very sad; a Kid that little should have a home and a family. A kid that little needed a good brother to look out for him and keep him safe. Jack reached out and tried to clear some of the blood and dirt off the new boys face. 
“Hey, kid. Come on, try and wake up now won’t ya?” Jack asked calmly when he noticed the boy starting to stir.
"Get off me." The kid said, pushing Jack's hand away before realising it was the boy that helped him and blinking at him in a way that was almost calm. 
“Where am I?”
“Newsie’s lodging house. Want some water?”
“...Please.”
Jack held out a glass, ready to help the boy take a sip but the kid took the glass himself and sipped at the water himself.
“Thanks.” he whispered, handing back the almost empty glass.
The kid looked rough, his face was still dirty and you could see that bruises were forming around both his eyes. At least his nose had stopped bleeding.
“Got attacked.” The boy explained when he noticed Jack looking at his face. “I sing and people give me money. Two bigger boys said I gotta pay to be singing near their turf. When I said no, they beat me up.” he wiped his nose with his sleeve and winced slightly. 
“That’d be the Delancey’s.” Jack announced. “You gotta look out for them.”
“Duh, I know that now.” The smaller boy said.
Jack smiled again then held out his hand to shake the boys.
“Jack Kelly.” he announced.
The boy shook Jack’s hand and kept hold of it. 
“....I’m Charlie.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine. More Near ten, I think.”
Jack didn’t question the uncertainty but smiled. 
“Yous only two or three years younger than me. Selling papes though, you should say you’re six or seven. Younger sells more papes.”
“I can sell papes with you?” Charlie asked, hopeful.
“Sure. We can be partners; you with me and Race! I’ll teach you everything I know...Race will teach you too, though he don't know too much” Jack said in a teasing sort of way.
“You think I can sell papes?”
“Yep! With that face…well, once we clean it up - and that crutch? Easy money.”
Charlie smiled, the crutch that Pa had made for him would help him to sell papes.
“Stick with me kid, we’ll make millions. The two of us and Race? We’ll be in charge of the Newsies one day, I bet…”
“Someone say bet?” Came an excited voice, Race was back, carrying almost a full loaf of bread that he had already torn a piece off to eat. He chucked the loaf to Jack and then threw an apple at him. Jack caught them easily and gave Charlie a piece of bread and the apple.
“Charlie, this here is Race.”
“Nice to meet you.” Race said with a little bow, climbing into the bunk beside Charlie. “You gonna sell with us?” he asked with a mouthful of bread.
Charlie nodded, seeming a little nervous to speak but he smiled at Race and Jack.
“So Charlie, where’s your folks? Why you covered in…soot? Why you got a crutch?” Race asked, taking a large bite out of an apple and then passing it to Jack so he could have a bite.
They let Charlie have his own apple.
“Racetrack, slow it down. You’ll scare him. Quit with the questions and don’t talk with your mouth full.” Jack rolled his eyes.
“Sorry.” Race grinned, not sounding apologetic at all as he shoved more bread into his mouth.
“I ain't scared.” Charlie smiled, taking a bite of bread and then starting to eat his apple.
They all sat quietly for a while, until Race suddenly  jumped up. “I’m gonna go find some games to play before the evening paper. See you guys later.”
Jack waved and watched him go with a laugh. Charlie waved too.
“Don’t you two sell papers together?”
“Sometimes. Especially when we first started out but now we try and cover more ground and sell in different spots. We always stick together at night though. There’s a few of us. We all look out for each other. The others are all still out selling.”
“Others?”
“Yeah. Like a family; Me, Race, Henry, Albert, Specs…” Jack started to list a few of the gang. 
Charlie nodded, looking hopeful again.
“I say..” Jack smiled. “We get you cleaned up a little and get you looking smart for your first day selling papes. Tomorrow morning if you're feeling up to it?”
“But I don’t got any money to buy papes. Those boys took almost everything.”
"We'll get them back for that." Jack said, looking a bit too excited at the idea of fighting with the Delancey brothers. "... Almost everything?”
Charlie nodded reluctantly, reaching into his pocket he took out two little wooden horses and held them as if they were the most precious things in the world. Though one of them had been broken, with a slight crack down the middle of it.
Jack whistled in admiration. “You got yourself a couple palominos.” he smiled, holding out his hand to have a look.
Charlie handed one of the horses over. “Palomino?”
“It’s a kinda horse.” Jack said knowledgeably “One day I’m gonna make it out West and ride a real horse.”
“Like a cowboy?” Charlie asked with a smile, watching Jack make one of the toy horses gallop around on the bunk.
“Sure” Jack grinned with a laugh, handing back the wooden toy.
“My Pa made them for me. Before he….”
Jack nodded sympathetically. “Lot of us here have lost...our folks....our brothers" he stopped for a moment, suddenly feeling like he couldn't breathe but quickly recovered when Charlie's small voice whispered his name. 
"Jack?"
"...But it’s okay.” Jack told Charlie, putting his arm around the younger boy.
Charlie accepted the hug. For the first time since Pa died he felt that things might be okay. He didn’t know why he started to cry.
“Hey! Don’t worry kid, I got you.” Jack said truthfully, happy to comfort the little fellow that reminded him in some ways of someone he knew before.
“How about I tells you a story? A story I ain’t told no one else but..." 
"Who?"
"I only tell this story to my brothers, okay?" 
"I never had a brother before." Charlie whispered. 
"Well, you gots one now." Jack said confidently.
Jack was going to tell him a story. Charlie grinned and looked at him excitedly. Clinging onto the little palomino that his Pa had made for him. Maybe he would give the broken one to Jack, he was sure that Jack wouldn't mind."  
Jack began to speak quietly as the new kid stayed awake, listening intently. 
"Okay, let me tell you a story. It’s about a place far away from here way out West…”

