In honor of Crutchie's new song - which I really hope they leave in till it comes here in November - I decided to write a story centering around him! Since there have been a lot of origin stories for Crutchie recently, I decided to try my own for the first installment.

Standard disclaimers apply.

The hustle and bustle of the city is something Jack Kelly is used to.

That doesn't mean he likes it – in fact, it's one of the many things, along with the dirt and the weather and the lights, that makes his skin crawl about New York. But it's become as familiar to him as breathing, one of the few constants in his life from birth to the present day.

The rattling of the carriages and shouting of voices across the busy streets works its way into his bones even in the alley he's ducked into to catch a break from the crowds. His papers are stacked between him and the sidewalk, creating more of a barrier between him and the rest of the world, but the noise isn't hindered in the slightest. New York is a roar that demands to be heard, and he knows that it never stops.

He picks absently at a hole worn through his shoe, reading through the front page of the top paper of the stack. The babble of conversations fill his ears, accented by the clacking of horses hooves and the clanging of bells. It makes a jumbled symphony of background noise that his mind barely registers as he pulls his thin vest tighter to block out the chilly wind. But then he hears something that he isn't used to, something that makes his skin tingle and his heart speed up. A panicked cry of fear cuts through the normal sounds of the city like a knife.

The yell comes from further down the alley where he's crouched, so he takes off in that direction, leaving his papers strewn behind him. He ducks behind a crate in a doorway, standing on tiptoe to try to make out what's happening beyond. It's dark and smoky – he's found himself behind some kind of tavern – and he squints into the gloom.

The first thing he makes out is the figure of a large man, brandishing a heavy stick and shouting in a thick accent. He pulls himself a little higher and his eyes finally fall on the subject of the man's wrath – a small, thin boy crouched against the dirty brick wall, clutching a small chunk of bread in his hands.

"You know what we do to thieves here, boy?" the man bellows. "Do you know what thieves deserve?"

The boy scrambles further back along the wall, shaking his head in terror. The piece of bread now lays a foot away from him in the dirt, long forgotten. "I ain't a thief, sir, I swear. I'se was just lookin' to see–"

"LIES!" The stick comes down on the boy with a sickening crack, and Jack topples back from the crate in shock. He's seen violence in the city before, but toward such a small boy? Weak whimpers echoing in his ears, he bolts out from his hiding spot and throws himself in front of the kid.

"Hold up," he says in a trembling voice, holding out both hands in a gesture of surrender. The man turns on him in an instant.

"Have you come to steal from me as well? Is there no end to the street rats crawling all over this city?"

Jack moves in a circle slowly, drawing the man's attention from the boy. "I ain't interested in stealing," he says. "Sir. I was coming to apologize for my brother here."

If he'd thought the man's face couldn't get any darker, he was wrong. "That's your brother?"

Jack nods quickly, stooping down to pick up the piece of bread from the floor. "Is this what he took?"

"That's what he took this time." He glares at the kid, then spits in his direction. The boy flinches back, staring nervously at the stick in the man's hand. "These brats are always lurking around out here, scavenging. Like rats."

Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulls out his small bag of change and empties it into his palm. He has well over thirty cents there, collected from this past week's sales. "This should cover it all, then," he says, thrusting the coins at the man.

His fat fingers sift through the coins, and Jack can practically see him mulling it over in his head. Finally he sighs, dropping the stick and turning to return to the tavern.

"See that it doesn't happen again," he mutters, shaking his head. And then he is gone.

"Brothers, huh?" The boy's voice is high and weak, but he sounds faintly amused. He's sprawled on the ground, propped up on his elbows. "You thought that up real quick."

Jack shrugs, unsure of what he's supposed to say. "I figured he'd leave ya alone if he thought somebody was taking care of ya."

"It makes sense," the boy admits. He coughs. "Lucky he bought it, though. Must be pretty believable."

Jack crouches beside him, eyeing him nervously. "You hurt, kid?" he asks.

"Nah," is the breathless response as he painfully pushes himself into a sitting position. "I've 'ad worse."

"Yeah, well, you don't look so good." Jack brushes the dirt off the golden surface of the bread and offers it to him. "You hungry?"

"Yeah," the boy says quickly, reaching for it. Suddenly he stops himself, face falling. "But it's yours. You paid for it. And I wasn't lying – I ain't a thief." He sighs, wrapping his arms around his middle. "I swear to God, it rolled right out the window. I was gonna try to give it back when that guy came out an' started freakin' out at me."

"I ate already today," Jack says, and while that's not strictly true, he never claimed he didn't lie. "You take it."

"For sure?"

"Yeah."

The boy eats slowly, which surprises Jack – judging by the sharp angles of his thin face, he hasn't eaten in days, and in his place Jack would inhale the food. Once he finishes, he wipes his hands neatly on his ragged jacket and pulls himself slowly to his feet.

He manages to stand for all of a minute before his leg gives way and he starts to topple to the ground.

Eyes wide, Jack jumps forward and catches him just before he hits the dirt. "Jeez. He hurt you real bad?"

"Nah," the boy says, smiling sadly. "It's this leg of mine. It's always been a little rusty."

Jack can't imagine what it's like for this boy, limping around the streets all by himself. At least he's got the newsies. At least he's got two working legs. He shakes his head, looking around to avoid making eye contact with the kid, when his gaze falls on the stick the man dropped.

"Here," he says, picking it up and handing it to the boy. "I bet this would help you walk." He helps him wedge it under his armpit, then stands back and beckons him forward. "Try it!"

The boy hobbles tentatively forward a couple steps, stumbling at first. Once he gets the hang of it, however, it looks much less painful. His face splits into a huge grin.

"Look at me!" he exclaims. "I've got a crutch! I'm walking!"

"Come on, Crutchie," Jack says playfully. "Why don't you come back to my place, and I'll see if I can get you a bed to sleep in?"

"That sounds great," he says excitedly. Jack starts off walking slow, but the boy manages to keep up at a normal pace just fine. He's a natural with the crutch. He even carries some of Jack's papers, and more than a couple women buy one from him (out of sympathy, Jack thinks, but the boys claims it's personality).

Race eyes them suspiciously when they burst in the door, laughing and talking loudly about their success. Between the two of them, they only have three of the original twenty papers left.

"What are you doing, Kelly?" he demands.

"I told him I'd try to get him a place to stay," Jack says by way of explanation. His voice is authoritative, and no one argues – he's only thirteen, but he is one of the oldest already. Henry and Finch move over to make room for the new kid on the lumpy sofa right away.

"Got a name, kid?" Specs asks, readjusting his new glasses.

"Sure do," he says immediately, meeting Jack's eyes and smiling. "You can call me Crutchie."

What do you think? Should I continue? I have a couple other ideas, including one in the Refuge . . . Reviews are confidence boosters!

Much love,
KnightNight7203