Disclaimer:

I do not own Newsies or any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge, Disney owns them.

I do not own the character Saiorse "Irish" Callan. Her creator Lady of Tir Na Nog, who has graciously offered the use of "Irish" as a character in this story, owns her.

I am making no money from this story.

Warning:

Rated M for Slash, Sexual Situations, and Adult Language.

Changing of the Guard:

After more than a year providing help and guidance in my writing, pennylayne is stepping down as my beta. She taught me more than she can imagine while encouraging me to relax and have fun. I will be forever grateful.

Beta credit for this chapter goes to the incredibly kind and gracious, Tis a Tale Worth Telling. She is an amazingly talented writer with a fine selection of stories posted at this site. My personal favorite is "Angry Kid With No Money Syndrome." Check out her work. You won't be sorry.

A/N: Pennylanye and her Wonder Twin counterpart Frisky Wallabee have scaled back their writing but have not retired. You can find their work at this site, at the Refuge, and at their Wonder Twins LJ. Don't forget to read Frisky Wallabee's great new one-shots, "I want to Hold Your Hand" and "Jumping Jack Flash."
Chapter 25 – Spot Takes Charge

The noise was a combination of a moan, a cry, and a whimper. Skittery shook Spot's shoulder as gently as he could to wake him, but Spot sprang to his feet with his fists clenched. It took several seconds for him to realize that he was still in the hospital corridor.

"Jeez, Spot. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Spot replied, rubbing his hands roughly across his face. "I'm gonna go outside and have a smoke."

The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened when Spot stepped out into the cold night air. The familiar ching that the Zippo lighter made when he flipped open the top was a comforting sound. He cupped his hands around the flame, and the faint taste of lighter fluid floated past his tongue as he drew on the Camel.

Spot didn't like hospitals. To him, they were a necessary evil resulting in more bad endings than good. He stretched and rubbed the heel of his hand over an annoying tingle in his side, then drew in a deep breath, trying to clear his nostrils of the distinct hospital smell. He was sure that the smell would be with him for days after.

How many times had his mother been brought to the hospital in the same condition as E-Mail? He tried to count them in his mind, but couldn't. There were so many times, and he was so young when it had first happened that the incidents all seemed to run together.

And how many times had he been either taken to the hospital or dumped in the waiting room with the presumption that someone would find him and treat his wounds? His mother hadn't always been willing to answer questions about how he had been injured.

Spot was no older than four when he was first taken to the emergency room. It was the first of many times that he was told to lie about how he'd been hurt. In the years that followed, Spot was taught a myriad of excuses to give the doctors when he was questioned about his injuries. "I fell down the stairs. I walked into a door. I was playing by the stove and burned myself. I tripped on the subway platform and fell against a guy with a cigarette."

The worst were the hospital visits when Spot was older and his father insisted on going with him. Posing as a loving and caring parent, the man would dig his fingers into his son's thin, undernourished arms, forcing him to say, "I was beat up by a couple of guys because I'm a fuckin' faggot, and I deserved it." On the occasion that Spot didn't sound convincing enough, he would receive further "parental care" when they returned home.

Spot was sick of hospitals. He'd just spent the last several hours sitting in the same corridor where they were told only a month ago that Mr. H. had died. He took a long, final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the street. He'd decided that he was going to stay all night, if necessary, to make sure that Specs was okay. Spot knew what he was going through. Maybe having someone there who understood could help Specs to get through this.

Spot craned his neck from side to side as he walked back down the corridor. He could feel his vertebrae pop back into place as he stretched his tight muscles. Billy had sent the other police officers away, and the emergency room had become amazingly quiet.

"Your friends are doing okay, and we have all the information that we need," Billy told Skittery. "You and Spot can take off any time you like."

"What about Specs?" Spot asked, coming from behind.

"He's with Dutchy's mom now," Billy replied. "They're speaking with a drug counselor about Dutchy's rehab. Mrs. Schuyler is going to spend the night here, so, when they're finished, I'll have a radio car take Specs home."

"I'm gonna stay and wait for him," Spot said.

"You don't have to do that," Skittery assured him. "I'll make sure that he gets home okay."

"C'mere a minute," Spot said, nudging Skittery to an empty section of the corridor. "Look, Skitts. I don't want to step on your toes or anything. I understand that Specs is your best friend, but I'm the one who knows what he's going through right now. I think that under the circumstances, I can do him more good than you can by holding his hand. Tomorrow you two can go back to being Batman and Robin, but for tonight, let me be his friend, okay?"

