give me your broken wing- newsies modern au
medda larkin becomes a mother figure for jack kelly in every universe to me, and it’s about time i start writing that!
this is a little snippet dedicated to the wonderful @jackmkelly !! they are absolutely my inspiration for this and I’ve lovingly adopted some headcanons they introduced me to.
(this is maybe the beginning of a longer story because they just have so many wonderful ideas and we had a very inspiring conversation yesterday)
tw for implied/referenced child abuse!
When Medda Larkin met Jack Kelly, she met an angry, guarded kid with some serious rage against the world around him.
That anger wasn’t misplaced, of course. He was a fourteen year old boy that’d grown up in the foster system. She knew, just based on the bits and bobs she’d heard from the handful of other foster kids that participated in productions at her theater, that the foster system could turn rotten just as quickly as it could save a child’s life.
It was rainy that day– one of those nasty New York summer storms, where the air was hot and sticky and the old building seemed to trap it all inside. Her theater was her pride and joy, passed down through three generations of mothers and grandmothers just to land in her capable hands. Medda loved the place. She’d grown up in it. Made it her own, shaped it into a space for others to hide away, just as her maternal lineage had done before her. Maybe it was fitting that she’d met Jack Kelly there in the backstage loading bay, with rain pelting down outside and the air conditioner dripping noisily in the distance.
Ed Higgins– a strikingly blonde boy that preferred to be called ‘Racetrack’ (she’d been working with theatre loving teenagers for years and had learned not to ask questions)– was one of her best young performers with an unbeatable talent for dance. He was a thirteen year-old foster kid himself, and had been placed in the care of some of her wife’s close friends about two years prior. They signed him up for a summer production with Medda and he’d been working with her ever since. Race was a good kid, if not a little bit impish and sometimes rough around the edges, and Medda loved him like she loved all of her other theater children. If not a bit more, but good directors never openly admitted to having favorites. Still, there was something contagious about his mischievous smile, maybe a little endearingly annoying when you could see that defiant mischief brewing in his bright blue eyes. Plus, the kid had natural charisma that shined like a God-given spotlight when he got on stage.
That soft spot didn’t keep her from feeling just a bit exasperated when she came across Racetrack trying to pick the lock on her theater’s back door at half past eight on a week night. She’d just seen the maintenance men out and was ready to head home to her lovely wife Hannah and some dinner, but there stood one of her babies drenched in water, looking incredibly terrified to have been caught.
“Racetrack, honey, you have my phone number.” She chided, wincing against the wet-hot heat of the summer outside. “You could’ve just texted me if you needed help…”
“It’s not… um…” He glanced behind himself, and that’s when Medda Larkin first laid eyes on Jack Kelly.
He was a small kid, and she couldn’t tell if he was older or younger than Racetrack because he sure was shorter. Jack was wearing a miserable glower, his tightly done braids clinging to his scalp, frizzy from either heat or neglect. His skin was a deep sort of coffee brown, only a shade or two darker than her own, and his cheekbones were alarmingly sharp. He had the sort of face that carried hunger, with wild, dark eyes and the vibe of an animal that would bolt at any loud noise.
She noted, carefully, that the kid had scars on his face. One split his left eyebrow and forehead and the other sliced the right side of his face from his chin almost to the corner of his lips, and he looked a horrible mixture of scared and angry when she met his eyes. He also sported fresh bruising on his cheekbone, a mottled mess of purple and red that crept towards his eye. He was buried in a hoodie and his jeans were too big, dragging against the concrete with the tips of his beat up sneakers poking out, and Medda wanted nothing more than to take this child into her arms and figure out what had hurt him so bad.
She settled for carefully clearing her throat instead. “Alright, Ed, why don’t you bring your friend inside? You aren’t in trouble, but I would love an explanation on why you’ve chosen breaking and entering over good old fashioned conversation.”
“Yes, Mrs. Medda.” He muttered, sounding ashamed enough to be satisfactory and a little bit relieved, too.
Medda waited until both boys made their way into the room, filling it with the sound of water plunking against concrete. She sighed to herself as she took in the sight of the slow-growing puddles beneath them and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “What am I ever going to do with you, Racer? You boys take off those wet jackets, hang ‘em up, and wait for me to get you some towels.”
She didn’t wait for a response and headed off to the costume shop, where she found some towels after a bit of rooting around. Then, to give Ed’s friend a little bit of time to acclimate and calm down, she found herself boiling some water in her office and fixing the boys mugs of tea. Medda wasn’t angry, of course. She knew Ed was a good kid, and if he was trespassing, it was probably for the sake of his friend. Still, there was a concerned sort of curiosity welling up within her as she wondered how many times they’d taken shelter here without her knowing.
Once the tea was finished, she let out an exasperated huff and made her way back to the loading bay, hearing the boys’ voices just before rounding the corner.