Chapter Text

Charlie’s new name came along naturally. He was a kid with a crutch, of course he was called Crutchie. He liked to be called the name, though.
He never saw his crutch as a bad thing and almost every Newsie had a nickname. A nickname meant that he belonged.
At the lodging house he shared a bunk bed with Jack and Racetrack. Crutchie and Jack worked together to sell their papes.
Usually Jack and Crutchie left Race to sleep in the bunk and they chose to sleep high up on the rooftop of the lodging house. Jack’s penthouse.
Sometimes Race would join them for a while, or Specs but they didn’t really like sleeping out there.
Jack and Crutchie liked it. It was their own world. They would talk a lot and look at the sky and the stars.
On the rooftop, the sky was never-ending and even the streets below didn't seem as scary and harsh as they did when you were on the ground. New York sure looked beautiful from there. 
They sold papers together for a little while before they realised that Crutchie made more money on his own and Jack preferred to change selling spots all the time and keep an eye out for every Manhattan Newsie.
At the end of long days, the boys would lie on their rooftop, only ever going inside if it was raining so bad that the little shelter they fashioned out of tarp and blankets was no good.
Even in the winter they didn’t have to worry about the cold, they would lean up against the warmth of the chimney stacks, bundled up in  blankets, sheltered from the wind by the buildings all around them and the chimneys. It was cosy, it was home.
Often before they went to sleep, Charlie would ask Jack about Santa Fe. Sometimes they would sit quietly, drawing or writing on scraps of newspaper. Or playing with cards or marbles or the little wooden horses that Charlie's Pa had made for him so long ago. 

Everyone called him Crutchie now, even Mr Kloppman; the kind man that looked after the boys at the lodging house. Even Mr Wiesel, the mean man at the World Newspaper distribution window.
To Crutchie, his name felt like an honour. It meant that everyone knew him.
“We’s the kings of this city!” Racetrack announced to them one evening as they sat on the rooftop eating bowls of soup that they had managed to carry up. He pointed his spoon to the air and then for some reason threw it off the roof. 
"Why'd ya do that! Idiot!" Jack snorted. 
Race laughed. "Bored." he shrugged.
"You're crazy." Crutchie chuckled.
“I'm the king!” the boy insisted, ruffling Crutchie’s hair “You, me and cowboy? We’re gonna lead the Newsies one day.” Then Race went to climb back through the window to go down to collect the spoon he had thrown to the streets below. 
"Goodnight!" they heard him shout a little while later. 

Jack’s nickname was Cowboy - with his Wild West dreams of Santa Fe…he was a hero, just like in the dime novels that he read out loud to the other kids.
Miss Medda had given him an old cowboy hat from an old costume too, and he kept it safely up on the roof. Ready for the day when he could go West and be a real cowboy.
Crutchie would be going with him, of course and Race if he wanted. So far whenever they spoke to Race about it the boy wasn’t convinced. He loved New York. Crutchie didn’t mind New York. It was where everyone wanted to go. New York meant family to him…
Charlie guessed that in a few years that Jack would probably lead the Manhattan Newsboys and he and Race were ready to stand by his side.

Racetrack would always give a different reason for why his name was Race; His selling spot near the races, his love for gambling and horse racing, pigeon racing with Finch, how fast he could run. All of the names made sense.
Finch loved birds and knew the names of all of them. He collected feathers and sometimes would rescue fledglings that fell from their nests. He took care of them so well.
Elmer was just Elmer. He didn’t want a nickname.
Albert and Henry had a few different nicknames but nothing that stuck for very long.
One day when they were selling, Charlie and Jack met a little kid with the biggest bruise on his face you’ve ever seen. His mother was dead and his father was bad news, a common story for a lot of the Newsboys. They were a rag-tag family made up of orphans and runaways. 
Jack, Charlie and Race took the boy in. They named him Romeo and the eight year old did his best to live up to that name.
Charlie taught Romeo how to smile at the ladies and they began selling papers as a team. They turned a lot of heads.
Specs was a few years older and a little quieter, he seemed to keep a watch on them all and of course he was named for the round glasses that he needed to be able to see.Specs was a  determined boy.
Jack worked together with Specs to steal food, clothes and blankets to take to the refuge. They got Crutchie to act as a distraction sometimes when they had plans to steal food from market stalls.
“Specs has been to the refuge before.” Jack explained one night on the rooftop.
“Messed him up pretty bad...He used to talk a lot more.” he admitted sadly. “He’s a good pal though, don’t let his being quiet make you think otherwise, okay?”
“I know it, Jack.” Crutchie sighed. They were all afraid of the refuge.
“You’s nearly fourteen now, right Jack? You’re not a little kid. You gotta be careful when you're stealin'.”
“If I don’t steal, them kids don’t eat." Jack shrugged "There’s kids bigger than us in there that don’t survive it.”
"I'd survive it." Crutchie frowned. He punched Jack in the side to show him he was tough. 
"Ow!" Jack yelped, more in surprise than pain but he was impressed with the kid's strength. "Okay, I take it back. You'd probably survive it." 
“Well, let me help more.” Crutchie asked. “You see how fast I move. I've been working as a Newsie for almost a year now, I'm one of the best there is." 
"Yeah." Jack admitted reluctantly. 
"Then I can help you properly. Get food to the kids at the refuge...You trust me, right?" 
Jack hesitated before nodding slightly. “With my life, Crutch.”
Crutchie beamed and then reached out his hand. They shook hands and then laughed.
“We’s brothers.” Charlie said earnestly.
“...Brothers.” Jack nodded, his smile was sad but he laughed when Crutchie pulled him into a hug.