Well, this started out as me exploring how Medda is kind of a mother figure for Jack. And then turned into a poorly-disguised rant about how today is happening. But that doesn't take away from the story, I hope. I actually really like this one. It probably won't make anybody feel any better about today, but I'm proud of it anyway. :')

Standard disclaimers apply. If I owned Newsies, today would be just another day, because it wouldn't be closing ever, let alone so soon.

It's late, and rain is just beginning to fall from the clouds that have been looming overhead all day. The streets are nearly empty, and thunder crackles ominously in the distance.

The theater is dark and silent – there hasn't been a show in weeks. Money is tight, and most of the actors have left in favor of jobs with more work and worse conditions but infinitely better pay. She's only there on the faint, distant hope that a handful of people might show up for a rehearsal the next day. She thought if she neatened up a few of the backdrops, she'd have a better chance of convincing them to stay.

She drags the brush back and forth across the rough wood and already-peeling coat of paint. It's going to be simple, a solid color, deep blue that is hopefully reminiscent of the sky. Medda Larkin is many things, but a painter is not one of them. She could sure use someone with some art talent. Her back is beginning to ache already and she's barely covered half a flat with the cheap paint.

Humming to herself, she tries not to think too hard. If she does, she might remember the payments due on the mortgage she isn't sure she can afford. She might remember the thin, dirty boys who sat behind the stage all day because even if her heat doesn't work, there's at least some protection from the chilling fall wind between the thin walls. She might be overcome by her stiff muscles and stinging eyes and sore throat.

"Miss Medda?"

The soft voice behind her makes her jump, splattering little drops of blue paint on her lavender dress. She whirls around, wondering who could have possibly snuck up behind her in her own theater.

Of course. It's Jack Kelly.

She smiles when she sees him. He's always been her favorite of all the newsboys – the times she's seen him carrying papers for the younger boys (or carrying the kids themselves on his back) and giving them the last of the change in his pockets so they can buy a small meal have warmed her heart. But slowly she realizes something is wrong. He's wearing nothing more than a thin shirt and ragged pants cut off roughly below the knees, despite the downpour and the icy wind. There are drops of blood on his clothes, and he's walking funny, all stiff and awkward. And he's honest to God crying, big tears mixing with the raindrops still covering his face.

"Are you okay, honey?" she asks numbly, even though he's clearly not. "What on earth's the matter?"

He only shakes his head, lips pressed firmly together in an attempt to keep his sobs silent. His whole body is shaking. She can't tell if it's the cold or something worse.

"Sorry to intrude," he gets out finally, not meeting her eyes. "There was just– I've gotta hide. From the cops. Sorry." He waits, shoulders hunched, clearly expecting her to throw him out. Instead she pulls him to her, enveloping his thin frame in a hug. At first he cringes away, and she worries she's hurting him, but then he relaxes and it isn't long before she's holding him up completely.

She sits him down in one of the seats and lowers herself beside him, and then pulls him closer until he's practically on her lap. She starts rubbing soothing patterns on his back the same way her mama used to to calm her down. She doubts Jack Kelly's ever had a similar experience in all his sixteen years – she doesn't think he ever even knew his own mama – but she hopes everyone can recognize a gesture of motherly comfort, regardless of past experience.

"Anybody see you come in here?" she asks. She wants to let him rest, but she needs to know if she should take him somewhere else first.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says slowly. "It's storming pretty bad out there. I didn't even see where I was until I almost ran into the sign."

She runs her fingers through his hair gently. He looks at her sideways for a moment, maybe wondering if she's going to ask what he did or why the cops are after him, but when she doesn't his eyes flutter closed. She uses her sleeve to dry off his face – the air isn't that much warmer inside the theater, and she's worried he's going to get sick.

"I haven't seen you around too much lately. Where have you been?"

He chokes out a laugh, bitter and hopeless, and she winces. She'd thought that question was safe, but then, nothing could keep him from his boys for months unless it was something negative. She should have known. "The Refuge, Miss Medda. Again."

"After all this time?" She's in shock – he'd been dragged there last December. When he nods, her face darkens. "Well no wonder you look like such a mess," she explodes, shaking her head. "That's a wicked place. It needs to be shut down before it does any more damage."

He shrugs, a distant look in his eyes. She's not even sure he's listening.

"You bust out?" she asks. "That why the cops are looking for you?"

Eyeing her nervously, he nods. She smiles, rubbing his back again.

