Summary: The first time Jack meets Davey's parents is a night to remember, partly because he embarrasses himself, mostly because Davey's parents are real nice. No slash, post strike.

TW for emetophobia.

"Won't you come for dinner, Jack?" David asks, just like he always asks, and Jack hesitates, just like he always does. It isn't like he doesn't want to meet Dave's parents; he's just not so sure David's parents are too keen on meeting him, and he's kind of stuffy and feels a little achy, and doesn't really want to burden the Jacobs with his presence.

Besides, what if they meet him and decide that they don't want their educated kids hanging out with a street rat like him? It's better not to mess with what's been left alone so far, Jack thinks, and opens his mouth to say so.

Les beats him to it. "C'mon, Jack! Please?" And dammit, he pulls out the puppy eyes and the wobbly lip and Jack's resolve melts as soon as it came. He sighs and shifts his cap on his head, and before he can even vocalize his yes Les is whooping and jumping in the air, fist raised in triumph.

David grins with both his mouth and his eyes, and it makes Jack feel instantly better. He'd do anything to have the usually stony and stressed Dave to smile like that, and so he finds himself following David and Les as they leave Newsies Square, fresh out of papes from selling them back.

It still makes Jack's heart swell with pride when he thinks that they were the ones who made that possible, he and the Newsies and David and Les and Katherine. A bubble of happiness pops somewhere in the region of his chest, and he's smiling in spite of himself at the thought of her. It's only been a month- barely a month- but it's been an amazing, astounding, flying month that he never wanted to end.

But it's almost over, now, and to his astonishment and pleasure he and Katherine haven't ripped out each other's throats or maimed or even had a fight yet. Sure, there are little arguments here and there, but for the most part they're still going strong.

He hasn't been paying attention for the past five minutes, but David and Les have led them faithfully to the front of an apartment building off of what he thinks looks like 163rd, opening the door and climbing the stairs, Jack following behind a little hesitantly. He considers bailing, running out the door and as far as he can without looking back, but then he thinks of David's smile and Les's disappointed puppy eyes, and he continues onwards.

They ascend three flights of stairs- so he's on the top apartment, Jack thinks, and then marvels at the easy rooftop accessibility while gritting his teeth to ignore the ache the climb ignites in his limbs- and David pulls out the key to the door, twisting it. He lets Les in first, who exclaims, "Mama! We've got Jack!" David allows Jack to enter before him, too, and Jack remembers all too suddenly his discomfort.

David shuts the door behind him and locks it again, and Jack finds himself mourning the loss of a way out, but then eyes the windows- three stories, fire escape. That can't be too high to fall.

"Hello there, dear," a kind, well aged woman says as she comes around a counter to what he assumes is the kitchen. "I'm so glad you could join us. Dinner's almost on the table, so you just make yourself comfortable, alright?"

He tries to convince himself he's not hungry and fails, his stomach rumbling miserably. It wouldn't be, if not for the fact that Ten Pin got a bad cold- the flu, actually- and it had spread like wildfire. Jack had worked triple shifts at the Newsboy stand, running all around New York in order to sell everyone's papes, and then selling back the ones he didn't use. Then, instead of on food, he spent the money on supplies for seven different ill newsboys.

It had not been an easy week, and since David had not heard about it since he'd only shown up at the stand and noticed their absence, but had not seen the state they were in back in at the lodgings; sick, pale. Weak.

It made Jack itchy and uneasy.

But they were better now, had just gotten out of bed this morning, and Jack had not had time to get a bite to eat before being dragged here.

So yes. He's hungry.

And David's mother seems nice enough, but he isn't sure if David's fath-

"You must be Jack Kelly!" A friendly voice chimes, and he turns. Coming out of the door he assumes is the bedroom's, Mr. Jacobs strides towards him with confidence, and Jack notes absently that his left arm is still in a sling. Mr. Jacobs holds out a hand to shake, and Jack does so firmly, earning an approving expression. "Hello there! David and Les have told us all about you and we've read about the strike from Miss Plumber. She's a wonderful writer, really."

Jack smiles, feeling suddenly at ease with the mention of his girlfriend. "Ace'll be happy to hear it," he says, and Mr. Jacobs laughs but it doesn't sound fake, and pats Jack on the back.

"I'm sure she will, my boy," he says warmly. "How are the other Newsies? Glowing after your success?"

Jack grins. "Certainly happier than before, that's for sure."

Mr. Jacobs smiles and starts to make his way to the kitchen, sniffing the air. "Do I smell-"

"Yes, Mayer," Mrs. Jacobs answers patiently, pushing her husband away from the pan she's setting on the counter, "but you may not have any until dinner's ready."