“...not gonna call the cops, Jack, I promise, okay?”
“I swear to fuckin’ God, Racer, if I end up back in juvie because of you I’m gonna– I dunno. Shit.”
A pause ensued, and Medda wondered exactly who this boy was as she re-adjusted the porcelain in her hands. He’d been to juvie, and he was sporting fresh bruises. Part of her wondered if he was a friend of Ed’s, maybe another foster system kid. She made sure not to pass any early judgement and kept an open mind.
In classic Racetrack fashion, the kid quipped: “You’re gonna shit? Not on Mrs. Medda’s floor, I hope.”
“Shaddup.” Jack laughed wetly, and Medda heard the strain in his voice without even knowing him at all.
She finally found the courage to turn the corner, mugs in hand and towels draped over the crooks in her elbows. Both boys looked up at her from where they were seated on wooden boxes painted to look like crates, Racer smiling nervously and Jack’s face caught in a pained grimace, somewhere between anger and embarrassment. His shoulders were shrugged up to his ears, posture tight and rife with anxiety.
Medda approached slowly, forcing herself into relaxed ease with the talent of a woman who’d been in love with acting since she was four years old. She held out the mugs and once they’d been accepted, draped a towel over Racer’s shoulders and then offered one to Jack. “Well, I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”
“Jack Kelly.” He muttered, glancing up at her through matted lashes.
“Well, I’m Medda Larkin.” She spread her arms wide and smiled, gesturing to the shop and its organized disarray of old set pieces. “Welcome to my theater. Though I assume you’ve been here before?”
Those brown eyes got wide with worry and the two teenagers shared a look lined with guilt. Race winced, balancing his hands between his knees, both of which were bouncing with nerves. “Mrs. Medda…”
“Relax, kid. You aren’t in trouble. Neither of you are in trouble. But I do think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.” He winced, knee still bouncing rapidly. She’d never seen the kid’s wild energy turn so anxious before, and it was an unwelcome change. Any of her theater babies were safe in this place. She thought that Race would’ve known such a thing, after nearly two years of working with her, but she was sorely mistaken. Judging by the misery practically radiating off of him, Medda knew this wasn’t a good time for any sort of interrogation.
“Alright.” She sighed, shifting the third towel she’d brought into her hands before finally offering it out to him. “Drink your tea. Then, if you wanna clean up the water you tracked into my storage space, I’d be pleased with that. And I sure hope your parents aren’t worried sick about you right now, kid...”
“They aren’t. They think I’m over at Crutchie’s.” He assured, shaking his head so hard that droplets of water flung from his damp curls as he took the towel from her outstretched hand.
“Good. Jack, honey, finish that tea and then walk with me, will you?”
She left them for a few moments longer, making sure to lock the back door again after sweeping the area outside for any lasting damages. When she returned, Jack had downed his drink and Race was sitting in silence, still taking small sips. They both stared owlishly and she extended a smile towards Jack, tilting her head towards the hallway.
He stood very reluctantly, exchanging glances with his friend. Race gave a nod, though he seemed just a bit nervous, and she tried to reassure them both with a smile. Soon, a damp Jack Kelly was trailing along behind her as she made her way into the wings and onto the stage itself. Medda flicked a nearby light switch and the space illuminated with the brightness of work lights, revealing a lovely half-finished backdrop spread across the entire stage. An unfinished mural of the Swiss alps lay on the ground before them, fields of vibrant green grass and wildflowers fully painted while the mountains and sky remained blocks of flat color.
“I’ve always said that there’s no better place to hide than a theater.” She explained softly, walking out onto the stage and admiring the rows and rows of plush red seats before them. “I find that true for myself too, you know. This has always been my favorite place to escape to.”
Jack had stopped in his tracks, arms folded tightly over his chest. His head was tilted and he gazed at the backdrop almost reverently, intelligent eyes soaking in every detail. Medda had initially planned to take him into the audience for their chat, but she decided to let Jack set the pace and stood still exactly where she was, perched on the steps leading down to the house.
“You like art very much, Jack?”
“I draw sometimes.” He answered rather reluctantly, giving her a half-shrug and a sidelong glance. The kid was obviously upset about being caught. His small body was nothing but lines of tension.
“This is gonna go up for The Sound of Music next month.” She smiled rather fondly, unable to stop herself from explaining her favorite thing. “My very own theatre company’s putting it on. Your friend Racer’s playing one of the Von Trapp children, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” He responded carefully, awkwardly, a guarded sort of respect in his voice. Then, remarkably, a small smile cracked through the misery of his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “He won’t shuddup about it.”
