Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affliated with the creators/makers of Chicago or Newsies.

"How long do you think youse'll be gone for?" Mr. Kelly asks his daughters. Veronica looks to Velma with questioning eyes, hesitation hovering on her face. Velma shrugs.

"Not sure. We've got a few gigs locked up in Boston, Philly, and Chicago; after that, we'll see who wants us." Velma lets a self-satisfied smile slide onto her face as she leans into the arms of her husband, Charlie. "Everyone wants the Kelly sisters these days." Across the table, Mr. Kelly chuckles under his breath.

"Fame is fickle, Valentine." He says, taking a sip of his coffee and flinching as his wife thumps him in the arm.

"Don't discourage them," Mrs. Kelly says. Her frown is replaced by a look of calm assurance as she turns to the three adults across the table. "The girls have been practicing for weeks and Charlie's got all the paperwork under control. They'll be fine." Mr. Kelly nods, although he looks at the young threesome dubiously. He waves a finger good-naturedly at Charlie.

"I'm warning you, though- if anything happens to the girls on your watch, ya'll have t' answer to. I don't wanna soak ya, but so help me, if anything goes wrong..." Mr. Kelly trails off, eyebrows raised. Charlie listens dutifully, nodding seriously at his father-in-law's words, while the girls just smiles at their father's antics. Veronica casts a warm glance at Charlie, who meets her gaze.

"Don't worry, Daddy. Charlie's a good egg and Vera and I've been singing showtunes since we were kids." Velma's voice is smooth and confident. "Nothing will go wrong."

—

The prison cell is cold and dark, the sounds of the other prisoners echoing through the cavernous building. Velma sits on the ragged mattress in the far corner of the room, leaning on the wall with her arms crossed. The chill soaks through her clothes, which chafes her skin like sandpaper. She can still hear the hushed whispers and bitter giggles of the other prisoners, who had ogled at her as she entered their midst just hours ago. To them, she's a flashy magazine trod underfoot, a rich thing tossed in the trash, the disgraced sleaze who traded in sequins and tinkling beads for frayed cotton and the jangle of prison keys. From her arrest until now, however, Velma has kept her face schooled. Flinching has never been her style.

With a screech, the bars of the cell slide open. Into the cell steps the matron, the bulk of her figure silhouetted in the dim light of the hall.

"You get one phone call in this place. After that, it's five dollars per." The matron cocks her head at Velma. "You got someone in mind?"

At the matron's words, Velma's mind flies to her family- she can picture her mother and father at the table of their Brooklyn home, holding hands. She can see her mother's pale face and white knuckles; she can see the tears dripping down her father's face as he tries to keep himself from looking broken, something he has always been bad at hiding. She can feel their sadness, their confusion, and their anger. Their anger at her, not Veronica. Velma's jaw clenches. No, never Veronica.

Velma's eyes flicks up to the matron's gaze.

"I need a lawyer."

—

Billy Flynn sits across from Velma, his gaze calm and placid. To Velma, he has the air of a snake waiting patiently to make his move. He walked through the door barely seconds ago, and Velma can already tell she can't trust him.

"Well, Mrs. Trenton, I-" Flynn begins. Immediately, Velma cuts him off.

"It's Kelly. My maiden name is my stage name." She says primly. Flynn pauses, then begins again.

"Miss Kelly, I understand you want me to take on your case." Flynn folds his hands on the table, eyebrows raised. "Your associates delivered the cash already and, I must say, I found your case to be quite interesting- quite so indeed. I'll be more than willing to be your lawyer." He speaks with authority. Velma smiles. Getting up from his chair, Flynn continues.

"We're going to need an angle. You were a dazzling showgirl, a star set to ascend the heights of heaven, the gem in the two-woman act of you and your sister. You had everything- a handsome man, a winning show, talent, money, fame. Then you found out your husband and sister were cheating on you and siphoning money off your earnings to run away together. It tore you apart- you were devastated, you were inconsolable, you were bereft and helpless, you-"

"No." Velma interrupts him, her voice icy. "I wasn't inconsolable." She can feel her gut twist inside at the thought of being seen as weak- the inmates already think her to be spineless. Across the table, Flynn raises an eyebrow.

"If you want to get acquitted, Miss Kelly, you're going to need their pity. This is Chicago- no one gets off scot-free unless they earn it. You make yourself the victim, the amount of blood you drew won't matter." He looks at Velma with a patronizing smile on his face. Velma doesn't blink.