"What are we having, Mama?" Les asks excitedly, running around Jack's legs, and Jack can't help but catch him and run his fingers up and down Les's sides, causing a fit of giggles. He grins, forgetting all about his problems and nervousness and hunger in that one moment because he's safe here, he can already tell.

He trusts Davey and Les, and his swirling gut, and all of them are telling him that he's okay.

"We're having that nice vegetable soup, Les, with the side of pork like I promised. Mayer, stop that!" There's a small sound of skin hitting skin and Mr. Jacobs comes out of the kitchen, waving his hand. The top of it is turning red.

"Ah, I do so love your mother, boys," he says fondly, shaking his head. He turns to Jack and smiles reassuringly, and Jack hadn't realized he'd been fidgeting. "Come on then! Let's go sit. Dinner's just about ready, and you know how much your mother likes waiting."

David and Les speak in unison: "Not at all."

Jack finds himself paraded over to the dining room, which has five chairs around it, and he assumes that the fifth is a spare meant for guests. He sits down a little cautiously, not sure if he should help set the table or stand until they sit or whatever, but when he makes to get up and help collect plates Mr. Jacobs gives him a firm look and he sits right back down.

He feels his cheeks burning and wishes so badly that they weren't.

His stomach makes another pathetic moan, and he almost wishes he could hush it, but it's causing him so much pain that he can only double over in an effort to stave it off a little longer. He knows he's gone four days without more than a bite or two of bread, thank you, and he doesn't want reminding.

Mrs. Jacobs comes out and places a large bowl on the table, and his place has been set, his fingers twitching from where they want to grab at the bowl and start eating. Mrs. Jacobs must have some sort of special sixth sense though, because she says nicely, "go on, Jack, you can start eating. We'll be along in a moment."

But he doesn't, his stubborn will overriding his hunger somehow, and waits it out five more minutes as they all take their respectful places at the table and say Grace. He's swallowing now because he's feeling sort of nauseous from all his hunger, and it hurts so bad he's not sure if he wants food anymore, but then the bowl is in his hands and he's got a spoon and he's eating like he's going to be dead tomorrow.

Which he might be, come to think of it.

He spoons up vegetables of all kinds- tomatoes and potatoes and whatever this green stuff is- but he can't taste it because it's not in his mouth long enough. He's swallowing it down so fast that he's sure he'll throw it up, but he doubts his body will want to reject the only nutrition it's had in days, and so doesn't really care at the moment.

He finally feels a semblance of being full and slows down a bit, taking a couple deep breaths. He can feel the soup sloshing around in his stomach and it's not a pleasant feeling, but it's all he's got and it's better than being empty.

The table is silent and, cringing, he looks up through his eyelashes, mumbling, "sorry."

A spoon clatters to a bowl as Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs jump to their feet, Mrs. Jacobs rushing to the kitchen and Mr. Jacobs putting gentle hands to his shoulders, murmuring, "all right, son, it's alright. You'll be alright."

Jack wants to ask what's happening, but suddenly he's keeling forward and retching so hard his vision goes black, and he can't breathe and he can feel the tears dripping from his chin as he just throws it all up. When he finishes he gasps for air, but he's not done apparently and leans over again, wishing over and over that he'd denied Dave's offer to come to dinner in the first place.

When he finally comes back to himself, his cheeks flaming as he opens his eyes fully expecting a ruined floor, he finds a wastebin instead, being pulled away by soft looking hands. Mrs. Jacobs is a smart lady, he thinks to himself, and a breathless chuckle from above him makes him question if he said that out loud.

"All right, son," Mr. Jacobs says kindly, taking Jack by the shoulders again and sitting him down at the table, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and all at once Jack finds himself inevitably, incredibly embarrassed.

He ducks his head and closes his eyes. "I'm sorry," he rasps, and dammit his throat feels raw. "I'll get out of your hair now. Sorry. Sorry."
He makes to get up- his knees tremble and his arms shake and there are shudders in his whole body- and finds himself sternly but not unkindly pushed back down by Mr. Jacobs. "You're not going anywhere, young man," he says, and Jack blinks owlishly at him, "not in this state. You're obviously sick and it's getting late. We won't throw you out in the cold."

'Throw you out in the cold' isn't an exaggeration; it's about twenty six degrees out now, since it's October, and the sun is going down. He doesn't really care, though. He really doesn't want to bother these people.

"You're not a bother, Jack."

Oops. Saying things out loud again, apparently.

Mrs. Jacobs has returned with a cool cloth, and presses it to Jack's forehead, and he immediately forgets about his plight because that feels like Heaven. He can't help it as his eyes flutter closed and he becomes aware of exactly how tired he is, his aching body finally resting and his burning eyes finally closing and his stomach has stopped hurting for some reason, but he isn't sure if this is a good thing.

" Did you eat too fast do you think, Jack?" Mrs. Jacobs asks, but it doesn't sound accusatory or condescending, just gentle and curious.

