The chill of winter brushed past her as she went, tangling its fingers in her ginger locks. Snow fell from up on high, landing on her lashes and obscuring her vision. Though the December air burned her lungs, it felt like a rush of something sweet as she took in a deep breath through her frozen nose.

With a sigh, she wiped the corner of her eyes where the harsh wind had pushed out tears, continuing on her way. It didn't take long for her to find a willing customer who'd mindlessly bought her story about how certain sources predicted a bitter Christmas season, as Mr. Cresswell, the poor widowed man who'd been keeping the shelves stocked with toys for parents to give their kids, had as of late been discussing details of his upcoming retirement. This was not a message many anxious parents hoped to hear when the time to get gifts for their little ones drew near.

In fact, this story had sold her as many as twenty papes before a gruff old man — seeming close to retirement himself — grabbed the paper from her and flipped through it roughly, claiming he knew well of Mr. Cresswell, and that the man was just fine, mind you. He'd been in the middle of his lecture when suddenly he halted and, looking up and down between the veracious news and herself, roughly demanded, "this you, girl?" whilst stuffing the paper into her face.

Brigid batted away his hands as she grabbed the pape from him, a heavy sigh creating a cloud of steam in front of her face when she saw what he'd been referring to. It was her, indeed, accompanied by a fable of sorts that some newsmonger had chosen to spread about her. Rumours about her family, mostly, although she did get her fair share of attention. He'd even gone so far as to claim that her parents had committed adoption fraud just four days after she was born, which didn't make the least bit of sense to her, until she realised that the journalist was implying that she was an adoptee, and that she'd been born illegitimately to some random couple. Somehow, according to the guy, that was supposed to explain why she'd turned out the 'way she had', along with a bunch of mumbo jumbo about her father. The fake one, supposedly.

"Yeah," she said dryly. "Dat's me alright."

Clearly, this wasn't The Sun news. Mere weeks after the death of Domino, Oscar, Jack, Elmer, and her father, Katherine had written a news article featuring Brigid herself. As well as it had explained the situation of The Unknowns as best as it could've been explained, it had still sparked a sudden and erratic interest in the Delancey family... especially for the sole daughter of said family.

Still, Katherine could not be blamed for all this. If anything, she'd helped heal the situation. For one thing, Brigid was now less perceived as everyone's murderer, although she still got called one plenty. And for another... to talk about what she had been witness to had helped enormously. She and Kath had probably spent five whole hours sharing what they had each been through.

It had felt somewhat different than when she would vent to one of the guys. With it being just her and Kath, shut away in her little office, she'd felt as though she had shed away an old and withered part of her soul, leaving her feeling light and renewed. By the end of it, she and Kath had almost forgotten the reason why they were discussing all these things with each other in the first place, and it dawned on Brigid that, for news writing reasons or not, she enjoyed the talk between them both, and felt comfortable enough to share it all with the journalist. She didn't regret giving her permission to write the article, even as it had sparked countless rumours about her.

Such as this.

"Dis oughta be tha headline instead," guffawed the man.

Brigid huffed. "Yeah, yeah. You buyin'?"

He was still laughing when he handed over the money, walking off with the arrogance of a man who believed himself above the likes of a humiliated girl. A newsie, no less. And yet, although it brought others mirth at her own expense, she was glad that she'd at least gotten a few pennies out of it.

Still, there was a telling warmth in her face that she refused to acknowledge, suggesting otherwise.

With a sigh, she went on her way, half-heartedly carrying the banner. She figured she had to make light of the situation somehow, and so she used her own story in the papes to her advantage, telling people that the news even included an exclusive section about her life. Those who knew who she was lit up and practically threw their money at her with a ravenous look in their eyes. Those who didn't, few and far in between as they were, bristled at the implication that they'd been left out of New York's latest gossip and hastily bought her offerings.

The people of this city, she soon learned, could not be satiated by anything.

Just as she was about to approach another possible customer, she spotted something in her peripheral vision, and, turning towards it, staggered back at the sudden burst of pain that bloomed beneath her eye. The hand she'd reached up to touch the wound came away bloodied. Someone, it seemed, had thrown a piece of ice at her.

As she gritted her teeth and put her hand back to the tender spot, she heard a grating voice call out, "Murderer!" and yet another cry, "Delancey scum!"

"Grow up," she called back, picking up the broken shard of ice and turning the boys. It was clear by the way the tallest one was standing at the front of the group, he'd been the one who'd thrown it. He glowered, but from a safe distance away. When she drew her own arm back, he and the other boys standing with him scurried away. With a roll of her eyes, she pressed the ice to her face and continued on her way.

Finch had stayed at the Brooklyn Lodge for all of that day, as one of the newsies had fallen ill after having spent too much time outside, and the only way to ensure she wouldn't make the same mistake again, she was being kept under constant observation by the Brooklyn leader himself.

