four-fifths of reckless (one-fifth of jack)

by emmedoesntdomath

Summary:

In his defense, Tony didn’t know that the bridge he was crossing was the Brooklyn Bridge.

To destroy his defense, Tony had a very good hunch that the bridge he was crossing was the Brooklyn Bridge, but no one had to know that.

 

Alternatively known as the beginning of Antonio “Racetrack” Higgins.

Notes:

• For Hexmari.

heyyyyyyyy
a couple of things- one; yes, I know everyone and their mother has written this fic. no, I have never written it myself. yes, I did take inspiration from your headcanons, they were very helpful and much appreciated. two; thank you for this wonderful prompt, it made my job very easy. three; please don’t ask me when this fic was started. no one will like the answer.

title (and chapter titles) are from lainey wilson’s wildflowers and wild horses. why? because I said so.

I hope you like it, it was a lot of fun to write :) thank you for participating!!

Chapter 1: dig my boots into the dirt

In his defense, Tony didn’t know that the bridge he was crossing was the Brooklyn Bridge.

 

To destroy his defense, Tony had a very good hunch that the bridge he was crossing was the Brooklyn Bridge, but no one had to know that. If anyone asked, he was just a poor Italian boy who didn’t understand how the city worked. This was a great idea.

 

He skipped over the last few feet of wooden planks, hopping onto the ground with a flourish.

 

Truthfully, he didn’t understand why the boroughs couldn’t explore each other. He had always wanted to see Brooklyn. He didn’t really care that it wasn’t his turf or whatever, he just wanted to see the sights, y’know? He was a true, bonafide tourist. Give him a camera and everything.

 

Jack had just cuffed him over the ear when he asked about it, saying, “Why do you need to go over there? Huh? It’s dangerous. If your dumb ass gets caught, I can’t protect you.”

 

Tony had thought that was a stupid reason to not go, because A. Jack’s reasons were always stupid, and B. what was he going to do? Jack was a coward, and everyone said so. If Tony was going to get killed for this particular bad choice, then he was going to die alone.

 

He skirted around a carriage, waving to the horse in front of it, before running across the street. He walked past the buildings, the shops and butchers and textile factories, drinking it all in greedily. For all he knew, he was never coming back. There were signs promoting businesses and the sounds of newsies hawking the headlines everywhere. Tony was tempted to join them, but he knew that was the sure way to get himself caught. He kept walking, past the people and the noise, until he got to a large building with a large sign at the top, reading ‘Sheepshead Races’.

 

Tony’s jaw dropped slightly.

 

He had heard of the races, everyone had. They were featured in the paper everyday, the big winnings and results of the day before. Horses, fan favorites, the whole lot. He had always wanted to see one, but- well. They were in Brooklyn. And Tony wasn’t Brooklyn.

 

And yet, here he was.

 

“C’mon, Tony,” he whispered. “Now’s your shot.”

 

He crept closer to the building, eyes tracking the flow inwards. It moved closer and closer, until it was stopped at the gate by a man in a ticket booth. Tony frowned.

 

He didn’t have any money to get in.

 

He glanced to the edges of the building, understanding instinctively that there had to be kids like him, had to be newsies like him everywhere, no matter the borough. There had to be another way in.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another boy, a little younger than himself, casually walking along the edge of the building, making no attempt to get in line. Tony squinted at him. This had to be his man. The kid stopped for a moment, feigning boredom and going through his satchel, before crouching down and lifting at a plank in the wall. Tony watched with growing satisfaction as the plank lifted up, just high enough for a child to get through, and the kid slipped past it, letting the plank fall behind him, entirely unnoticed.

 

“Bingo,” he mumbled to himself, beginning to stroll over.

 

This was his best plan yet. There was absolutely no way this could fail.

 

He started the same ritual he had seen the Brooklyn newsie perform: walk over, take a couple laps around, and then stop casually in front of the rigged plank (third from the left, Tony had counted), and wait. He waited for thirty four seconds on the dot, yawning, before sliding down it like he was going to sit and nap, and lifting it right on up as inconspicuously as he could. It came up easily, the gap large enough for him to slid through with only a few scrapes.

