Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first Newsies fic!); let me know what you think!

Chapter 10: Falling Apart

"Davey!" David turned around to see Crutchy hobbling across the schoolyard, a smile on his face. "Aw, I's glad to see ya."

"Crutchy?" David asked, feeling dozens of curious eyes on him. They were judging him—and Crutchy too, he knew—with their unabashed glances. And David, looking at his friend, saw him through their eyes. He was as skinny as ever, pale, limping, and dirty. His smile was strained, though it still retained its honesty and warmth. And David was not ashamed. He went to meet the other boy as the entire schoolyard watched.

"Dave, we's got a problem."

"What's that?" David asked, lowering his voice to keep the other students from hearing. They wouldn't understand, and while David knew he could take the taunting they gave him, he knew he couldn't take the taunting of Crutchy.

"Crutchy!" A younger boy barreled his way through the students and launched himself at the newsie, but David, in a well-practiced gesture, caught him by the shirt and pulled him back. Letting Les run Crutchy over was probably not what Crutchy needed.

"Hiya, Les," Crutchy said, but David could see through the affected enthusiasm. "Ya mind if I talks wit' your bruddah for a minute?"

"Can't I listen?" Les asked.

"I'll tell you later," David told him. Then it wouldn't matter. Whatever the problem was, David could edit it. Just like a newspaper headline. Selling the story to his little brother. But the promise seemed to satiate Les, and he backed off.

David tilted his head to the far side of the fencing around the schoolyard and Crutchy nodded, the two moving over to the secluded patch of broken cobblestones. David could still feel eyes watching them, but at least their conversation could be kept quiet.

"Jack's gone," Crutchy whispered.

"Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. No one knows. Blink an' a couple a' the others, they went out to try an' find him last night, but he ain't anywheres nearby."

"When'd he leave?"

"Yesterday, I think. He was there, in the lodgin' house, in the mornin', but real quiet, ya know? An' then, I seen him at the distribution desk that same mornin'. But not after that. Just took his papes and disappeared. Then didn't come back to the lodgin' house. No one seen him."

David looked like he wanted to swear, and Crutchy glanced away awkwardly, but all David said was, "I'm coming over to the lodging house."

Crutchy nodded as if he'd expected that. "Right now?" He looked over at the other students again. "Ain't school over for the day?"

"Yeah." David hesitated. "Give me an hour or so. So I can take Les home and tell Mama where I'll be. Maybe Jack'll have turned up by then."

"Sure, Davey. Thanks a lot." Crutchy paused, then lowered his voice again and asked, "Do—do ya know why Race left?"

David frowned. "I guess maybe he thought that there was nothing holding him to Manhattan."

"That ain't true, though, is it?"

"Whether it's true or not doesn't matter," David told him. "Whether Race believes it or not does."

******

"Dave?" was the first thing David heard when he walked into the lodging house, nearly two hours after he'd left Crutchy. Mush was pulling on his sleeve. "Davey, I gots to talk wit' ya."

"Do you know what's going on?" David asked.

Mush nodded solemnly as several other newsies hurried over, shouting out welcomes to David. "Davey!" "What'ch'ya doin' here?" "You's come to see Jack?" "Where's Les?" "Heya, Dave!" "Davey, you seen Jack anywheres?"

 "Actually, I have to talk to Mush for a minute, all right, guys?" David said, putting a hand on Crutchy's shoulder and giving them all what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Then he let Mush lead the way to a back room he'd never been in before. A small cot stood in the corner, by a small dresser and a raggedy old desk. Must be Kloppman's room, David realized.

"I know why Race left. And why Jack left," Mush said very, very quickly. "I knows why, only I ain't told no one, and I don't really wanna tell no one, but I gots to tell ya, Davey, 'cause maybe you's gonna know what to do, 'cause I really don't. I just don't think that they wanted me to—"

"Slow down," David interrupted. "It's all right, Mush. Can you—can you tell me what happened? Why they left?"

"Yeah." Mush hesitated, biting his lip, then blundered on. "They got in a fight, yellin' at each other, an' Race said that Jack let us all down, and then…jackitum."

"What?"

"They gots in a fight."

"No, I got that part," David said. "What was the last bit?"

"Jack…Jack hit him."

"Jack…hit Racetrack?"

Mush looked around worriedly, as though Jack might come out from the wall and pound on him next. "Y-yeah."

"Why? What did Race say to him?"

"I don't remember," Mush said miserably. "I think that was the part 'bout lettin' us down. An' Jack just kinda lost it. Hit him an' then told him that if he left, he couldn't come back."

"And that's when Racetrack walked out," David concluded quietly, the gears in his mind churning. The black eye. That's where he got it. From…Jack. "But when did Jack leave? Crutchy said it was yesterday."

"Uh, yeah, been gone since yesterday mornin', I think."

