Chapter Text
Morris Delancey knows that he’s been having trouble lately keeping things moving at the circulation gates of the World. The new kid and his two tagalongs are determined to make absolute nuisances of themselves, which means Morris is either focused on reigning them in or counting papers for the people at the window, but rarely is he able to do both.
Still, he thinks bringing in an entire other kid to do half his job is a bit of an extreme reaction, and one he absolutely takes offense to. After all, he’s gone nine years without needing any help – given a bit of time he would have figured this out too.
“Morris, this is Oscar. He’ll be counting papers from now on, so you focus on keeping the rabble in line.” His Uncle Jake sounds entirely too pleased with himself as he gestures at the scrawny, half-starved gremlin that he’d just abruptly dragged into their home in the middle of Morris trying to eat lunch.
Morris just stares at him. “You got a nine-year-old to help? How useful is he really gonna be?”
“Going to be. Speak properly Morris, you’re seventeen for God’s sake.” His uncle snaps.
“I’s thirteen.” Oscar adds, eyes sharp with insult. “Not nine.”
Morris ignores him. “I just need some time to get used to the increased number of kids, that all.”
“He won’t take any of your pay, he’s on loan from the Refuge.” His uncle dismisses his annoyance outright. “Oh, and if anyone asks, you’re brothers.”
Morris purses his lips and finally looks over at Oscar again. The kid doesn’t look anything like him – scrawny, underfed, with wiry muscles and light, straight hair cut in a severe, almost military style where Morris has always been tall and broad for his age with dark brown, curly hair that he can’t quite keep out of his face. No one in their right mind would believe that they’re brothers.
The other boy is eyeing him just as critically, obviously coming to the same conclusion, but neither of them speaks out against Uncle Jake’s order.
The next morning Uncle Jake hands Oscar the keys to open the gate and keeps Morris back.
“Let him handle them, see how he holds up.” The man grunts. “Snyder says he’s the toughest kid in the Refuge, but I don’t fully buy it.”
Morris doesn’t either – the kid is tiny, practically skin and bones. ‘Tough’ really isn’t an adjective Morris would assign him.
He watches from a distance, judging, as Oscar casually flips through the keys, taking his time unlocking the gates as the Newsies shout at him, likely trying to figure out who the heck he is. He’s remarkably calm, seeming to barely register the group as he finally pulls the padlock and swings open the first door.
Within seconds Tommy Boy has gotten in his face. The two are pretty much the same height, despite the fact Tommy Boy is two years younger, and Tommy has the obvious weight advantage.
Oscar just grins at the other boy, and in the next heartbeat has swung the gate he’d been holding back into the other kid’s face, sending him reeling back with a bloody nose.
Boots, the leader of the Manhattan Newsies, immediately drags Tommy Boy back as the other boys get clear while Oscar opens the other door of the circulation gates as if nothing had happened.
He trots back over to the two men at the circulation gates and gives them both a smug smile. “They’s pretty annoying, ain’t they?”
“Speak properly or don’t speak at all.” Uncle Jake snaps, and Oscar flinches back slightly, smile dropping.
“Okay.” He agrees hesitantly.
Morris is remanded to the observation deck above and he glares down at the Newsies as Oscar hands out papers where he used to stand.
After about a week he does have to reluctantly admit that having two people to watch the Newsies is useful, and Oscar definitely knows what he’s doing, even if he is smaller than nearly every single Newsie that buys from them.
Morris has a job guarding William Randolph Hearst Jr. that Saturday evening, and he finds himself complaining to his long-time employer, who just laughs at him.
“Take it from me – I’ve got three younger siblings and they’re all like that. Annoying as sin, but you’ve got to love them.”
“I don’t see why I have to love a random kid my Uncle picked up. He’s not my real brother Bill.” Morris says, exasperated, and Bill just grins at him knowingly.
“Give it time Mo.” He says sagely, slinging an arm over Morris’s shoulders as well as he can considering he’s about an inch shorter. “You may act like you don’t care about anyone, but you’ve got a gooey center and the fact you’re already so worked up about this kid tells me he’s getting to you. Which means you’re going to care about him eventually – my advice is to not fight it.”
“You’re useless.” Morris grumbles, and Bill laughs.
“You love me anyway. Now come on, I still need to show my face to a few more people before we can call it a job well done and skive off for the rest of the night.”
Halfway through week two sees Oscar’s job description expanded when Uncle Jake drags him along to help break up a strike on Long Island.
“You boys are strikebreakers, so anyone is fair game.” Uncle Jake says firmly. Morris isn’t really listening – this is for Oscar, who they’d recently learned had spent his entire life in the Refuge and has no idea what a strike even is. “The goal is simple – soak the Rail workers until they give up and go back to work, or are too injured to keep striking. Simple.”
Oscar glances over at him, and Morris gives him a shrug, so the younger teen salutes and nods to Uncle Jake.
“Yes sir, Mr. Wiesel.” He agrees.
“Uncle Wiesel. You’re my nephew, remember.” Uncle Jake corrects him, and Morris rolls his eyes. Either way the kid is using his last name – not very convincing.
The strikebreaking is standard, though Morris is pleased that the three inches he’s grown since the last time he did this help immensely – he’s no longer getting clocked in the head and throat nearly as much as he used to. He’s a good fighter – has to be considering he’s been Bill’s bodyguard since they were ten and has been wrangling the Newsies since he was eight – so he’s able to hold his own even as some of the strikers try to gang up on him.
Experience and height only get him so far when it’s one against six, though, and Morris eventually finds himself in a chokehold with a man raining blows down onto his stomach and chest, effectively knocking the wind out of him.
His vision is starting to swim when the barrage abruptly lets up and he drops to the ground, where he takes a few seconds to get his breathing back under control and let his eyes refocus. He then looks up to thank whoever had helped him only to find a sight that leaves him momentarily stunned.
Oscar has engaged four of the attackers on his own, swinging what appears to be a piece of rail like a baseball bat to keep them at arm’s length while he picks them off one by one. The kid is quick on his feet and has reflexes like a cat, seeming to react to attacks before they’ve ever started. It’s definitely not what Morris expected from the kid, and he’s reluctantly impressed.
Morris shakes off his shock and jumps in to back Oscar up – no matter how good a fighter he apparently is, he’s still fighting four grown men twice his size. Morris drags one guy back by his hair, knocking him out with a quick fist to the face before spinning back to Oscar, just in time to see the rail get knocked from his hands.
Morris acts on instinct – he’s never fought with anyone else before, but he’s definitely had to protect people smaller than him (mostly Bill, but still) and he moves without thinking, launching himself at the guy who grabs for Oscar and knocking him to the ground, slamming his head down hard enough that he won’t be able to get up for at least a few minutes. He then spins to find Oscar grappling with one of the other men, but he’s very quickly being overwhelmed – he’s obviously not skilled in straight hand-to-hand combat.
Morris pulls the two guys away from his brother and drags the younger teen away from the street brawl, and as things wrap up soon after anyway when the cops arrive they don’t get in trouble for bailing early.
The next day Morris hands Oscar his old pair of brass knuckles.
“You can’t rely on tricks – sometimes you just have to hit them hard.” He tells the younger teen, who’s holding the knuckles like they’re pure gold, staring at them with awe. “Use those to protect yourself, yeah? I won’t always be nearby.”
When Bill asks about his brother the next time they see each other, Morris just trips him.