By: Evangeline Henri
Rating: PG
Summary: Cold inside, and cold out. A bar scene.
(Jack/Spot SLASH)
Archives: All are welcome to it; just tell me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; I do not presume to.
Dedication: This fic really should be dedicated to
two distinct groups of people. The first of
those are my friends and loves, without whom
I would be lost-- Little Red, Yumie, and
Cellino (whom I managed to spread the Newsies
lurve). But the second set of dedications is
going to everyone who reviewed my first piece
of Newsies fic. I reread all the amazing things
they said to me, and thought I'd take another
stab at writing these gorgeous, scrappy boys.
Thanks to all of you for your support (even if you
didn't all know you were giving it).
Note: Can be read as part of my Newsieverse.
*****
"Hey, Spot!" Across a crowded room, the young man approached the bar, his hand stretched out in greeting. He picked his way around the tables, avoiding them easily despite the dim light. Clearly this was someone who was familiar with this foul hole, who knew every filthy corner of it. He probably could have managed quite well without any light at all.
"Kelly." The voice must have triggered that reply, for there had not been a look up. The second person only continued to scrutinize the bottom of his shot glass.
"Ain't seen you lately." The young man, one Jack Kelly, stopped and stood, looming over the drinker. Our Jack was young, probably struggling through those chasm years-- too old to exist blithely as a child, but not old enough to be honestly called a man. His clothes were remnants of the former state; the stretch of skin between his ragged coat and thinning gloves that had turned an angry, late December red.
No response.
He tried again, but louder. Persistent. "Where were ye' last night, Spot?"
"Around." Two syllables, obviously tossed out to appease. Quite an interesting shot glass, this.
"I thought we was gonna' to meet." Jack sat down, stared at him with hungry eyes. "We had plans."
"Yeah, well, plans change, Jacky-boy." A hand was waved, and the bartender materialized, clutching a bottle of scotch. He poured, and then melted back into the smoky haze from whence he came.
"That's what you always say." Jack was flustered, glaring at his companion. Who still would not look him in the face. He flitted his head this way and that, trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact.
"Maybe it's always true."
Bam! Jack slammed his fist against the counter with as much force as he could muster. Glasses rattled up and down the bar, drinks sloshing. The other patrons looked up briefly, but then their attention slid back to their own liquor and the melodrama of their own lives.
"Look at me, damn it! Look at me!"
Not shaken by Jack's anxious use of violence against defenseless inanimate objects, the drinker coolly turned his head to face him. Blue-green eyes were murky, but had a sense of bemused curiosity, as if not sure what the ruckus was about.
Above all, calm.
Jack faltered. That complete coolness had just reinforced his worst fears. He didn't matter at all; his bluster had been for naught. Those eyes cared neither for his anguish or his accusations. He meant nothing to them.
"What, Jacky-boy?" Two perfect eyebrows, curved smooth as a river bending with the shore, arched heavenward. Below them, the eyes had begun to smile, although the mouth had the decency to refrain. "What do want from me?"
Jack saw the smile, knew the eyes were dancing on the verge of laughter at him. "Never mind." He shook his head, tried to dislodge whatever it was that made him care so much. He should never have came. It was pointless to even try and make a difference, pointless to fall in love with a statue. There was nothing behind those eyes. No warmth, nothing but condescension towards everyone else, because the rest of the world could never be so beautiful. Nothing to give but marble kisses.
The comic face softened. The eyes had stopped their merriness, and were actually sympathetic to Jack's pain. Sympathetic like seeing a stray dog with its leg caught in a wire fence. "Oh, don't look so glum, Kelly. Tell ye' what- why don't you go home, and we'll meet up at your lodging house in about half an hour."
The surprise on Jack's face was palpable. "Really?" He could not help the traces of hope that colored his words. "You mean it?"
"'Course I mean it." Corners of Cupid's bow lips finally began to tug upwards into a smile. "Now, scram. I'll be off in a few minutes."
Jack stood, and was about to leave when he heard his name.
"Kelly?"
It made him turn back around. "Yeah?"
The smile had now spread across the whole face, and it was like the sun had broken past the clouds to shine on Jack. "Don't be such a girl."
Poor Jack started for a moment, stung. His eyes flashed pain, but it was quickly suppressed. "See you at the lodging house in thirty minutes," he reminded, but he had already lost the drinker's attention.
He took one last look, and then weaved his way out the door, shivering as the cold hit him. It was a familiar sting, though. Cold inside, and cold out.
Back at the bar, Spot Conlon ordered another drink. When the bartender looked at him with watery eyes that betrayed a question, he said, "I gots time; he'll wait. It's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon."
*****
end
*****
Yes, I know Spot is a rat bastard here, and he apologizes profusely for being such a shmuck. Reviews, anyone?