"There's more than one way to make yourself the victim." She says breezily. "I wasn't helpless- I was confused. I was cheated." Flynn listens silently as Velma continues. "I was the talent of the operation, the star, the one destined for success. When I found my husband and sister, I was shocked, so much so that I nearly blacked out. Next thing I remember is being back in my dressing room before the show."

Silence falls in the room. Velma lets her hands settle in her lap, looking like she had given someone the time of day instead of explaining how she murdered two people. Flynn appears thoughtful, letting Velma's words sink in for a moment before he speaks.

"A story like that doesn't pull at the heartstrings. The jury wants to see someone they can feel for. Pride doesn't win freedom." He says plainly. Velma's resolve hardens.

"Have you ever felt shafted, Mr. Flynn? Like you didn't get what you deserved? I can deserve my freedom without groveling for it." Velma raises her chin as she finishes. "I'm not a martyr- I'm a star."

—

Velma sits in her cell, sketching out a design for a new costume she's dreamt up. In the weeks since her arrest, her face has reached the front page of every tabloid and paper in the city. Flynn will never admit it, but Velma had been right- readers and bloodhound reporters gobbled up her tragic tale of betrayal. She isn't the tormented waif of Flynn's imagining- she has become the rising star, deprived of what she'd earned. She is glamour in rags and modern elegance behind bars. The notoriety brought the bootlickers calling, and the other women of the prison know their place because of it. Prison has turned out better than she'd thought.

As Velma draws, she hears footsteps approach. Mama Morton's voice comes from the cell opening.

"You've got a visitor."

Velma sets her sketch to the side and swings her legs off her mattress.

"And to whom do I-" Raising her eyes to Mama and the visitor, she freezes. Beside Mama stands a woman in deep green, a cream blouse buttoned to her neck and a leather briefcase in her hand. She watches Velma with piercing eyes, and Velma can feel her heart sink under her gaze. Mama must sense the tension that simmers in the air as, after a few seconds of silence, Mama withdraws from the cell and pulls the bars shut.

"You have one hour, Mrs. Kelly." She says, before retreating back down the hall. Inside Velma's cell, Mrs. Kelly watches her daughter carefully.

"You never called." Her voice is patient and betrays no anger, but her gaze is cold. Velma stares back at her mother, her face a mix of fear and hesitation. There is only one person in the world who she can't wither with a stare, and it is her mother, whom she got the skill from in the first place. Mrs. Kelly continues.

"We saw your face in the papers a few weeks ago. Your father was beyond himself." She says. Velma lets out her breath in a hiss.

"Headlines run the news, not the other way around. He taught me that himself." Velma's words are sharp. Mrs. Kelly looks furious.

"He wasn't referring to murder when he said that!" Mrs. Kelly replies, her own voice harsh and icy. Velma say nothing, but her gaze, cold and unfeeling, shows exactly what was on her mind. For a moment, Mrs. Kelly's features soften, though an angry glint stays in her eyes.

"Why did you do it?" She asks. When Velma doesn't anwser, her chin defiant in the air, Mrs. Kelly turns away from her. Velma's mother walks around the cell, her fingers trailing the articles pasted on the walls, Velma's dark hair and twinkling eyes standing out from the paper.

"Was it the fame?" Mrs. Kelly muses, curiosity and a hard edge lacing her voice. Velma picks up her notepad and begins to sketch again as her mother examines the wall.

"I'm sure you've read the papers, Mother. You know how it happened." At this, Mrs. Kelly turns around to stare at her daughter.

"I have a stack of them in my briefcase, but I still don't understand." Her eyes narrows. "I want to hear your side of things." At this, Velma scoffs.

"Ever the reporter," she says. Mrs. Kelly steps forward, all pretense or civility gone. Her eyes blaze.

"I came into work five days ago to the whole pit staring at me and my assistant telling me that my oldest daughter killed her own sister and husband." Her steely voice rings through the prison cell as she speaks. "I dropped everything to come and see my daughter in prison, whom I didn't know is living like a queen in disgrace."

"Veronica was screwing my husband! Did you read that in the papers, too?" Velma says, her voice rising to match her mother's. "They had been making puppy eyes at each other for weeks, thinking I couldn't see it or didn't notice it, but I was watching the whole time. I knew what was happening. It was burning in me long before I walked in on them that night." Velma's voice drips with cold fury and disdain. "I'm not sorry I killed them."