Since the morning after I walked him back to the lodging house, David thought. He looked up at the curly-haired newsie, who was frowning hard at the floor. "Mush… I'm sorry you saw it."

"Shut up," Mush said sharply, in a voice David had never heard from him. "That's what Jack said too."

"Listen," David said, his voice taking on an equally sharp quality. "It isn't your fault, Mush. All right? You can't blame yourself for what Jack—or Racetrack—said or did. Got it?"

Mush looked at him. "I knows that, Davey."

"Then don't blame yourself."

"It ain't that easy!" Mush exclaimed. "Look, two a' me best friends is gone, an' I's the only one who knows why. I don't even wanna tell no one else, 'cause the reasons is just too awful." He glared at David. "Maybe you don't think this is worth it. Maybe you don't get it. But I gots to do somethin'."

David sighed. "Where do you think Jack went?"

"Dunno," Mush admitted. "Could be anywheres, I guess."

"Do you think he left Manhattan?"

Mush considered that. "Don't think so. Jack ain't got enough dough to get very far, an' he ain't stupid."

"Fine," David said briskly. "Tomorrow afternoon, after school, you and I will go look for him." Mush opened his mouth, but David cut him off. "No, Mush. It's too dark right now. We'll go tomorrow afternoon, after you sell all your papes. All right?" Slowly, Mush nodded. "Good. I've got to get home—I told Mama I'd be home for dinner, and it's getting dark already."

"'Cause a' the rain comin' in," Mush said.

"Yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow? Here?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

"But Davey…"

"What?"

"Don't tell the others 'bout what happened between Race and Jack. They don't gots to know… Please?"

"I won't say a word," David promised, and then he turned and left the room, leaving Mush with the guilt of telling and the uncertainty of tomorrow.

******

"Jack ain't a scabber no more," Spot said suddenly and completely out of the blue. He was sitting on the edge of the pier again, and Racetrack was standing nearby, unwilling to go too close; he was avoiding the danger of getting shoved into the water again. It was too cold and damp already to want to be taking a swim. There were clouds moving in, and rain was inevitable.

Race almost pretended not to hear, but there was really no point. Spot knew he had heard, and besides, all that pretending would do would be make Spot repeat himself, likely more forcefully. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Spot scratched his ear disinterestedly, pretending the words were easy for him to say. "Never was, turns out."

"You's needin' specs, I think," Race said. "Goin' blind. Either that or losin' your mind. Maybe both. Yeah. Prob'ly both."

"C'mere, Race, an' I'll toss y'off the dock," Spot said, making as if to stand.

"Nah," Race said, meandering over and sitting a safe distance from Spot. "Awready washed meself today."

He had his poker face on. But Spot could read it. He could read any Brooklyn newsie, if he wanted. Probably any newsie anywhere, he thought and grimaced. "Jacky-boy had his reasons."

"Yeah. He had his reasons." Race snorted. He rubbed his thumb against his other fingertips, indicating money. "Dough. That was his 'reasons.'"

"Shut up, wouldja?" Spot said harshly. "Ya don't know the whole story."

"An' ya do?"

"Maybe I do." Spot wiped a grimy hand across his face and paused to let that sink in. "He was protectin' his boys."

Race hesitated. 'His boys.' That had to be the Manhattan boys. Racetrack was—had been—a Manhattan boy. "Suuuure," he said, drawing out the syllable. Scabbers didn't protect their boys.

"Pulitzer threatened him wit' you lot. Said he'd put y'in the refuge. All a' ya. The Mouth, even. Jacky-boy knew what that'd do to his family. Ya know, too, Racey. Woulda ruined 'em."

Frowning, Race said, "Pulitzer gave him money. Gave him new clothes. That's what Jack went for."

"Willya shut up and listen!?" Spot turned to glare at him. "Ya think Jacky told us the whole story? Ya think he wanted to tell everyone that the only reason he was workin' for Pulitzer was 'cause he knew that he had to for the rest a' ya? Ya really think Jacky-boy'd come out an' say that!?"

The other boy looked conflicted and uncertain. Would Jack have told the whole truth? If he were protecting us, would he have wanted to say it? If he were protecting David and the rest of us… Would he want to embarrass us?… No! Stop it! Jack let you down, Higgins. He let you down!

"Race…"

"You's wrong," Race said calmly, looking far out into the water. "You's wrong, Spot."

"I's never wrong," Spot said bluntly.

"But you's the one who told me that Jack—" Race broke off, realizing it wasn't worth it. There was no way Spot was even listening. Because Spot Conlon was never wrong. He almost laughed, but didn't. Spot wouldn't like that at all.

"So," Spot went on, ignoring Race's aborted comment. "You's goin' back to 'Hattan."

Race startled. "What!?"

"Did I stutter?" Spot demanded. "I said that you's goin' back to 'Hattan."

"I ain't."

"I's not askin' what you thought," Spot said. "I just told ya that you was."