She smiled right back at him, well aware that she was already developing a soft spot for this lost little teenager. The lull in the conversation led Medda to continue her descent into the audience, where she took a seat on the front row and gazed out at the unfinished set. Both painted and unpainted wood stared back at her, and Jack Kelly stuck out like a sore thumb in his big clothes, with all of that sadness clinging to him like rainwater. He took a moment to himself, eyes still studying the mural with the gaze of a young artist, and then finally followed the path she’d taken moments earlier.
Medda was pleasantly surprised when Jack spoke without prompting. “Do ya’ own the group that puts on plays here or the buildin’ itself?”
“I own the building.” She confirmed, watching him carefully choose to sit on the foot of the stage in front of her, instead of one of the chairs next to her. His lack of trust in adults was painstakingly obvious. “But I’ve also got a theater company of my own, and we do put on shows here. When my people aren’t using the stage, though, it’s free for just about any group to use. I rent out to anybody who wants to share their art with the world.”
He nodded in that way teenagers often do, respectful but losing interest. Or maybe he was interested somewhere in that troubled head, but Medda’s career obviously wasn’t a top priority for him at that moment.
She allowed the moment to settle before leaning forward in her seat, meeting those guarded brown eyes. ”So, where’d you meet Racetrack?”
“We grew up in the system together.” He explained, proving Medda’s earlier assumptions entirely true. “I’ve been in foster care since I was six, and Race showed up when I was eight. System ain’t as big as people think. A lot of the times you end up in the same group homes with the same kids. We just try to keep in touch. Look out for each other, I guess.”
“And he was looking out for you, finding you a place to stay.” She thought aloud, finally putting all of the pieces together. Well— almost all of them. Racetrack had picked that lock with practiced ease, and Medda was still wondering just how many times this bruised and broken young boy had found himself here without her knowing. “Jack, honey, how many nights have you spent in my theater? I want you to answer honestly, and know that I’m not going to be upset no matter what the answer is. Racetrack isn’t getting in any trouble either. Nobody’s mad– certainly not me. But I think I have a right to know.”
Jack swallowed hard. He blinked hard, too, once or twice, eyes trained unwaveringly on her. Medda could practically see his mind racing. “I mean… I dunno. I stopped counting. It’s– Race lets me in here every time Snyder kicks me out. Racer’s foster parents don’t like me none so I can’t stay at their place.”
He practically spat the name with enough vitriol to send the hairs on Medda’s arms standing up. She was already jumping to conclusions about the bruise on Jack’s cheek and the shabby clothes he wore, but she did her best to remain level-headed. “Snyder. That’s…”
“My foster dad.” He confirmed, a hateful sort of anger coloring his voice. “Real ray of sunshine, that one. I would say this is all his fault, but I know I’m the one askin’ Race to help me break in. So it is my fault. I just… it’s warm here, ‘n nobody’s caught me yet. I don’t touch nothin’, I swear. I don’t ever go farther than that storage space. I would never fuck up your property, Mrs. Larkin, I mean it on my life.”
He seemed so earnest and sure that she couldn’t help but believe him. Plus, there was no evidence to prove he wasn’t lying. She’d never found any remnants of a kid stowing away in the theater– no crumbs or misplaced props– he’d never even changed the thermostat overnight. Medda offered him what she hoped was a warm smile and tried to wipe away the image of Jack sleeping on the concrete floor of the loading dock out of her mind.
“I believe you, Jack. Thank you for being honest with me.” She watched him deflate, just a bit, relief softening the wrinkles around his eyes. Though her mind was brimming with questions about this Snyder man, Medda didn’t dare press Jack into uncomfortable territory. Instead, she settled into her role as a caring adult and stood, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to take you to my costume storage, and we’ll find you some dry clothes. Then we’re gonna drop Racetrack off at his parents’ place, and after that you can ride home with me and have dinner with my wife and I. I’ve got a guest bedroom with an empty bed.”
“Mrs. Larkin, I couldn’t–”
“Yes you can, honey, and I’m insisting that you do. I’m not going to be able to sleep properly tonight if you’re curled up on that concrete floor in there. Now you wouldn’t rob a poor woman of a good night’s sleep, would you, Jack Kelly?”
That same little smile made its way to his face, and she decided then and there that his real, unabashed smile was probably a sunny thing. Maybe one day she’d earn it. “No ma’am.”
Two hours later found Medda sitting at the kitchen table with an exasperated Hannah Larkin, whose pretty ginger hair was piled up in a mess of a bun atop her head. Her reading glasses were perched on the tip of her nose and Medda couldn’t quite ignore her wife’s loveliness, even as lines of stress painted her face. Hannah’s intelligent eyes scanned rapidly over her laptop screen as she exasperatedly pressed her thumb and forefinger to her temples.
“Medda, darling, I don’t understand why we can’t call CPS.”
