(Disclaimer: You know the drill. I didn't do it.)

Chapter 3

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The next morning, I woke up before the sun, stiff and uncomfortable. I groaned and rolled over, my eyes shooting open as my cheek came in contact with…wood?

I sat up abruptly and looked around. I was lying in a secluded corner of the Brooklyn docks, surrounded by crates that blocked me from view. Spot was sleeping on his back next to me, his right arm outstretched, as I had been lying on it only moments before, wearing only his tight undergarments.

Still wearing only my petticoat and bodice, my left arm was lined with the imprints of the wood. I stood and felt every bone in my back crack. I twisted this way and that, popping everything I could, twisting my neck to either side, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of it cracking.

I nudged Spot gently in the side with my toe, and he stirred, his throat emitting a soft, whimpering noise that was so adorable, my heart clenched. I nudged him a little harder and crouched down, feeling my back ache with complaint as I did so. Selling was going to be a bitch today.

Suddenly, I remembered. There would be no selling today. We were, as Jack and his boys had made very clear the previous evening, on strike. Today would be the day that Brooklyn would have to make its allegiance known.

I shook Spot once more, and he finally woke, looking up at me with bleary eyes, and I saw, for the first time, Spot Conlon unmarked by his role as hardened leader. I saw him completely unmasked—the real Spot Conlon that he hid every day. His eyes were soft and kind, and his lips, usually smirking or preparing to do so, were relaxed. What I saw in his eyes—the sadness and self-doubt of a boy thrust into manhood before he was ready—almost knocked me backward.

But it was gone in a split second, and the King of Brooklyn returned with full force. He stood quickly, looking around for his trousers, shirt, and suspenders. He found them, along with his shoes and all my clothing, draped over a crate.

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice gruff with sleep.

"I don't know," I replied, looking around to the street. "There's not really anyone around, and the sun's not even up, and it's still deep-dark. I'm guessing one, maybe two?"

He sighed tiredly. I was tired too. We'd been up nearly all of the previous night, talking about the upcoming strike, and what he, Spot, was going to do to defend Manhattan. That, however, got to be a tedious way to pass time after a while, and we resorted to our favorite pastime.

Shhh.

"Are you jus' gonna walk home, then?" he asked, pulling on his clothes quickly, readying himself, it seemed, to catch some more sleep in the lodging house.

I immediately felt scorned. I had been hoping he would ask me to stay. But that was ridiculous, really. I was just a deal to him. Nothing more.

I nodded wearily and pulled on my skirt, camisole, blouse, and stockings. I was lacing up my boots when Spot, who had, for some reason, been sitting on a crate, watching me, spoke up with, "You know, it's still dark. Maybe you should just come in and wait till it's at least light out. We don' need t' sell t'day anyway, so ya wouldn' be missin' nothin'."

I was shocked. In a good way. I merely stared at him for a moment, trying to discern from his expression whether this invitation meant something more than just…just…protecting me as a part of our deal.

When his face revealed nothing, I shrugged nonchalantly and said, in what I hoped was a casual tone, "Sure."

Moments later, we were upstairs in his bedroom, and I fully expected him to fling off his clothing, and then mine, and hurl me onto the bed, as that was what usually happened the moment we set foot into this room.

As he began to disrobe, I found myself unexpectedly overtaken by disappointment. So this was just another call for sex, was it? But I was surprised, yet again, when he stopped the removal of his clothing when he reached his underwear.

He turned down the blankets and slid agilely into the bed. He glanced over to where I stood by the closed door, transfixed, and said, "Aren't you gonna sleep?"

I had never slept with him—in his bed or elsewhere—when there hadn't been sex beforehand. Without responding, I removed all of my clothing save for my bodice and petticoat, and approached the empty side of the bed, not entirely certain of myself.

My eyes were drawn, in the flickering light of the candle on the bedside table, to the clock on the dresser. 2:16 AM. I stared at the hands of the clock, transfixed as the minute hand swept smoothly around the face of the clock.

I tore my eyes from the clock and looked down at Spot, taking in his candlelit features.

"Well, get in," he said softly, looking into my face with eyes I'd never seen before. They weren't full of lust or arousal, or anger, or hardness. They were tired, inviting, soft. Safe, almost.

I slipped beneath the covers. I hoped against hope that he would pull me to him and cuddle into me, but he merely rolled over, blew out the light, and promptly fell asleep. Feeling, in spite of myself, close to tears, I gazed up at the ceiling and, in time, fell into sleep as well.

When I woke up a few hours later, the dim dawning light lit the room just enough to allow me to see the clock. 4:47.

I knew that boys started lining up for the morning editions at about 6:30. I knew that Jack and his boys wouldn't let any more scabs get through this morning, and that Spot, as he'd promised, needed to help. We'd have to organize Brooklyn and leave soon in order to get there in time.