He nods a little because talking would be too much of an effort at the moment, and tries to explain himself, feeling a flush rise again to his cheeks. "Haven't eaten all week," he mutters with his eyes closed. "Race 'n Crutch 'n Romeo 'n Ten Pin 'n lot a the other boys were sick, and I was coverin' their shifts, an' gettin' supplies with the money instead of eatin', 'cause they was so miserable…"

There's silence again, and Jack becomes startlingly aware of a headache forming too, and lets out a frustrated breath. Nothing is going right today.

"Okay, Jack," Mrs. Jacobs says quietly. "Okay." There's a pause and softly clinking china. "Jack," she says quietly again, "I'm going to feed you, alright? All you have to do is open your mouth and swallow. It's not soup, it's broth, which is easier. Okay?"

He mumbles his agreement and feels a cup at his lips, and he swallows when she tips some of the lukewarm liquid down his throat and doesn't complain when she takes it away. She feeds him slowly (slower than he'd gone, anyhow) and carefully, and he finds his stomach increasingly full until he's sure he can't take anymore.

When she goes to tip more down his throat, he gives a grunt and throws his head a little, because talking and forming words is still too much effort. "Good, Jack. Good job."

He finds it a little strange that he's getting praise for eating, but he soaks it up anyway, mumbling, "Th'nks, Mrs. J'c'bs."

He feels suddenly so tired that he can't believe he's even awake at the moment, and his whole body hurts, and he doesn't want to have to walk home. He shifts a little in his chair and goes to stand again, sniffing, and finds himself pushed back down.

"No, Jack," Mr. Jacobs says. "You can stay the night. Come on. Let's get you to the couch. David, get his other side-"

And he feels David's warm presence on his right, and he drowsily reaches out a hand, muttering, "D'vey?"

David responds evenly with, "Yeh, Jackie, I'm here," and that's enough for him, so he allows himself to be guided to the couch and laid down, his head on a pillow.

He feels David start to retreat and something like panic strikes him, so he sits up and calls out something- he doesn't know it it's sit or stay or hey- but David returns and sits on the edge of the couch, and that's enough for Jack again as he closes his eyes.

"You caught the Newsboy cold, you idiot," he hears David tell him fondly. "Of all the things to fell Jack Kelly, Newsies Strike Leader and World Conqueror, it's a cold."

He moans something he hopes is a clever jibe back, but he can't be sure, and David laughs and presses against Jack's side, and Jack finds himself relaxing more.

"Sleep, Jack."

So he does.

...

So dinner didn't go exactly as planned, is the first thought that Jack has in the morning when he wakes up on an unfamiliar couch with a blanket draped over him, comfortable but achy. He immediately knows that he's sick and isn't sure whether to feel surprised at the fact he's made a complete idiot of himself or the fact he believed he'd get away with taking care of seven sick Newsies without catching it himself.

"Jack honey, are you awake?"

Oh yeah. The dinner.

"You didn't eat much last night; I have breakfast, if you want."

The very mention of breakfast sends his stomach tossing and he shakes his head, even though he's not really processing what the person is saying much. Is that Mrs. Jacobs?

"Yes sweetheart. You're saying things out loud."

Oh. Well. Uhm.

There's tinkling laughter and someone smoothes back his hair and immediately the headache he didn't know he had lessens. He sighs and can't help but lean into it because he never had it and man, he had no idea what he'd been missing. Medda Larken was probably the closest thing he had to a parent and the only grownup who actually seemed to give a damn about him at all, and she'd hugged him when he was sad and even kissed his forehead a few times, but never this.

She wasn't a mother, and maybe it was just a mother's thing?

"Anyone can be a mother, Jack. It takes something more to be a Mama."

Still speaking out loud. It's unnerving, he's not going to lie.

"Are you hungry, Jack?"

Come to think of it, he is a little hungry and sort of eager to get the taste of whatever crawled in and died in his mouth out, so he nods. There's a shift under him- had she been sitting on the edge of the couch?- and she returns.

"More broth. Come on, Jack, open your eyes."

He peels them open and realizes he feels icky, like he's been dunked in something sticky and it fused his bones together. They're stiff and feel strange, like they wouldn't bend even if he tried, so he doesn't, just lays there with his eyes open, blurrily staring at the blob that identifies itself as Mrs. Jacobs.

Once he's done he thinks that he really should get up and out because he really shouldn't burden these people anymore, but a soft hand eases him back down and reassures, "it's alright, Jack. Sleep."

And so he does.

(And maybe later he'll be embarrassed that he threw up in front of David's parents, the people he was trying to impress in the first place, but they have him back for many more dinners and tease that they're not going to take it away, so he thinks maybe things weren't as bad as he thought.)

thank you so much for reading, please leave me a comment on your thoughts !