“Yeah, let me just glaze over the fact that that’s a corpse.“ owo
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a/n: ah yes, my other newsies oc Spitfire!! hes a good kid, i love him.
Race hadn’t wanted his day to go like this. All he wanted to do was sell his papers, then maybe go bet on a race or two. But no, god forbid that happen. Now he was carrying this little Brooklyn kid back to the lodge. He had found the small redhead bruised pretty badly and passed out in an alleyway.
He was relieved to see Pigeon as he entered the lodge. “Pigeon, I need your help. Now.”
“Racetrack, where’s there a Brooklyn kid in our lodging house. Oh my God, you’se didn’ beat ‘im up, right?! I swear to god if Spot Conlon comes here, I’se throwin’ you to ‘im.” Pigeon rushed over to him.
“No, I gots the kid under control. I need you ta’ go finish sellin’ for me. You can take 70, I’ll take the rest.”
“Yeah, lemme just glaze over the fact that you’se got a corpse in your arms and finish sellin’ for ya’. No problem.” Pigeon took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “No, I ain’t gonna do that! You can’t just be bringin’ Brooklyn kids here like there ain’t no consequences! You see a Brooklyn kid, you leave them where they are and try ta’ get them to wake up there!”
The boy in Race’s arms started to come to, looking around and putting a hand to his head. “The hell am I? An’ why’re you holdin’ me?” He spoke with a heavy Irish accent that carried annoyance. “Well, you just gonna stare at me or put me down, lad?”
Race put him down, mumbling, “sorry,” as he did. Now as he stood, Pigeon could really assess the boy. He short and young, couldn’t be any older than 13. Freckles covered his pale face and thick curly hair was tucker under his hat like a flame was bursting out of his head. His eyes were a striking blue and he looked beyond upset.
“Where the hell am I? This ain’t Brooklyn.” He crossed his arms, looking at the two taller figures.
“Manhattan. I found you knocked out. Musta’ got into a pretty tough fight. You got a name?” Race glanced to Pigeon, who put his hands up in defense and shook his head.
“Spitfire. An’ you better show me how ta’ get back ta’ Brooklyn or else I’ll… I’ll…” Spitfire stood straighter, like he was trying to intimidate Race.
“You ain’t gonna do nothin’. That’s how turf wars start. And ain’t no way in hell am I gonna let a kid start that.” Pigeon looked down at him with a disapproving glare. To Race’s surprise, Spitfire seemed to falter at that. “I’ll show you the way back, Spitfire. So someone can go back ta’ sellin’.” He turned the same glare to Race, who looked away sheepishly.
Spitfire didn’t argue as Pigeon led him out. Race watched them go, trying to figure out how Pigeon could be so intimidating but also so damn cute at the same time.