 

He pushed himself through, wincing, before tumbling to the other side onto the dirt.

 

“Ow,” he groaned, rolling onto his side to a sitting position. He smacked the dirt off of his coat and hat, blinking at his surroundings.

 

It was huge.

 

Tony was sitting on the edge of a walkway, a wooden sidewalk surrounding a large patch of sand and dirt, caged in by a high fence. There were seats stacked on top of each other, filled to the brim with spectators, high enough to touch the sky. Men were standing on the walkway too, casually laughing and talking, exchanging coins and- in one case that made Tony’s eyes widen like saucers- paperback money. The noise was loud, pressing in and around Tony like a bubble.

 

It was the greatest thing he had ever seen in his life.

 

He slowly pushed himself to his feet, eyes taking it in slowly. There was so much to see, and he was almost afraid that if he didn’t look now, he would never get to see it again. He took one step towards the horses, itching to watch them run, then-

 

“Hey!”

 

Tony froze.

 

“Yeah, you!”

 

His head slowly turned towards the noise.
It was a newsie, older than him, who was wearing Brooklyn red. He was big, and tall, with muscles that could probably crush Tony in a heartbeat and scars to prove it. He was sneering, and looked like he was ready to get into a fight. Behind him was the kid Tony had followed in.

 

And they were both looking right at him.

 

“Hey, fellas,” he said, grinning hugely, far brighter than he felt. “Nice day for races, huh?”

 

The big one did not smile back.

 

“Who are you?” He grunted.

 

Tony grinned bigger.

 

“Oh, me?” He asked, laughing nervously. “I’m no one. Promise.”

 

The newsie took a step towards Tony, who took a step back.

 

Maybe this is what Jack meant about protection and all that. Tony might apologize later.

 

If he was alive later.

 

“Are you Brooklyn?”

 

Tony swallowed.

 

“Well, that’s a good question.” He hesitated, noticing a very, very threatening and scary glint in the newsie’s eye.

 

“Maybe?” He tried.

 

The newsie did not like that answer.

Chapter 2: face the rolling thunder

Summary:

Tony was very, very, very dead.

Tony was very, very, very dead.

 

He had never really considered himself a strict believer in rules, or laws, or anything that stopped him from doing something that sounded fun, but he had never gotten into serious trouble over it.

 

To quote his aunt María, “Trouble was never bad until it happened. And then trouble was very bad.”

 

And as Tony was being dragged down the alleyways and backstreets of Brooklyn, he found that trouble was very bad.

 

“Okay, I think we’re being a little harsh here, guys,” he said weakly. “No, I do. I really do.”

 

The Brooklyn newsies didn’t respond, just like they hadn’t the last twenty times Tony had opened his big, stupid mouth.

 

Jack was going to be so mad.

 

The big one, who Tony had named Big Red in his head, rounded the corner, pulling Tony with him, ignoring the way Tony’s legs dragged behind. The tinier one, named Little John, stumbled with Tony. He was obviously newer, and didn’t really know what was going on either. Tony almost felt bad for the guy, except that he was taking Tony to his early grave.

 

“What about you, huh?” He asked Little John. “D’you think this is harsh? I mean, where are we going? This is ridiculous.”

 

Little John’s cheeks went red, and he looked away from Tony.

 

Tony sighed and shut up.

 

Brooklyn, as it turns out, was really, really big.

 

Tony knew that, everyone did, but it was one thing to know it, and another to be dragged through the city yourself. In any other situation, Tony would have probably enjoyed the impromptu tour.

 

He wasn’t the biggest fan of this one, though.

 

They turned another corner, and were suddenly hit with a burst of direct sunlight. Tony flinched, and tried to turn his head away, letting his eyes adjust to the onslaught of light. When he turned back around, finally looking at what they were heading towards, his stomach dropped.

 

The Brooklyn newsies liked to gather in one place, year round, no matter the weather: the docks. Jack hated the docks.  He said they were a tool, a way to scare the newsies who couldn’t swim.

 

Tony was scared.