As I made a move to sit up, I realized, for the first time, that Spot, though he had begun his nap with his back to me, had not taken the whole of it that way. He was nestled, laying on his right side, into my left, his head resting gently near my collarbone, his left arm thrown over my stomach. I smiled, feeling pleasure seep through my body, ending at my toes, which tingled with satisfaction.

I sighed, knowing that we had to get up, cursing time for not moving more slowly so I could just relish this moment. I sat up quickly, completely, and my fluid movement woke Spot, who rolled over, automatically rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I looked down at him, waiting for him to open his eyes. I wondered it he would look around at me in surprise, having forgotten I was there, or if he would look irritated that I had woken him instead of just leaving on my own. Or if (I tried not to hope) he would smile and kiss me.

He did none of the above.

He looked over at me with no trace of surprise, or irritation, or a smile. He looked into my face with his tired eyes that were hardening with each passing second and said flatly, "So I guess you're waitin' for me t' go t' Jacky-boy's rescue, eh?"

I decided to smile innocently. "You can do whatever your little heart desires, Conlon." At his taken-aback look, I added, "but if you don't go help him, your little friend," I gazed meaningfully at his pelvic area, "won't be getting what it desires."

He looked shocked and indignant, and I fought down a giggle. "First of all," he began hotly, "little ain't somethin' I'd use t' describe that p'ticular part of my body, and second, y' can't pull that shit, Gleam, it's in the fuckin' deal."

I was kind of riled at how angry he was getting, but decided I was having way too much fun screwing with him to back down now.

I licked my lips in the self-satisfied way I knew made him, well, hot and bothered, to be perfectly clichéd about it. "Well, I'll of course let you use my…equipment…but I won't play back—and I know that's your favorite part."

His eyes flashed, and he moved as though to grab my arms and hold me down. He certainly put his hands around both my wrists as he turned to me.

My heartbeat quickened, and I wasn't quite sure if I was scared or turned on.

As he looked into my face, however, the heated anger left his eyes and he sighed. He even threw on a bit of the Conlon smirk as he said, "Well, I guess I'd better wake the boys and get to 'Hattan quick-like."

My heart returned to its normal rhythm in my chest, and the knot I hadn't realized had formed in my stomach when he'd grabbed me untied itself with a whooshing rush. I smiled at him, a shy, childlike smile I gave him all the time.

"I don't buy that shit, Gleam," he said, but his tone didn't match his harsh words, "You're not as innocent as that smile makes y' look, and you know it."

I laughed outright and hopped out of the bed. I pulled on my clothes with lightning speed and looked over at him. He was still sitting on the bed, merely gazing at me with a slightly glazed look in his eyes.

"Well?" I said loudly, shaking him back to attention, "Are you going or what?"

He nodded silently, still looking troubled about something. But he just walked from the room and into the bunkroom. I could hear him shaking boys from their sleeps and shouting names.

"Zip! Get up! Run to 'Hattan and scope out what'cha can. Don' let 'em know you're there, y'hear?"

I heard Zip's quick feet hit the floor. He zoomed into the washroom and was out the bunkroom door within the minute, sprinting past where I stood near the doorway, sparing me only a small, knowing smile. I flushed, recalling what'd he ran in on the previous afternoon.

"Bourbon, get off y' ass, man! Help me get the boys up!"

Spot and Bourbon—the dark, devastatingly good-looking right-hand man—swept through the room, hitting boys upside the head and in the feet, waking them as I'd heard them do every morning I'd been there.

"Alt!" Smack.

"Shifty!" Smack.

"Water!" Smack.

"Brandy!" Smack.

And so on it went, until the bunkroom was swarming with hurrying, sleep-addled boys stumbling around washing and dressing.

Spot stalked past me and back into his room without a word, his hair wet and his face and hands freshly scrubbed. He came back out in less than two minutes, wearing the same worn chocolate brown pants, brown and crème checked shirt, and red suspenders he'd worn the day before. He jammed his grey hat on his head and checked himself to make sure he had his slingshot, cane, and necklace on.

He bounded down the stairs with the laces of his black shoes untied, and I followed him down.

He arrived at the front door and threw it open to greet the gorgeously sunny day that was approaching quickly. He leaned casually against the doorframe, holding the door open with his back.

He bent to tie his shoes, and when he straightened, I was standing right in front of him. Anyone else would have jumped, even if just slightly, but Spot just gave me a level stare for a few moments before turning his head to the stairs and yelling, "Come the fuck on, boys! We gotta get t' 'Hattan before the papes come out!"

Almost immediately, feet pounded on the stairs as the boys came down them. Most ran by Spot without questioning why they were heading to Manhattan at five A.M., but Bourbon, as right-hand man, seemed to feel he was entitled to an answer.

