A/N: Okay, this random one-shot that was born from the bite of a miniature plot-bunny that sank its slavering fangs into my ankle while I was reading late at night. So here is what sprang from that. The accents are a little dodgy, I know. I just didn't want to make them too thick. So anyway, enjoy.

Disclaimers: Roses are red, violets are blue. Me no own, so you know sue. Rated for vaguely implied slash, and potty mouths.

"Thank ya, thank ya kindly." I crowed, sweeping up my winnings. "Really, so very generous of you'se ta donate ta the 'Feed Race' fund!"

"Fuck you'se Race. Take yoah fat head somewheahs else, and give us all a chance!"

I flipped Blink the bird mostly on principle, and sauntered over to my bunk. It was true, they needed a morale boost – especially after tonight's thrashing. I've known these boys too long to be fooled by their poker faces – those who actually have them, anyway – but it seems they haven't developed quite the same skill at reading me. They were pretty evenly matched amongst themselves though, so I left them to restore their self-esteem while I surveyed my winnings.

Nothing like counting money to make me realize how much I love these nights. And I'm not the only one either. Manhattan's Monthly Poker Night was a big deal. Big enough to drag Jack away from his girl of the moment, to make Jake communicate with other humans, make Swifty sit still, and Crutchy be quiet. Every Manhattan newsie not locked in Snyder's steely embrace was present, ready to lose (or gain, in my case) whatever hard-won earnings they could spare, and probably some they couldn't.

Other newsies too, turn up for the big night. We have boys drop in from Queens, Harlem, the Bronx…even Midtown on occasion. Once we had a group from Jersey make the trip out specifically for the game. In appreciation for their journey, I even let one of them win a few hands – and for me, that's a BIG thing.

But there was one borough that never failed to attend Poker Night. Brooklyn was always represented – Spot had declared that he deserved a night off every now and then, and he chose to spend it with us, crammed into the bunkroom, staring intently at our rickety and pockmarked poker table. Sometimes he played – gave me a run for my money (literally) – and sometimes he just watched others play. The majority of the times he visited, he was accompanied by a few of his boys, but sometimes he came alone.

Realizing I hadn't seen his poker face (he's the only guy with a good enough one that I can't read it) tonight, I surveyed the room. No sign of the Brooklyn leader – maybe he'd come and gone while I was playing? Stowing my new riches in my cigar case, I frowned. There was a new jockey from the track, and I'd heard he'd grown up in Brooklyn. If anyone could tell me about him, or direct me to someone who could, it would be Spot Conlon – who knew everything about everyone. Well, almost everything about almost everyone.

But, when I thought about it, it wasn't just the jockey bit that made me disappointed that I'd missed the prickly Brooklynite. After a couple Poker Nights, and some chance meetings at Medda's or the races, we'd struck up a bit of a friendship. Well, at that point it had been more of a good acquaintanceship, but whatever. Then there had been some problems with some Midtown newsies, and he'd been over in 'Hattan, or Jack had dragged me to Brooklyn several times a week for nearly two months. So while we weren't bosom-buddies or whatever, I considered him a good enough friend. A good enough friend that he should have said hello. I wasn't even asking for a full-blown conversation – you really had to drag those out of him – but just some acknowledgement would have been nice.

Feeling rather grumpy, despite having increased my savings significantly, I grabbed a cigar and shoved it in my lips. Stupid Spot was ruining my Poker Night.

"Heya Race, ya look like you'se plottin' a moidah. Who'se the lucky bastahd?"

I looked up to find Itey grinning at me from he and Snitch's bunk. "Spot fuckin' Conlon. He show up?"

Itey shrugged. "Thought I saw him foah a minute earlier, while you'se was playin'. He musta left though, 'cause I ain't seen him since."

"Right. I'm gonna go foah a smoke."

"Race? Why ya so mad? You'se just won like foah dollahs!"

"Five dollahs and sixty-five cents, actually."

"Yeah, that. Then why ya mad at Spot?"