Brigid had passed by the bathroom beforehand, gazing at her face in the mirror. As she'd expected, the affected area looked angry and swollen, and entirely unignorable. With a grimace, she'd poured warm water over the spot, as little of a difference that made. And so when she came up to greet Finch, she'd turned her face away from his observant gaze, hiding behind her hair like a curtain. She didn't know how she'd ever expected to be able to pull it off.

"How's Cards?" she questioned, referring to the girl who was currently asleep.

Finch stood with a sigh, wiping his damp hands onto his pants from the cloth he'd just been holding, which he'd laid on Cards' forehead. "Alright. I had ta hold her down fa a while. She was determined she was gonna get out 'n sell."

Brigid chuckled. "Yer such a bad influence."

"Somethin' tells me I ain't tha one she got tha attitude from." With her face turned away, she heard him approach her. "How was sellin'?"

"Good," she said quietly, thinking back on all the mockery and insults she'd endured.

For a long moment, Finch said nothing. Then, "What happened?"

"Nothin'." Brigid paced to the other side of the room, where she began putting away the clothes she'd washed earlier that day.

"Brigid, look at me."

She kept her head bowed, not daring to.

She felt him wrap his arms around her, taking her hands, touching the engagement ring he'd given her. "Love, Ise ta be yer husband. You can tell me anythin'."

Finally caving, she turned, unsure whether to meet his gaze or to keep her eyes averted. Finch eventually made that choice for her, as he moved his hands to her cheeks and stared at the cut on her face. "Did someone do dat?"

"No, some ice did."

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced.

"Ice someone threw."

He bit his lip. "Brigid..."

"It's fine." Going over to Cards' bedside, she took a spare facecloth Finch had placed there. She went to dip it in the water bucket, only to realize it was empty. With a huff, she walked out of hers and Finch's room — separate beds until the marriage — to go down to the bathroom. She wanted to tell Finch about what had happened, and knew she probably should, but she didn't want to relive the embarrassment of being so despised throughout the city. She was Finch's right hand man, woman, whatever, and she couldn't even go a day without being scorned by those around her, some of them even younger than her.

What kind of Brooklyn queen was she?

Finch, always so persistent, had followed her down. "Who was it?"

"Dunno," she said, although she clearly remembered how his headache inducing voice had grated on her as he'd yelled, "Murderer!", could not forget how he'd been tall for his age, or about the glasses that sat perched on his nose, or even about the unfortunate haircut that had lain, uneven, over his brow.

She hated that she remembered it all.

Once down, they ran into one of the newsies, Gabriel, who stopped them when he saw the state of Brigid's face. "Someone else been readin' tha news, eh? Someone you don't like, I'll take it."

"What?" asked Finch.

Brigid threw the newsie a scathing look. Undeterred, he simply pulled out a pape that was on his person and unfolded it, flipping to one of the last pages and handing it to Finch. "Yer fiancée was tha talk 'a tha town dis mornin' after dis got distributed." He threw Brigid a remorseful look. "Hope ya don't mind dat we was sellin' 'em."

She did her best not to look upset by the whole situation. "It's fine. I was sellin' 'em, too. Can't jus stop sellin' 'cause ya don't like what's in tha papes."

Meanwhile, Finch was reading the paper, his brow creased. When he looked up at her, his expression was dark with restrained anger. "Dis ain't even true. Why would someone write dis?"

"I..." Brigid, in an effort not to let her emotions show, swept a hand under her eye and turned to go into into the bathroom. There, with the door closed, she leaned over the sink and avoided her gaze in the mirror, angrily turning on the tap and wetting the cloth she held. She was sniffling, on the verge of crying, when Finch knocked.

"Can I come in?"

She hesitated, but after a moment, walked over to the door and held it open. After he had come through, she shut it again. "I didn't mean ta run."

He took her in his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I know."

She sniffled again. "How can I help you lead, when folks don't even take me seriously? Or is afraid 'a me?"

"Tha Brooklyn boys love ya," said Finch reassuringly.

That much, at least, was true. They took her arrival to Brooklyn better than she'd ever expected them to. The few girls already there were ecstatic, and the boys liked having another girl to impress. She hadn't met a single one who'd rejected her because of her past. Cyclone and Skip, however, she did not get quite along with. They'd tormented Dipper during her days in Brooklyn, and Brigid was not prepared to let their behaviour slide.

So what did it matter if there were others who hated her? It changed nothing. She couldn't make everyone like her. She'd learned that long before.

She took a deep breath. "Ise overreactin'."

"No." Finch pulled her back to look into her eyes. "Someone threw ice at yer face. Yer reasonably upset."

With him saying it, she was reminded of the wound, and turned back towards the mirror in order to clean it. However, before she was able to place the cloth on her face, Finch gently took it from her and did it himself, dabbing the area tenderly.

"I wish I could put it all behind me," she admitted, frowning.

"Me too." Finch paused. "What did tha kid look like?"

"Who?"

He gestured at her face in response.

After a moment, she gave him her best description, as well as the description of the boys with him. As she rattled off every feature she remembered, Finch nodded, looking serious and attentive. As she finished, he took a deep breath. "Do you trust me?"