Skittery let out a slow breath from between his tightened lips and nodded. "Okay. You're probably right," he said with sad resolve. "But don't you want me to drive you guys home?"

"No, Skitts. We'll be fine. Stop trying to protect him. He doesn't need that tonight. Go home and get some rest. You can take over tomorrow. He's gonna need you then."

"Oh, no, I'm not!" Irish declared with her hands on her hips.

"Don't argue with me," Billy said. "This can't be helped."

"I called you because I didn't want to have to talk with Ma and Da about this. If you take me home now Ma's gonna be at me like some brain-sucking alien, and she won't be satisfied with the Reader's Digest version. I called you because I didn't want to have to go through that."

"I'm sorry, kiddo, but what happened with Dutchy and E-Mail changes things. I have to go back to work right away, and I may not be home for a few days. I'll have a radio car take you back to your house. I promise that you and I will have a nice, long talk as soon as I can get away."

"A police car? You want to send me home in a police car?"

"I told you that I have to go back to work, and I don't have time to drive you home. You'll have to go in a radio car."

"The hell I will! I'm not riding in a damn police car!"

"You're going to do as I tell you to do, and you're gonna watch that mouth of yours. You're beginning to sound like street-trash."

"Stop ordering me around, and don't correct my language! You're not my father!"

"It's a good thing for both of us that I'm not your father, or…"

"Or what?"

"I can drive her home," Skittery volunteered.

"Oh, that's just fine! Go ahead and take his side!" Irish bristled.

"I'm not taking anybody's side, so lose that attitude!" Skittery snarled. "All I did was offer you a ride home!"

"I like you, kid." Billy laughed, raising his hand to exchange a spirited high-five with Skittery. "Anybody who can put my sister in her place is okay with me!"

A muffled growl of frustration ripped from Irish's throat. She stomped away and flopped down onto the bench, folding her arms across her chest.

"Damn, that sister of yours has got a temper," Skittery said, moaning.

"I can hear you, ya know," Irish grumbled. "I'm sitting right here!"

"I know," Skittery snapped. "I wanted you to hear me! Oh, that's real mature. Go ahead and stick your tongue out at me again."

"That's enough!" Billy demanded. "You are going to drive her home, and you are going to keep your mouth shut and go with him!"

"Good!" Irish smirked. "He can drop me off at your place on his way home!"

"Quiet!" Spot shouted. "You're in a God damn hospital, for shit shake. If you're gonna act like a bunch of fifth-graders, then take it outside!"

After several seconds of deafening silence, Peggy leaned over the counter and called over to Spot, "Thank you," then shot a glaring look at Billy.

"Sorry," he mumbled, then took a calming breath and went to sit by Irish. "Look, kiddo, I'm sorry that I ordered you around, okay? I appreciate that you trust me enough to call me when you have a problem, but you have to understand where I'm coming from. You can't stay at my place by yourself. They haven't rented any of the other apartments in the building yet, so you'll be completely alone. It just isn't safe. Besides, I don't understand what your problem is about going home. We have great parents. They love you, and they'd do anything for you."

"I know that Ma and Da are great, Billy. I love them, too, but you're the one I called. There are certain things that I can't talk about to them or anyone else. They just wouldn't understand. I couldn't tell them what you and I talked about tonight, and there's no way they would have let me come here. When they find out that I talked you into bringing me here, I'll be grounded for life."

"Don't you think that you're overreacting just a bit?"

"No, Billy, I don't. They are a lot harder on me than they were on you. I can't get away with half the things you did when you were in high school."

"That a comforting thought," Billy mumbled, his teen years flashing before his eyes.

"Damn-it, Billy. You really were brought home by the police when you were my age. You got into all kinds of trouble. Da always jokes about how he expected that you'd be the one in handcuffs instead of the one making the arrests. You got away with murder, and you know it. All it takes for me to get grounded is for Attila the Nun to send home a note saying that I rolled my eyes at her or something. It isn't fair, Billy."

"I know it isn't fair, kiddo, but there is nothing I can do about this tonight. I'll try and call home tomorrow and see if I can get the folks to ease up on you a bit."

"Truthfully, Billy, I wouldn't call the house for a while if I were you."

"Why not?" Billy asked cautiously.