I felt a little ridiculous confessing that it was because he hadn't said hello. "I wanted ta ask him 'bout a jockey for the race tamorrah – this new kid, from Brooklyn. If I'm gonna bet some of my new winnings, I wanna do it on the hoss that ain't gonna lose 'em."

Itey seemed satisfied with my half-truth, so I waved my unlit cigar at him, and headed for the window. Slipping out onto the fire-escape, I breathed in the cool night air. It was early September, and the weather was just starting to gain that crispness that signaled the start of autumn, while still staying warm enough that I could wear my shirt unbuttoned.

I descended the rickety iron structure easily in the darkness – the path was as familiar to me as the one I traced each morning to the washroom, or to the Distribution Center, or to Snipes' bunk to take my cigars back. At street level, I stepped a little further into the alley, not minding the fact that the watery light from the streetlamp further down the block didn't extend back far enough to light my way. I leaned back against the bricks of the wall and closed my eyes, chewing meditatively on my Havana.

After a moment, I opened an eye to glance at the tip of my cigar. Still unlit. But I was definitely smelling smoke – just apparently not Havana smoke. Feeling as if I was thinking through maple syrup, I took another slow sniff as my eye fluttered closed again. There. Cigarette smoke. Duke of Durham, if I wasn't mistaken.

My eyelid raised itself lethargically again, and I surveyed the rest of the alley. I finally noticed a tiny glowing pinprick farther back in the darkness – then a barely visible stream of smoke issued forth. Yup, definitely someone down there.

"If that's Spot Conlon, he better have a fucking good reason for avoiding me tonight…" I called out, staring calmly at the wall across from me.

There was a pause, then a quiet laugh I recognized instantly. "What if it ain't Spot Conlon?"

"Well it is, so it doesn't matter. What's yer alibi, ya bummah? Stolen bythe Circus? Seduced by Skittery? Sold inta slavery?"

"Nothing quite so exotic, Higgins. You'se were already playing when I got here, and I knew ya'd moidah me if I interrupted. So I decided to have a smoke while I waited. Although, it seems now like ya gonna moidah me anyway, huh?"

I snorted. "I liked the one about you'se bein' seduced by Skittery bettah."

"Mmm…is yer brain tryin' ta tell ya somethin' Race?"

"What?"

Another husky chuckle. "Nevah mind, Higgins."

We fell into silence, as I chewed on my cigar and watched the periodic curls of smoke trickling out from between unseen lips. Smoke was such a sensuous thing, I realized. The way it emerged as a pale shadow from Spot's mouth, the way it caressed the planes of his face, the way it finally spiraled away into the dark night sky above our heads – it was rather like a metaphor for love. Blown abruptly out into the world, twining about someone desperately, before fading away into oblivion.

I smiled. You know you think too much when… But I kept my eyes on the slightly darker smoke-breathing patch of darkness that was Spot Conlon. The boy reminded me of a dragon I'd once heard about in a story. Just one ruby point like an eye,glowing in the darkness, an invisible nose occasionally releasing delicate streams of smoke. The back end of the alley was stacked with a feeling of lazy power, relaxed and tense at the same time. I wondered if Spot would suddenly release a great gout of flame and leap at my throat.

When he spoke, I was almost startled when my voice was normal, instead of a gravelly hissing. "Penny foah ya thoughts…"

Blinking, I removed my cigar from my mouth. "It'll cost ya a lot more 'n that, Conlon. These thoughts are gold."

Spot chuckled again. "Have pity on a guy who didn't just win an entire massivepokah game."

"I thought you'se left before the game was ovah!"

"I did. But since when have you'se evah lost a game?"

I blinked, thinking back. "Well actually, not since I played you'sethe last time…"

"And you'se were so put out that ya spent the rest a the night pouting."

"I was not pouting."

"Ya were. It was kinda cute and annoyin' at the same time. Like that Jacobs kid."

"Les?" I was too pissed about being likened to David's kid brother to wonder about Spot almost calling me cute.

"Yeah, the little guy with the big eyes who follows Jacky around? Cute, but annoyin'."

I fell silent, feeling my earlier bad mood descend on me again.