"I wouldn't be marryin' you if I didn't," she joked. "Yes. I trust you."

"Good." Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, he withdrew. "Keep dat pressed ta yer cheek, 'n also, keep an eye on Cards. We'll be back."

"We'll?" she called after him, but he offered no explanation.

An hour later, she figured out what he'd meant. As she'd been replacing the cloth on Cards' forehead, Bell ran into the room, practically crashing into the door. She raised an eyebrow as the blond boy hunched over, panting, holding up a finger. Before she could say anything, he looked up at her and pointed behind him. "Slingshots."

Startled, she laughed. "Sorry?"

Taking one last second to catch his breath, he came over and grabbed her wrist, leading her downstairs. "Jus come see."

She allowed herself to be dragged along, wondering what in the papes he was freaking out about. It was only when he brought her out of the lodge did she start to consider that someone was hurt. Her heart leapt in her throat as she considered it may have been that Finch was in danger.

Alas, as she soon found out, this was not the case. They were mere feet away from the Brooklyn throne when Bell stopped her and pulled her into the shrub on their left. It was still December, mind you, and so she was rather disgruntled about having to crouch down where there were mounds of snow all around her.

All her annoyance melted away once she spotted Finch.

He was seated high on the throne, leaning slightly to one side with his slingshot pressed against his temple. His brows were drawn and his expression was grave. She saw at that moment that he had no need for fancy clothes or even the crown Spot had once passed over to her to keep safe and hidden. At that moment, he looked nearly identical to his late brother.

He looked how every king ought to.

"What's goin' on?" Brigid whispered to Bell.

Bell jutted his chin over to the bottom of the throne, and she finally understood. Standing beneath Finch, were the boys who'd disgraced and harmed her. Her eyes widened at the sight. Before she could say anything, once more, Finch beat her to it.

"I think you boys know why yer he-ah."

Turning her eyes away for a moment, she faced Bell. "Is dey even newsies?"

"Don't think so," Bell confirmed. "But dat nev-ah stopped Spot, either. If any kid brought harm ta anyone or anythin' from Brooklyn, dey was gonna pay." He turned towards her. "Dat's jus tha way it works."

She turned her attention back towards the boys. The gaggle of them, it seemed, truly had no idea what they'd done to warrant the wrath of Brooklyn. Finch, merciful as he was, didn't let them suffer in confusion for long.

"Did you boys know," began Finch, leaning forward, "dat one 'a you attacked my fiancée today?"

Fiancée? she heard them murmur. Who's his fiancée?

Once more, Finch didn't give them much time to dwell on it. "You, wit tha glasses." Said boy, the one who'd thrown the shard of ice at her, stepped forward. Without missing a beat, Finch took his slingshot and aimed it at the kid. "Did you, or did you not throw somethin' sharp at the face 'a the infamous strike supporter in Brooklyn, Brigid Delancey?"

"Delancey?" He snorted. "Sorry, pal. I have a hard time... a real hard time believin' dat anyone from dat family can support anythin' good-"

"Answer tha question."

The kid lowered his gaze, playing with the cuffs of his sleeves. He's nervous, she realized. And she was almost happy about it. "I... did, sir. But-"

"Boys," Finch barked, loud enough to cause Brigid to flinch in surprise. But she was even more stunned when most — if not all — of the Brooklyn newsies popped out into the open with slingshots pointed directly at the culprits.

Oh, Brigid realized. Slingshots.

And then Finch released his hold on his band, and dozens of stones went soaring towards the group of kids.

Lane was still gaping at the sight of the boys being absolutely pelted by the stones, when suddenly, a slingshot was being offered to her. She turned to see Bell, holding his own out expectantly.

"No thanks," she stammered out. "Ise a terrible shot."

He snorted, then reloaded it. "Suit yer-self."

She stayed crouched there a moment longer, before standing abruptly and heading towards the fray. It was about time she joined it, anyway. "Finch!" she yelled.

He turned towards her quickly, then raised his slingshot in the air. "Hold!"

She was amazed by how quickly they all obeyed. Had this been rehearsed? Maybe not, she decided. Perhaps he was just every bit the leader Spot had been. "Finch, what on dis round earth?"

He grinned at her sheepishly, before turning towards the kids who were crouched on the ground, just as she'd been a moment before. "I may have gotten a little carried away."

She snorted. "A little." Then, turning towards the kids, she crossed her arms. "But I suppose dey had it comin' fa dem."

"Go," said Finch, looking at them as well. "Before I hand you boys ov-ah ta my fiancée. And I guarantee, you'll like her punishment a lot less den mine."

"Why don't dat surprise me," the boy with the glasses spat, glaring up at her. She raised her chin and, feigning a pounce in their direction, watched as they all got up and stumbled over one another in their haste to get away.

"Dere," said Finch, reaching down and interlacing his fingers with hers. "Dat'll teach 'em not ta mess wit Brooklyn Royalty."

(3103 words)

And, we're back!

~ nutcracker645