Silence fills the room. Mrs. Kelly straightens her jacket and corrects her posture, staring down her daughter with hard eyes. Velma waits for the cutting reply, the tone of righteous anger that is so characteristic of her mother, but it never comes. For the first time, Velma has, evidently, rendered her speechless. After a moment, Mrs. Kelly brakes the silence.

"I hope, in time, you realize what you've done. You hurt more than two people that night." Mrs. Kelly says matter-of-factly. With a final glance around the cell and at her eldest daughter, she leaves the cell, her heels tapping dully on the rough concrete hall.

—

The witness stand is smooth and worn, gleaming from the many hands who have polished it during their time under question. Vaguely, Velma wonders how many people have sat here, deciding someone's fate with their words, lying. These thoughts don't make it through the mask of her face, however. As she muses internally, she plays the disinterested, hoity cellmate outwardly.

Around her, the court room is in sequestered shambles- the jury watching the proceedings with varying interest; the news hawks observing with rapt attention and scratching pens; the public in their pews but only barely, leaning forward in their seats; and the parties vying for their causes, the Roxie wench playing an urban Madonna and the lawyers battling for the win. At the moment, all eyes are on Velma. It is a fleeting moment- she's only a witness- and yet, it feels so...so good.

As the drama heightens, Velma having said her peace about the diary, Velma looks out over the courtroom. She watches the reactions of the assembled audience, eyes scanning the attendees. Her gaze eventually falls on the reporters. They are a large group, but none look familiar to her. Deep in her chest, something falls- something unnamed, something suppressed and foreign- but her impassive face betrays nothing.

—

Velma sits in the salon of her new apartment when she makes the call. It's nighttime after a long day of work- choreography, meeting with the theater electrician, the like- and, tired as Velma is, she knows she should make this call. The phone rings but a few seconds before the line is picked up.

"Hello," a familiar voice says briskly.

"Hello, Mother." Velma says, her voice prim and careful. The phone is silent for a moment, not even a breath sounding on the line, before Velma's mother speaks.

"You found the guts to call, I see." Mrs. Kelly's voice matches Velma's in its icy politeness. "Are you looking to rub your sister's murder in some more?"

Velma's anger sparks and, for but a moment, her overwhelming desire to say her mind compromises her mission. But, a deep breath later, she refocuses. Slowly, she swallows her rage.

"I want to speak to Father." Velma says.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Her mother replies, a hardness in her voice. Velma's heart sinks surprisingly low.

"I want to speak with him." She repeats herself, her voice stronger this time.

"Velma." Mrs. Kelly's voice is terse and low. "Do you understand how much you have hurt him?" At this, Velma takes a deep breath.

"Please." She says. She feels far more vulnerable than she would like. Maybe her mother can hear it in her voice- she hopes not. Still, something shifts and Mrs. Kelly sighs.

"Be kind." She says quietly before the line goes silent. Velma waits expectantly for a minute before the line rattles. Her breath hitches as a familiar voice sounds.

"Hi, Valentine." Mr. Kelly says softly, weariness lacing his words. For an instant, Velma is a little girl again.

"Hi, Daddy." She replies.

"How's life in the real world goin'?" Her father asks. So he knows she was released. Of course they knew.

"Being out of prison is nice." Velma says blankly. Mr. Kelly hums in response. The line falls quiet again.

"How are you? How's business?" Velma asks. Mr. Kelly huffs.

"As well as I can be, what with what's happened. Business is fine," he says gruffly. Things grow silent once more. They are dancing around the elephant in the room and it's all too obvious to Velma. Her father knows it, too, she's sure. However, he's not the type to beat a dead horse- never has been. Velma is beginning to regret this call.

"Well, I just wanted to check up on things. I haven't been home in a long time." She says.

"That's a nice way of sayin' it." Mr. Kelly says flatly. Velma takes a deep breath. Here goes.

"I can't ask for forgiveness." She says quietly.

"Then why'd you call?"

"Because I worry about you two."

"That's rich, comin' from the queen of the jailbirds." Mr. Kelly's voice drips with sarcasm. He never minces words- he either clammed up or let them all go at once. These ones are beginning to sting.

"Life isn't easy, Father, it was- " Mr. Kelly cuts Velma off.