“Because Jack doesn’t want us to.” She explained carefully, for what must’ve been the fifth time that evening. Hannah had jumped to CPS nearly immediately, when Medda had first called her to announce their dinner guest. At that point Jack had been in one of the changing rooms in the costume shop. Now, with Jack showering in the bathroom upstairs, it felt like rehashing that same conversation all over again. “We’ve got to respect his wishes.”
Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, and she glanced over the rims of her glasses in obvious shock. “He’s fourteen. He shouldn’t be making those types of decisions for himself.”
“I understand what you’re getting at, but Jack knows more about the foster care system than we do.” She carefully placed a hand over her wife’s, and dragged her thumb over the gems of her wedding ring for good measure. Hannah sighed, a soft and anxious noise. “We don’t want to make things worse for him, either.”
“He didn’t tell us where it came from.” She said, though Hannah had obviously come to the same conclusion. It was probably from that egregious foster parent, even though Jack had totally avoided the question when Hannah asked. Maybe because the two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot (Jack tracked mud onto Hannah’s tiled floor and she nearly lost her mind), but the fact remained– the bruise was probably dealt by the adult meant to be taking care of Jack, and Medda wanted nothing more than to whisk the boy away from that world. No child deserved to live a life of breaking into abandoned theaters when they wanted somewhere safe to sleep. “And we can’t assume anything. Not yet.”
With a tense sigh, Hannah shut her laptop. “You’re already attached, I can tell.”
“Wh– I’m not!” Affronted, Medda raised a hand to her chest. “I’d do this for any of my kiddos and you know that.”
“Sure, but this one’s earned himself a soft spot already.” Hannah’s voice took on a teasing lilt as she fixed Medda with a knowing gaze, looking as beautiful as the day they first met. “Medda Larkin, you are nothing if not a sap. I don’t think you’re going to back down when it comes to this kid– that’s just how you are.”
Knowing her wife was absolutely correct, Medda could only roll her eyes in an admittance of defeat. Sometimes they knew each other far too well. “You love it, though.”
Footsteps on the stairs alerted both women to Jack, who was carefully and quietly descending. He looked cleaner and more relaxed already, free of dirt and grime and wearing the clothes he’d picked out from the theatre’s eclectic costume storage– just a pair of sweatpants a male dancer had worn during A Chorus Line a few years back and a baggy sweatshirt that they hadn’t managed to sell at the merch table, displaying the logo of Medda’s theatre company proudly on the back. He smiled at them, nervous and awkward and unsure. Medda’s heart melted a bit. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a warm shower and new clothes? She almost didn’t want to know the answer.
Before she knew it, Medda was rising to her feet and going to meet the boy on the stairs. “You ready to hit the hay?”
“Yeah.” Jack ran a hand over his scalp, tugging briefly at the ends of his braids. “I… I just want to say thank you. For alla’ this.”
“Of course. You’re welcome to visit us any time, by the way. I’d love it if you came to a rehearsal or two with Racetrack. Maybe some of our scenic painters’ll give you a few pointers, if you ask nicely.”
Jack’s smile widened, bright and almost excited. Both of his dimples appeared in full force. “You mean that?”
“I don’t ever say things I don’t mean, Jack Kelly.” She chided teasingly, climbing up the stairs with Jack in tow. The guest bedroom was tactfully decorated– that was all Hannah. The woman had excellent taste and an eye for design, so Medda had sat back and let her decorate the entire townhome after they purchased it. She’d never regretted that decision once. Jack took in the bedroom with a reverent sort of awe, the same way he’d looked at every room of the house so far. “Here you are. Now, if you need anything, just let me–”
Without much warning, Jack threw himself forward and embraced her tightly. He strung his arms around her and buried his face in the fabric of her blouse, movements still caught in that gangly pre-teenage phase. Something in her heart blossomed with a maternal warmth as she hugged him back as gently as possible, cradling his head with one hand.
“Thank you.” He said again, and his voice warbled with emotion.
Though she felt a wet patch beginning to dampen her shirt, she said nothing about it. “Of course, Jack. You can always count on me, alright, baby?”
He only managed a nod, and in that very moment, Medda wanted nothing more than to give this wayward child the happy life he deserved. He was sweet and gentle and he obviously loved with his whole heart and soul, and the poor thing had been beaten down by the world far too many times. She held Jack in that embrace and stared resolutely out the window, deciding only to let go when he was absolutely ready.
She’d only known Jack Kelly for a month when she started researching how to become a foster parent. The idea settled within her mind in the middle of a Saturday morning set dressing day, as she watched Jack carefully painting details onto one of her set pieces, smiling brightly at two of his friends. She thought, immediately, that he deserved to be that happy all the time. If Medda was the only adult in his life that could provide that happiness, then she was damn sure going to do it.
Hannah glanced at the screen of her wife’s laptop once and bit her lip with an exasperated smile, the unspoken ‘I told you so’ dancing teasingly through the air between them.