"That ain't your choice, even," Race protested. "I's free to sell wherever I wants to."

In response, Spot made a fist and slammed it against the wooden pier. Race jumped and inched slightly away from Spot. "Yeah?" Spot said. "That so?"

Okay. That wasn't going to work. Race remembered back to his one true run-in with Spot, all those years ago, back when Race had been a Brooklyn newsie. He couldn't even remember the situation, but he'd made some smart remark back at Spot at a bad time, one that had challenged one of Spot's orders. Normally, it wouldn't have been an issue; Spot would've made a smart remark back and they would've had a brief, good-humored verbal tussle. But Racetrack had made the mistake of running his mouth in front of the other Brooklyn boys.

They had laughed and turned their attention to the Italian wise guy, and Spot had to restore order and repeat his command before it was carried out. Spot Conlon didn't much like repeating his orders, and it had taken two weeks for the swelling in Race's lip to go down and the temporary lisp to fade. During that time, he had found out that nobody took a lisping gambler seriously. Besides—it had hurt. So he knew not to challenge Spot when the Brooklyn leader got in serious mode.

But still…Race couldn't go back to Manhattan. He knew he couldn't. Not after what Jack had said. Not after what Jack had done.

"You was right, though!" Race exclaimed. He touched his eye gently. The shiner was healing, but he still winced at his own light probing. "He did this! Jack did!"

"I woulda done it a lot earlier," Spot said tightly, as though it were hard for him to say. "An' ya knows it."

Race lowered his head. "I ain't goin' back."

"Yeah, you is."

"No, I ain't."

"You ain't stayin' here."

"Spot!" Race said, and fear flashed across his face for the first time. "I can't go back there. I can't! He said I can't go back!"

Spot wasn't heartless, and seeing his old friend—who always prided himself in being the constant wise-guy, the constant tough-guy—so worried was disconcerting. But he had to be firm. "Well, I's sayin' ya can't stay. Ya stay an' I'll soak ya. Ya know I will, Race. Ya know it."

The look on Race's face was certainly priceless, if not downright pitiful. But in response, Spot's own face only hardened. "You's got till tomorrow afternoon, Higgins. Then ya better be gone. Got it?"

Race exhaled deeply, and his fingers reached into his pocket, retrieving a cigar. He lit it and played with it, not smoking, just fidgeting. "He kicked me out," he mused in such a soft tone that Spot almost didn't hear. Then, with a much more familiar look spreading across his face, Race lifted his dark eyes to study Spot. "Got it," he said. "Maybe these nightmares'll stop when I don't gots to see your ugly puss every day."

"Go back to 'Hattan, ya bum."

"Stay in Brooklyn, ya tightwad," Race returned, popping the cigar into his mouth and wondering if he could go back to Manhattan. But he already knew. The answer was no. But his mouth worked, as his years of practice had proven, without the necessity of thoughts or tact. "Only place someone ugly as ya can make it in the world."

"Cheese off," Spot said, and he smiled as he helped Race take another unexpected plunge into the water.

*****

Shout-Outs

JustDuck: Spot's thick head has been penetrated! Whee! (It's hard getting through that thick layer of hair…) Yeah, Jack didn't swear Spot to secrecy as he did David…so Spot can tell the truth (the Truth) at his own discretion. Now onto Race's thick head…

MiseryLovesCompany: Spot finding out was indeed a nice step in the right direction… :) I'm so glad you can see this as a valid continuation of the movie! Yay! :) :)

The Second Batgirl: Yeah, having Spot on your side is probably always a good idea. Especially with things seeming to go downhill for poor Jack right now… Thanks for the review!

B.: I gave Jack depth? Uh oh! ::scans previous chapter frantically:: lol, nah, he's a great character, and I do love him. Spot does indeed seem to understand. He's quite an interesting little bugger, that one. :) And I love him too.

JewelKat: Eep! Can't let you have sleepless nights, lol! Here's an update for you. And thanks for the review!

KP: Thank you; I love getting feedback on how the story's going and how people feel about it. I'm glad you like it on top of that! :D

pmochizuki: I'm so glad you like this! When I write these characters, I try hard to make sure that they act within the scope of what I can imagine the movie-characters doing. :) Nice call! Here's that chat between Race and Spot you predicted…

bookey: Davey fighting was quite surprising, lol, but he's a passionate guy and Race just pushed him a bit too far. Thanks so much for the review—I love hearing what people think about the story!

Thistle: :D I'm sorry for almost making you cry. Spot keeps surprising me. I think there's a lot more depth there than first glance allows. He cares about the fates of his newsies, and he's darn smart…while still being the cool guy.

Angelfish: When I was writing the Spot-Jack confrontation, it just kind of came to a peaceful conclusion. I was so proud of both of them!...keeping their fists to themselves and all. You're right; was a bit of a POOF! spitshake.