"Good for you, honey. They should've let you out months ago. Things will get better now." He blinks, clearly not expecting that response. But his breathing slowly gets calmer, and she's glad she could offer him at least that small comfort.

"I broke the law, Medda," he whispers after a while. "Stealing that stuff." She can't tell for sure, but she thinks he still feels guilty, even after all this.

"You did a good thing, baby," she assures him. "This ain't nothing more than a big scheme to make money. The cops want money, the folks who own the stores want money, and Lord knows that damn Snyder wants money. But if you don't have money, you still don't deserve to die." She puts her hand under his chin and forces him to look up at her. "You saved those kids when you brought them food and blankets. I'm not sure they would've made it through the winter."

His face flushes a little. "You heard about that?"

She nods. "All the boys were talking about it. They look up to you, Jack."

His face pales at the mention of the boys. He now has no choice but to ask the question she knows has really been tearing him up. Beaten, bruised, hungry and exhausted though he is, Jack Kelly thinks only of others. She can't even imagine how he survived locked up away from his friends, not knowing whether they were eating or sleeping on the streets, unsure of whether they lived or died.

"How are the boys, Medda?"

"They're fine," she says soothingly. "Just today there were a few in here drying off after work. I've heard they've been selling lots of papers – the headlines have been pretty good."

"None of them got themselves locked up after me? I didn't see anybody, but–"

"They're all safe, Jack. They didn't do anything stupid."

He lets out a huge breath. "Thank God."

Leaning him gently against the back of the chair, she stands and disappears behind the curtain for a moment, only to return with a thick blanket. She drapes it over him. It smells faintly of mold and is rough and scratchy, but he snuggles deeper into it immediately.

"Don't worry," she murmurs after a few more minutes of silence. "Night like tonight, the cops won't be out long. You're safe."

He nods. His eyes are closed again.

She goes back to painting, brushing the blue onto the remaining flats haphazardly. The final result is uneven and streaked, and looks even worse than before, but she can't bring herself to care. When it's finished she ends up next to Jack again, studying his thin face. The dark circles under his eyes make him look far older than he actually is, but somehow he looks younger, too. She can still remember him as a young boy, tagging along with the older newsies, learning everything about the city with a bright smile on his face. How was that bright, curious child reduced to this?

She'd thought he was asleep, but he cracks his eyes open to stare back at her.

"I probably messed up your whole night, huh?" he asks apologetically. He squirms out from under the blanket, stuffing it into the seat beside him.

"Of course not," she assures him. "My night was gonna be long and lonely. I'm always glad to see you, honey."

Taking a deep breath, he forces himself into a standing position. "Still, I'd better be going. Thanks for–" he blushes, looking away. He's clearly ashamed of his meltdown, however justified it is. "Just, thanks."

She runs a hand through his matted hair one last time. His skin is still cold, and he can barely keep his eyes open. "Just stay here tonight, Jackie. There'll be plenty of time to see the boys in the morning."

He shakes his head. "Nah, I couldn't, Medda. What if somebody– I gotta go somewhere nobody'll look. Lay low for a couple of days. I don't want you gettin' in trouble."

"Nobody'll look here, and if they do, they won't be looking anywhere anytime soon," she declares threateningly. "Go lay down backstage, baby. You look exhausted."

"You sure?" When she nods, he sighs in relief. "You sure are an angel, Miss Medda. Thanks."

She hopes he'll get at least a little rest before he begins his endless cycle of hard work and no reward again, but she finds him not many hours later back on the stage, her old stiff paintbrush in hand. She stares in awe as he drags colors through her flat, streaked layer of blue, adding misty clouds and the faint outlines of plains and the blurred edges of buildings on the horizon. He's never told her – anyone, in fact – but he has an amazing talent. And it makes her smile to see him in a place where he feels safe enough to use it.

As his backdrops improve, so do her audiences. Within a month, the seats are almost sold out. The theater has a new air of professionalism, and actors and spectators come from all corners of the city and beyond to escape their daily lives in her stories and his settings.

As she watches him paint day after day, she realizes something. Maybe this boy is something of an angel, too. He's certainly not of this grimy, oppressive world where everything beautiful is slowly beaten away. He belongs somewhere much better than this.

She hopes he never loses that, even with the cards stacked against him. Because even with his history and his track record, Jack Kelly is the most innocent, beautiful boy she's ever known. And even if it's just in New York, he should have a chance to really live. Heaven knows he deserves it.

Reviews are love, and I could use some today . . .

Much love,
KnightNight7203