"Because I don't think that you'll be happy to hear what Ma has to say about you bringing me to a police investigation at a hospital in the worst part of town."

"But you asked me to bring you! No—no, you begged me to bring you!"

"I know, Billy, and I'll tell Ma it was all my fault, but you know what she's going to say."

"Oh, God." Billy groaned. "I can hear her already. 'Have you taken leave of your senses? I don't care if she did beg you to take her; she's only a child. You must be daft to have taken your baby sister into an environment like that! Where did your father and I go wrong? You were such an intelligent child. Heaven knows what could have happened!'"

"That was pretty good," Irish said, laughing. "You sound just like her."

Billy narrowed his eyes and looked at his sister for a moment, and then his expression changed. He went over to Skittery and tapped him on the shoulder, then gestured for him to follow. "Were you planning on driving back to campus tonight?" Billy asked.

"No. I don't have to be back until Tuesday morning. I was gonna flop with Spot tonight, but I guess I'll go back to my parents' place. Why'd you ask?"

"Do you think that you could put up with my sister for a little longer?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"I hate to ask you this, but would you consider crashing at my place with Irish? I won't let her stay there alone, so you'd really be helping me out of a jam if you stayed with her."

"Let me get this straight, Billy. You want me to stay with your sister—alone—at your apartment?"

"Uh huh."

"As in me and her—alone—with nobody else around?"

"What? Are you afraid of the dark, or something?"

"No. I'm jut surprised, is all. You seem like you're pretty protective of Irish. I wouldn't think that you'd let her stay at your place with a guy."

"You're not just any guy," Billy said, patting him on the back. "Irish told me all about you. She trusts you and she likes you, and I trust her judgment. Besides, I saw you and Specs in action that day at the pawnshop. I know that you won't let anything happen to her."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I wouldn't have asked you if I wasn't."

"Well, if it's okay with Irish…."

"Bill?" Peggy asked as she watched Irish and Skittery get on the elevator. "Are you sure that it's a good idea to let Skittery stay alone with your sister? He seems like a nice guy and all, but…"

"But what?"

"But he's hot! You just sent your little sister off to your apartment to spend the night alone with a hot college guy. Are you crazy?"

"Don't worry." Billy laughed. "Irish is perfectly safe with Skittery."

"And why is that?"

"He's gay, babe. Most of my sister's friends are gay. There is nothing Irish has that Skittery could possibly want."

Spot remained motionless as he lay in his sleeping bag staring at the ceiling. He focused on a faded bit of crape paper streamer that was taped to one of the beams. It looked as though it had been there since he was a student, and he wondered for a moment if it actually had.

He thought back to that night almost a year ago when he and Specs were summoned to the hospital. They both stood angry and helpless as the doctor announced the little boy's time of death. They each knew what the other was thinking. They both wanted to kill the child's mother. She was shackled to a gurney in the next cubicle screaming about her rights and being more concerned with the fact that she needed a fix than with the death of her child. The only thing that kept Spot from killing the woman was hearing his partner say the words aloud. He knew without a doubt that if he didn't get Specs out of there he would actually kill her.

That was the night that they ended their partnership. Neither wanted the break-up, but it became amazingly clear what they needed to do. Specs swore on his life that he would do everything in his power to stop the seemingly endless flow of narcotics that was taking over their city. He wasn't a fool. He knew that he couldn't stop it, but that wasn't going to keep him from trying. He owed it to Dutchy, and he owed it to the little boy.

Spot had also made a decision that night. He promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep another child from being hurt. He owed it to the little boy, and he owed it to himself. He would rather die than allow another child to be abused, victimized, or killed.

Agreeing that they each needed to follow their own path was one of the toughest things that either Specs or Spot had ever done. They would always be partners, and they would always be brothers, but that night and that child had changed the course of their lives.

Spot was thankful that the gym was so quiet. It made him relatively sure that he hadn't cried-out in his sleep. It had been almost a year since he'd dreamed about the hospital. He'd hoped that the dreams that plagued him were gone for good. At least this dream wasn't as bad as the others. This one wasn't about when he was a child. This was about Dutchy and E-Mail and Itey. It was about the bond that had formed between him and Specs. A bond that, to this day, remained unshakeable. He sighed and shifted slightly to massage an annoying tingle in his side.

"Are you okay, Spot?" Mush whispered, turning inside of their sleeping bag and laying an arm across Spot's chest.