"Oh, so it's "Father" now, huh?" He says grimly. Velma continues.

"It was still prison. And things aren't great now that I'm out. My new show is on rocky ground unless I figure out a way to get it rolling."

"So that's all this is t' ya? A speedbump in your claim to fame? Your sister- she meant nothing t' ya?" Mr. Kelly's voice is incredulous. Velma's anger flares.

"Not when she was shacking up with my husband!" Velma yells.

"That don't give you the right t' murder them!" Mr. Kelly's voice was thunderous. "You are justifying killing your sister!"

"They deserved it!"

"Revenge isn't yours t' give!"

Velma had never felt the need to play to people, to explain herself, or to justify who she was in anyone's eyes. Pandering to Roxie was an attempt at survival and nothing more. With her father, however, there was an unspoken difference that had always existed and which now nudged her in the back of her mind. After a pause, Velma spoke up.

"Have you ever been so angry at someone that you don't know what to do?" She asked plainly. There was silence for a moment on the line, then someone drew in a breath.

"Yes." Her father replied.

"When I don't know what to do, I do what feels right. In that moment, it felt right." She said. Her father didn't anwser. "I'm not proud of what I did, but I can't change it. So I made the best of it. You taught me that pity was pointless, that action was necessary. The great Jack Kelly and Katherine Plummer, leading the downtrodden and the orphans to victory, triumphant in poverty! You taught me that!"

"Murder isn't something ya make the best of!" Jack says almost desperately. "An' I didn't raise you to kill people, Velma! You killed Vera and I- I don't know how you could." Jack's voice breaks. "I don't understand."

The line fell into a heavy silence, neither person speaking. Velma Kelly never cried- it was in Veronica's genes to do so, not hers. Both Veronica and Velma had inherited their parents' creativity but, where Veronica had Jack's soft heart and Katherine's passion, Velma had gotten his charisma and her determination. Emotion was Veronica's gambit, not Velma's. Even now, as Velma spoke to the man who raised her, she had no tears. But for the first time in months, she felt the hurt and guilt she'd suppressed so carefully. She felt it too clearly.

"I'm sorry for hurting you and Mother." Velma says quietly. "I can't apologize for the rest." The line is quiet for a moment- a moment that seems to last forever. At last, Jack speaks, his voice gentle.

"Call us if ya need anything." He hesitates. "We love you." With that, the line goes dead.

Velma hangs up the phone carefully. All is still in the apartment, Velma frozen in her chair. Then she takes a breath, steadies herself, and gets up.

—

Bright lights. A sea of hats and shadowed faces turned up in smiles. Applause like rolling claps of thunder, accompanied by shouting and whistles. A bouquet of flowers that she carries like a newborn.

Oh, how she's missed this. How she's wanted it. The attention, the admiration- it feels so good to have it back. She lets the light and sound wash over her. She takes in the delighted stares and shoots them all a smile.

She revels in it all for a glorious minute before a shard of something hard pierces her heart.

As she basks in the glow of it all, arm in arm with the stargazing blonde with whom she shares her success, Velma's gaze swims through the crowd before her. Her eyes light on a few familiar faces, including Flynn. For a moment, Velma's heart sinks, a sensation that should surprise her. Then her gaze meets a pair of eyes staring from the back row of the mezzanine- eyes that she has known since she was young enough to remember anything, eyes that watched her first performances, that told her to walk tall and be brave and do what only she can.

Amidst the glamourous chaos, Velma and her father stare at each other. Time doesn't stop. They are simply two people watching one another from different worlds. But that doesn't matter to Velma. Her father is here. There's no psychic apologies, no dramatic actions, no words. There is no place for them. Velma has said her peace. She imagines that, by showing up here, her father has said his, too. He is an open book, as always; even with the long distance from stage to seat, Velma can read the thoughful seriousness in her father's eyes. Vaguely, Velma wonders what he reads in hers. With a pinch to her heart, she realizes that it doesn't matter, anyway.

The moment passes. Velma offers her father a slim smile and then looks away.

A/N: This one-shot has ben my baby for the longest time and I'm so proud to finally have it posted! For the purposes of the story, the characters' ages have been shifted slightly- Jack and Katherine are a bit older, Velma and Roxie are a bit younger- but it's not a huge jump. Let me know what you think! Cheers, darlings!