After a moment, Spot let out a growl. "I don't mean you'se. Quit bein' such a woman, Race. You'se only cute and annoyin' when ya pout." He paused, then chuckled. "Like now."

"I am not fucking pouting!"

"You'se are…"

"I am not!"

"Lissen ta yerself, Higgins."

"I hate you!" I snapped, nearly biting through my Havana in anger.

It was silent, then Spot sighed gustily. "Calm down, Race. Gawd. I didn't trek all the way out here, and then wait in this goddamn alley just ta argue wit' ya."

I blinked, startled be the swift change. "Oh. Why did ya then?"

"Dunno."

We fell into silence again, and this time it was awkward. I was left halfway between indignation and confusion, wondering what Spot had meant, and whether that had been an apology, and whether I needed one. Spot just puffed a few more times on his fag. Really, the guy was too confusing. He never gave you full answers, and his words never seemed to fit the situation. Having a conversation with him was like reading a wet paper where all the ink was runny and you had to piece the story together from the few words you could make out. Or like having your fortune read, all hints ofmysterious men and half-promises of riches.

I saw the glowing ember fall in a slow arc, until it sizzled out beneath an unseen bootheel. Then there was no way I could tell what Spot was doing now, the alley was completely black, and full of the Brooklyn leader's forcefully personality.

Finally, desperate to break the silence, I gave in. "Got a light?" I called, in the direction I hoped was Spot. If he'd left, I had no way of knowing – I was probably just talking to a deserted alley.

But after a moment in which I mentally cursed Spot for leaving me, something knocked lightly against my shin and hit the ground softly. Bending, I found it was a box of matches. He hadn't left me. "Thanks." I pushed the tray out and fumbled for a match in the darkness. Eventually, I managed to snag one, and maneuver it around to the striking board. I struck it, and the tiny flare illuminated an area a few feet around me in flickering yellow light.

Spot was standing just at the edge of the circle of matchlight, hands thrust deep in his pockets, an intense look on his face. I blinked at him, and Spot blinked back, as we stood there, silent, pierced by each other's gaze. Then a sharp pain jolted me from my trance, and I yelped, shaking the match frantically. It had burned down to my fingers.

When I struck the next one, Spot was standing only a foot or so in front of me. He was still staring at me, and I suddenly felt incredibly awkward. It was like a game of chicken - could he force me to back up? Intimitely aware of how close together we were, I took an intense interest in preparing my cigar to light, but I didn't step back.The match fizzled out. Almost fearing what I would see, I struck a third match. Now Spot was right in front of me, the match burning right under his chin. Without breaking eye contact, he tipped his head down and blew gently, sending the alley into darkness again.

I eased the bunkroom window slowly closed, praying it wouldn't squeak. It didn't, and I tiptoed as quietly as possible across the floorboards. All the other newsies appeared to be sleeping off their night of wins and losses, no one was awake to notice my late entry.

"Race?"

Well,almost no one. Jack was leaning over his bunk, staring down at me blearily. "You'se late, Higgins."

I shrugged, tugging off his shirt. "I know."

"Why?"

"Went out ta have a smoke."

"It took ya an hour and a half ta have a smoke?"

I raised an eyebrow. "You stalkin' me, Cowboy?"

"Naw, jist worried. Ya looked pissed when ya left."

"Well, I'm bettah now."

Jack's eyebrows climbed towards his scalp. "I'll say. What ya grinnin' about?"

I hadn't noticed I was grinning. But I was, and quite obviously too. Try as I might, I couldn't wipe the smile completely from my face. Stupid Spot. I raised an eyebrow. "I won five dollahs and sixty-five cents, an' I gotta hot tip on da new jockey."

"The one from Brooklyn?" Jack asked shrewdly.

I shrugged. "Could be. 'Night Jack."

"'Night Race."

I climbed into to bed and lay down, then sat up again and dug into my pocket. I set the slightly crumpled matchbox on my nightstand, where I could see it as I fell asleep. Tipsy McStumble's Pub, I read, as my eyes began to drift closed. Lower William Street, Brooklyn.

A/N: So, you like? You hate? Go ahead, tell me. I can take it…