I'd never really spoken to him, as Spot tended to keep me clear of Brooklyn's bashes and the jealous little alley cats that frequented them, hoping to sleep with the leader of Brooklyn that night, but from the little I'd seen of him, Bourbon seemed like a good guy.

And, like I said, he was devastatingly good-looking. Though, for some reason, however much I appreciated the fact that his chiseled jaw-line, dark eyes you could swim in, full lips, and tan, tan skin that covered lean, sinewy muscles, and dark, curling hair that fell into those gorgeous eyes was enough to make any girl weak in the knees, I still felt, somehow, that he didn't hold a candle to Spot.

Jeez. I was in deep.

"Spot," Bourbon began slowly, his dark eyes squinty and bemused, as he adjusted his hat on his loose curls, "Why 'xactly is we goin' t' 'Hattan?"

Spot stood fully, holding the door open for Bourbon and me. We took his cue and walked out. I tried to look uninterested and cutely stupid, like every other girl that hung around the Brooklyn Lodging House. But even as I looked down into the street, where the other boys milled around, waiting for the signal to leave, I listened closely.

"Bourbon, Jack's takin' this strike business real serious. They soaked the scabs who took the Evenin' Edition yesterday, and we both know Pulitzer and his goons ain' gonna let 'em get away with that again, so we gotta go and give 'em some backup."

I watched them out the corner of my eye as Bourbon took this in.

Bourbon nodded, and I knew, somehow, that as soon as David, Jack, and Boots had taken their leave the previous day, he had, like me, tried to convince Spot to help Jack.

"So this means we's in this, then, Spot?" Bourbon asked, managing to look both determined and apprehensive at the same time.

"Yep," Spot said simply, as though it were really no big deal. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

"An' so that means that all the other boroughs is pro'ly in this, too, then?" he finished.

"If they wanna be," Spot said, and this time, I had to turn my back to they wouldn't see my grin. Bourbon and Spot—and I—knew that if Spot and Brooklyn were in this, then everyone else was too.

Bourbon sighed. "God, a fuckin' strike. Just another normal day, 'eh? He said, chuckling.

I turned back as Spot shook his head, looking resigned to the idea. "Well, it sure as hell ain't normal. But…we deal."

They stood in silence for a moment, both of them looking perturbed and uneasy in spite of themselves.

"Well, let's get this shit rollin' then," Bourbon said decisively and suddenly, and he jumped the steps, landing cat-like in the street. He turned and faced Spot, and from where I stood on the middle step, I felt an awkward in-the-spotlight sensation.

As Spot addressed his boys, I decided to make my exit. I walked down the steps and headed in the direction of home, the opposite direction the boys where heading to get to Manhattan.

I heard Spot ask the boys if they all had their slingshots, and I felt the first twinge of worry. What was going to happen when Pulitzer grabbed his goons and tried to stop to the boys?

I shook off my anxiety and told myself that Spot could take care of it, that he could handle it. Honestly, I really thought Spot Conlon could handle and take care of anything.

I looked back once and saw the boys heading to Manhattan at a slow jog, some jumping on others, play-fighting and laughing.

I turned back and kept on down the street toward Queens. As I neared the corner, I heard footsteps clicking softly on the cobblestones behind me, and I slowed, turning as I did.

It was Spot. The troubled, bothered look had returned to his face, and he just looked at me in a completely irritating way.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked, feeling impatient and even a little panicky. Jack and his boys needed help, and here he was, standing in front of me, silent as a mute.

"Were you being serious?" he asked, his voice annoyed but anxious, as though he really wanted to know but was angry with himself for caring. At my blank look, he continued, "I mean, about not…" he cleared his throat and pursed his lips in a 'tough guy' expression. "Playin' back?"

I gaped at him, shocked that he would even dwell on that. "Well, I was mostly just trying to convince you to help, but…just thank your lucky stars you'll never have to find out just how kidding I was and get to Manhattan."

I smiled softly and grasped his forearm briefly, turning to go. I turned back almost immediately, before he had even turned to rejoin his boys.

On a crazy whim, I kissed him soundly on the lips, pulling him to me by cupping my right hand around the nape of his neck.

"Good luck," I said softly, and turned rapidly, embarrassed with myself. I again started off toward home. I looked back as I turned the corner, and caught a brief glimpse of Spot Conlon, usually so tough and self-assured, standing in the middle of the deserted street, the first two fingers of his right hand resting on his lips, an utterly nonplussed expression on his face.

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End Notes:

I know this always seems to take a while, but, well, what with being busy running around and being crazy 'cause it's summer, and my boyfriend and I breaking up, I just haven't really been in the mood to write. But, I suppose thinking about stupid, frustrating boys inspired me to finally finish this chapter, since Spot is so dumb sometimes. (We love him.)

Review:)

Panic! lyric: "It sure as hell ain't normal, but we deal." –Camisado.

Panic! concert Thursday, July 13!