 

He was marched across the wooden planks, one foot in front of the other, and he could hear the creaking and groaning of the planks underneath him, adjusting to the weight. He was taken further and further out, past the pier, past the lines of newsies on the edge, watching curiously. Tony started to squirm, hating the way the strong breeze felt like it could push him right off the safety of the dock.

 

At the end of the walkway were two newsies, standing away from the rest, quietly talking. Big Red forced Tony towards them, Little John unhappily coming with. One of the newsies noticed their approach, and stopped to watch them.

 

He was tall, taller than Big Red, even, and had curly hair that blew off of his forehead in the breeze. His clothes were nicer than most, with a slingshot tucked into his belt loop, and he seemed almost too old to be a newsie, bordering on sixteen or seventeen. He looked like he would throw Tony off of the dock with zero hesitation or remorse.

 

“Spot!” Big Red called. “Found a stray! Thought you might want to see ‘im!”

 

Spot.

 

Spot Conlon.

 

This was Brooklyn’s leader.

 

Tony shrank, trying to hide from the newsie’s glare.

 

He was dying today.

 

Spot Conlon was new to Brooklyn leadership. The old leader, Ladders, had died of “mysterious circumstances”. Jack had said that it was a load of shit, and that someone had killed him off. Rumor had it that someone was Spot Conlon. Spot had taken the throne soon after, and Brooklyn had become an intimidating borough to the most dangerous place to be.

 

Spot eyed Tony, but didn’t say anything. Instead, the newsie next to him cleared his throat.

 

“Where’d you find him?” He asked.

 

“Sheepshead,” Big Red said. “He used the hole.”

 

The newsie raised an eyebrow.

 

“And who showed him the hole?”

 

Little John’s cheeks went red again. Spot’s eyes moved from Tony to him, and Tony felt inordinately relieved.

 

“I did,” Little John mumbled.

 

“Yeah, Spot,” Big Red chimed in. “The stray followed him.”

 

Spot turned to the newsie who had been talking, and waited. The newsie looked between Tony and Little John, as if he was deciding what to do with them.

 

As if he was in charge.

 

Wait.

 

“Wait,” Tony said out loud. “You’re Spot Conlon?”

 

The whole dock went silent.

 

It occurred to Tony that this might have been the wrong thing to say.

 

The newsie- the real Spot, apparently- turned to him slowly, a sharp glint in his eye.

 

“And what’s it to you?” He asked threateningly.

 

Tony blanched.

 

“Nothing!” He said loudly. “Absolutely nothing, mister- ah, Conlon.”

 

The true Spot Conlon, as it turns out, was five foot nothing and probably a year younger than Tony. He was holding a cane, and had a slingshot not unsimilar to the newsie who Tony had thought was Spot Conlon (note to self- not Spot Conlon, please save for future reference). Tony wasn’t entirely sure he could toss him into the water, but if this kid couldn’t, then Tall Henchman definitely could.

 

And Tony had now given him another reason to.

 

How many times can a person think they’re about to die before they actually do?

 

“What’s your name, stray?” Spot asked after a moment.

 

“Antonio Higgins,” Tony said reluctantly.

 

Spot considered that for a moment.

 

“And what borough do you belong to, Antonio?”

 

“Tony.” He said without thinking.

 

Spot looked surprised.

 

Tony was surprised too, honestly.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Tony,” he said again, feeling foolish. “My friends call me Tony.”

 

Spot gave him a deadpan expression.

 

“Well, truth be told, Antonio,” Tony winced at the use of his full name. Spot looked very satisfied with this reaction. “I don’t believe we’re friends. Now,” he took a slow step towards Tony. “Where are you from?”

 

“Manhattan,” he muttered.

 

Spot nodded.

 

“Ah. Kelly, yes? New to his position, I understand.”

 

Tony paused, staring at Spot blankly.

 

“Wait,” he said again. “Wait, no. Jack doesn’t know I’m here.”

 

Spot snorted.

 

“Of course he does. You were sent to take customers and turf from my newsies.”

 

A murmur arose from the newsies around them, and Tony stared at them all, bewildered.

