Jack shivered in the chill air, trying not to let the motion travel down his arms to where his hands rested on David's shoulder, buried beneath a double layer of blankets. If he was sitting up and not sleeping, he'd reasoned, he didn't actually need his blanket. And if David wasn't awake, he couldn't protest the extra one. It had sounded pretty good in his head, anyway.

Well, at least his fingers were warm. And the unexpected drop in temperature tonight meant that he probably wasn't in much danger of dozing off anytime soon. Spine aching from the strain of sitting up for so many hours, he slid another look at where Spot slept nearby, the other four loosely grouped beside him. In the end, the Brooklyn boys hadn't even stirred when everyone else had crept cautiously around them some hours later, finding their own places to bed down for the night.

Even in the cramped space of the tunnel, there was a good ten feet between the newcomers and the other nearest sleepers. Jack—and David—were the only two within that radius, and even then, Jack had wordlessly made sure to set David between himself and the wall.

His wrist was starting to ache again. He could cool it against the iron plating, but that meant having to pull his fingers out from under the blankets and having to reach over David. If he'd thought about it earlier on, he could've wrapped his hand in a wool rag and not worried about the cold at all. He could still do it now, but that would take effort, and he was so goddamned tired.

The sharp air stung the back of his throat and he turned, stifling a brief coughing fit against his shoulder.

Five new mouths to feed. God. What they'd bought from Juergen today was barely enough to cover those they'd had before, let alone another five. Still, Spot's boys looked to be in pretty good shape, exhaustion notwithstanding. Give them a few days to recover their strength, and they'd be a welcome addition to the scavenging teams, or—better yet—to the teams who waited as backup in the nearby streets. There'd never been enough backup to go around. Who'd cross goons as big as these?

"Run outta sheep to count, Jacky-boy?"

Jack's head shot up. He could've sworn that whisper was Spot's, but Spot's eyes were still closed.

Oh, hell. Of course they were.

"Somethin' like that," he whispered back.

"You the only one up?"

"No. We always got three up for the night watch." Which was perfectly true. Jack didn't happen to be one of them, but Spot didn't need to know that. "The others is down at the other end," he added.

Spot's eyes opened slowly, and Jack took a small involuntary breath as the pale gray gaze flicked in his direction. It was all too obvious that those eyes failed to focus on him, and yet he couldn't quite shake the feeling that Spot somehow just...knew, regardless.

Or maybe, Jack thought with a sigh, the low light and his own fatigue were conspiring to play games with his mind. He sure wouldn't put it past them.

"What makes you think I wasn't sleeping?" he asked, letting a hint of accusation slip into his voice.

Spot's shoulder lifted in a careless shrug. "You usually sleep sitting up, Jack?"

Jack stared at him. "What?"

"You was coughing earlier," Spot said.

"Oh."

"Don't tell me you'se sick."

"I ain't. Happy?"

"I'll think on it." Spot pushed himself soundlessly to a sitting position, cinching the blanket around his neck. Jack shifted to kneel a few paces closer and leaned forward, taking Spot's arm to draw him towards the wall.

"Don't pull," Spot snapped. He twisted free, reversed the grip by laying his hand on Jack's forearm instead. Carefully, his walking-stick tucked beneath his elbow so that it wouldn't drag, he clambered across the uneven brick floor until he settled next to Jack.

In the dim candlelight, Jack studied him, seeing the prominence of his collarbones where both blanket and thin, ragged shirt gaped open. There were bruises beneath the fabric, here and there.

"So," he whispered casually, "you ever gonna finish your supper, or are we just gonna leave it there in the middle of the tunnel 'til somebody trips over it?"

Spot turned sharply. "What the hell—" His eyes narrowed. "Don't be stupid, Jack, you didn't leave it there."

"You so sure about that?"

Spot froze for a brief instant, caught, then raised his chin. "Nobody leaves food lying around. Not even you."

Jack grinned. "If you say so."

"Don't you patronize me," Spot growled.

Jack dropped the light tone, fast. "Fine. I got enough people down here who ain't eating. Saves me a lot in food, but it loses me a lot in people. So you better have a damn good reason."

"I don't gotta give my reasons to you."

"You stay here, you do."

Spot's fingers slid over his walking-stick. "You'se pushin' it, Jack. It don't concern you."

"Maybe. But you keel over, I gotta get my boys to haul your carcass outta here, that concerns me."

The walking-stick whipped sideways, heavy brass knob halting only a few inches from Jack's chin before he could do more than blink. "A real shame," Spot sneered, "you never knows when to just shut the hell up. Tell me, this what you sound like, now that you ain't got the Mouth around to do your tal—"

Jack stiffened, but Spot had already broken off, lips compressing into a thin line. For a moment neither of them moved; then slowly, the cane withdrew.

"I shouldn't have said that." Despite the admission, Spot's voice was hard. "That was low."

"Even for you," Jack spat.

Spot's jaw clenched, but he stayed silent.

At Jack's other side David stirred, disturbed by the commotion, and Jack was obliged to shake the angry tension from his limbs before pulling the fallen blankets back up over David's shoulder. David quieted again, not quite having come awake.

"You'se damn lucky he didn't hear you," Jack bit out.

For the first time, Spot's face registered open surprise. "Hear me...You mean he's here?"

It was Jack's turn to be surprised. Had Spot really thought...? "You didn't know?"

"I...I figured I'd have heard him by now. Hell, when don't I?"

Understanding dawned: Spot wouldn't have asked. Not when it meant acknowledging that he couldn't see for himself.

And at any other time, he would've been right.

Spot cocked his head slightly, as though listening. "That's who you got there with you, ain't it?" Spot said, very softly.

"Yeah. That's who I got." The confrontation pushed aside, Jack could feel the weariness seeping deeper into his bones, a tangible weight against his back. He rubbed a hand over his face, turned to look at Spot. "We don't call him the Mouth no more."