"Why are you still awake, Mushy?" Spot asked, pulling him closer so that Mush's face was nuzzled into his neck.

"You were making noises in your sleep. You sounded like my daughter when she has a nightmare… You were dreaming about the hospital again, weren't you?"

Spot pulled away slightly and looked at Mush. "What? Are you a mind reader, or something? Since when can you tell what someone is dreaming?"

"This isn't the first time we've slept together, you know. We were friends for a lot of years before we got together. Remember all those nights we slept in the backyard in my dad's old camping tent? You had a lot of bad dreams back then, and you used to cry in your sleep about the hospital."

"Is that so?" Spot said pulling Mush close again. The feel of his tight, dark curls against Spot's cheek was both comforting and arousing. "How come you never mentioned this before now?"

"Because bad-ass Spot Conlon would never admit to having nightmares, but I could always tell when you were having that dream. You'd wake up fast with your fists clenched like you were going to fight someone. Then, after a few seconds, when you realized where you were, you'd start rubbing that scar on your side." Mush reached up under Spot's shirt and ran his thumb over the still jagged skin.

Spot's body tensed and he attempted to pull away, but Mush's large hand held him still.

"It's okay, Spot," Mush whispered. "It's okay."

Spot remained tense for a few long moments, and then relaxed as Mush's warm fingers moved easily down his side. "You're wishing you had a cigarette, too, aren't you, Spot?"

"What are those, crystal balls you've got zipped inside those jeans?"

"Damn-it, Spot!" Jack shouted from across the room. He tossed a shoe, deliberately missing the couple by several feet. "Will you shut the fuck up and go to sleep already!"

"You haven't changed all that much since we were kids," Mush whispered, avoiding the wrath of Jack and his other shoe. "Whenever you had that dream, you'd always go and have a cigarette to calm your nerves. Then you'd take that Zippo lighter of yours and twirl it over your knuckles while you smoked. I was watching you just now, and you were moving your fingers just like you did when you had that lighter."

"I'm beginning to wonder which one of us is the detective, Mushy. I think that maybe you missed your calling."

"Nah, I could never do what you do. If I had to see all the things that you see every day, I'd be more screwed up than I am now."

"Everybody's got baggage, Mushy. You just carried yours around by yourself for too long. But you and me are gonna go and see that shrink friend of Dutchy's and we're gonna work through all of this. Your stuff and my stuff."

"It was all that talk about Dutchy and E-Mail and Itey in the hospital that brought it back, wasn't it?"

"I suppose." Spot sighed and closed his eyes, now basking in the feel of Mush's calloused hands against his skin. "But the past can't hurt us anymore, Mushy. We've got the rest of our lives to look forward to."

"Do you think that we can do it, Spot? Do you really think that we can make this work?"

"Sure we can, Mushy," Spot said, placing a kiss on top of the wiry curls that he'd missed so much. "If you decide that being together is what you really want, then we'll make it work."

"It is what I want."

"Then we'll make it work… Unless…"

"Unless what?" Mush asked, his voice sounding noticeable shaken.

"What about Katie? Suppose that kid of yours doesn't like me. We can't force her to like me, you know."

"You've got nothing to worry about, Spot. She's gonna love you. Little kids always loved you. It's adults that think you're a pain in the ass."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, shut it. You know that I'm right. Besides, I'm the one that has to be worried—not you. That kid is so much like you that it's almost creepy. That temper of hers and the way she glares at me when she's angry is uncanny. I half expect her to flip me off and shout at me with a Brooklyn accent when I send her to her room for a time-out. It's like you've been haunting me for the last three years."

"She sounds like a great kid." Spot grinned.

"Yeah, she is," Mush said, nestling into Spot. "Like I said, I'm the one who has to worry. You'll take one look at that smile of hers and she'll have you wrapped around her little finger. Then the two of you are going to gang up on me whenever you can."

"Sounds wonderful," Spot said, enjoying the strange sensation warming his chest.

"Yeah," Mush whispered sleepily. "It does."

END Chapter 25

Thanks for reading. Your reviews will be greatly be appreciated.

A/N: There is a fabulous new writer, here at F.F. (and the Refuge). Her p/n is cymbalism. All of her work is wonderful, but you really must check out her one-shot "As to Understand." It is without a doubt one of the best slash works, and positively the best Javid, I've encountered. Do yourself a favor and read "As to Understand."