 

“No, I wasn’t.” He countered. “I just wanted to see the races!”

 

Spot gave Tony a sideways look, examining him up and down.

 

“You,” he drew out, “Just wanted to see the races.”

 

“Yes!” Tony nodded.

 

“And you aren’t here to steal my turf.”

 

Tony shook his head no.

 

“And you weren’t planning to sell here.”

 

“I promise I wasn’t,” Tony insisted.

 

Spot narrowed his eyes.

 

“Hotshot, check his bag for papes.”

 

Tony’s eyes widened.

 

“Okay, I do have some papes in my bag,” he admitted quickly as the tall newsie started walking towards him. “But I had to convince Jack I was selling today! I wasn’t gonna actually do it! Honest.”

 

Spot looked unconvinced. Tony considered his situation for a minute.

 

He had decided he was dead from the moment he got caught. And despite his recent actions, he wasn’t stupid. He knew that what he did wasn’t just bad for him, but bad for everyone in Manhattan. Especially Jack.

 

If he lied to Spot right now, and said that Jack did use him to take turf, Spot might let him go. But that would mean hurting everyone back home.

 

If he stuck to the truth, then Spot probably wouldn’t believe him, and could throw him off the dock, and then start a turf war with Jack anyways.

 

But Tony wouldn’t have betrayed his family.

 

“Look,” he said. “Jack didn’t send me. I swear it. Okay? I swear it. On my ma’s grave. I came to watch the races. Stupid, I know, but I did. I have papes so Jack wouldn’t stop me. And look, if you’re gonna get mad at someone, or- or hurt someone because of this, it’s gotta be me. Okay? It’s my fault. Leave my borough out of this.”

 

When Tony finally stopped rambling, he exhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

 

I’m sorry, Jack, he thought furiously. I tried, okay? I did.

 

Spot sighed.

 

“I’ll say it, you’re either the bravest person I ever met, or you’re the stupidest.”

 

Tony cracked one eye open. Spot rolled his eyes.

 

“Go home, ‘hattan. Your leader can stay out of this one. Be stupid somewhere else, where I can’t see you.”

 

Tony cracked his other eye open.

 

“What?” He breathed.

 

Spot made a shooing motion, looking exasperated.

 

“Leave, Higgins.”

 

Slowly, Big Red and Little John let Tony go, looking confused. Tony could sympathize.

 

Tony started backing away, cautious, unsure if Spot was going to change his mind. Spot watched him go, eyes carefully tracking every movement.

 

“Tony,” Spot called once he was fifteen paces away.

 

Tony froze, making eye contact with the king of Brooklyn. Spot held it, smirking dangerously.

 

“Don’t come back.”

 

Tony nodded quickly, saluting, and then turned and sprinted in the other direction, running home as fast as he could. As he ran, he glanced over his shoulder to look at Spot, who was still watching him go.

 

He nodded.

Chapter 3: (wildflowers) wild horses

Summary:

~the epilogue~

“I’m sorry. You did what?”

 

Tony winced.

 

“Okay, when you say that, it sounds worse than it is-“

 

“Worse? It can get worse?”

 

“Spot let me go!” Tony protested.

 

Jack groaned, head in his hands.

 

“Tony, I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t think you were that stupid. He could have killed you for that!”

 

“But he didn’t!” Tony added helpfully.

 

“Jesus. And all for the races.” Jack looked at him, eyes exhausted. “Was it even worth it?”

 

Tony hesitated.

 

“Well-“

 

“You’re not going back,” Jack ordered. “That’s not happening.”

 

“Oh, come on-“

 

“No.”

 

“One bad thing happens-“

 

“A really bad thing.”

 

“But the races, Jack, the races-“

 

“Not happening.”

 

Tony sighed dramatically, slumping down onto the floor with crossed arms. Jack shook his head.

 

“D’you really care that much? I mean, we should really call you Race or something, shit.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes, but Jack ignored him, thinking.

 

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea…Race.”

 

Race grunted, kicking him in the shin.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Serves you right, dick.”

 

“Oh, really? No, you better get up-“