Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.
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A/N: Sorry this took awhile to update. My Internet had been really freaky lately and I've been finishing up finals. It doesn't help that I am sick too. Bah humbug! - growls - Spot!Muse gives Raven some chicken soup. Aw… Isn't he sweet? - laughs - Just leave it to Spot to make everything better with his wonderful personality. ^_^ Enjoy!
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Warning: This chapter is rated PG-13 for language and deaths O_O Yes that is right, someone(s) dies in this chapter! - gasp - It isn't like I don't regularly kill people in my fics. ^_^. If either of these are things that will bother or offend you, I suggest you don't read any more. If you are old enough to stomach a few cuss words and a little blood, read on.
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Chapter 2: Counting the Snow
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//Her words are cryptic,
Her expressions are few,
She answers my questions,
Only to leave me with more…//
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The tar worked surprisingly well to keep the cold out of her shoes. Selling went better today as well, she needed it to go well. She had lost a lot of money in the poker game last night. Damn that Spot Conlon. She had drawn a king, she thought she had the game won, but he drew an ace. What were the odds that out of all the cards in the deck, he would draw the only card that would beat hers? He had cheated and she was sure of it. Something in the way his eyes had twinkled right after he drew the card had told her. The tiny glint had been well hidden and almost unnoticeable, but she had notice… the cheating bastard.
Nothing could be done about it now. The game was over and there wasn't any way to prove that he had been cheating. Only a suspicion, that wasn't founded on anything besides something that could have been a trick of light. It didn't really matter though. She still had enough money for a few meals, board, and meals if she watched herself.
"Yous always werah a clevah goil, weren'tcha Spectah?" The voice echoed in the back of her mind. "But yous'll nevah be more clevah dan me. You knows why?" Shaking her head, Frost cleared her head of the memories she longed to forget. Now wasn't the time to reminisce, now was the time to sell papers.
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The wind was biting cold, the sky an ashen gray, random snow flurries obstructed sight and icicles hung from ledges and windowsills. Welcome to New York in the winter. For as unbearably hot it was in the summer, it was miserably cold in the winter. The inferno had changed to an icebox in a mater of weeks. Fall had been especially short lived this season and the boys and girls of Brooklyn had to try extra hard to keep warm in the wrath of old man winter.
One of those boys was newsie leader, Spot Conlon. His hawking area was doing as well as it normally did, but not as well as he would have liked. People were always in a little bit more a hurry when the weather was cold. They didn't like to take a few seconds and move their hand from there warm pocket to hand out a penny or two to a boy selling the headlines. Sighing deeply he looked up into the falling snow.
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"Come on Patrick, we'se goin' ta be late!" John called to his little brother. The boy had been standing in a snowdrift, staring at the sky, trying to count the snowflakes as they fell.
"I'se tryin' ta count da snow!" Protested little Patrick.
"Ya can't count da snow Pat, it's impossible," John sighed and walked over to the little boy, grabbing his arm and pulling him along with him. They had been running slower than normal this morning and were already late.
"Whot's inpostibal?" Patrick asked, jerking his arm away from his brother's rude grasp.
"It means ya can't do it," Rebecca joined the conversation. "Just like ya can't touch da moon, it's impossible," she defined, and John rolled his eyes.
"Why's it inpostibal?" Patrick puzzled.
"Impossible," John groaned, frustrated.
"Impostible," Patrick mimicked.
"Impossible," John corrected.
"In - impost…"
"Impossible."
"Im - poss - i - ble," Patrick finally managed. "Impossible."
"Right," John nodded.
"Nothin' is impossible," Patrick said plainly. "An' someday I'se goin' ta count da snow."
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"Boy, I'd like to buy a paper," a businessman's voice spoke to Spot.
"Huh?" He snapped back into reality from his observances of the weather above him. "Oh, dats goin' ta be a penny mistah," Spot held out his hand and waited for the cold metal bit to be pressed into his palm. When he felt it, he extended the paper and pocketed the coin.
Such was the life of a newsie, nothing more than a human vending machine.
Jingling the coins in his pocket he began to call out the headlines. A few days back, he'd lost his voice from yelling out in the cold, so he was cutting down his yelling and working mainly on a person to person level. Adjusting his papers on his shoulder he headed into the crowd, selling paper after paper, until finally all of his rags were gone. Whistling under his breath, Spot shivered against the cold. No sense in going back to the lodging house, nothing to do there, he was going to go and see the competition. Spot was going to go and see just how good this Frost girl was at selling papers.
Down the streets of Brooklyn, he wove his way, occasionally dipping his hand into someone pocket as he bumped into them on the street. It was almost mindless habit to do such, just like whenever he read something, he picked out the most interesting bits before actually reading it straight through. The boy pushed his way back into the alleyways, moving towards the way he had seen Frost move.
"Look whot we 'ave heah," A voice came from behind Spot. "Looks like a lil' boy's lost 'is way," the voice taunted him, but Spot kept moving. He knew who it was. It was Charlie Pullvine, one of the three brothers that Spot knew he was talking to. The Pullvine brothers were Brooklyn's version of the DeLancey boys. Two were big, ugly, and stupid, the other one, was short, ugly, and the brighter one of the group, which didn't say much about him.
"I ain't lost," Spot continued to walk, not intimidated by the thugs.
"Den why's ya walkin' back heah Conlon?" Charlie, the smallest of the brothers, spoke.
"I'se goin' ta see a frie-" Spot paused. "Someone."
"Ya should knows bettah dan ta walk alone back heah," Growled Chester Pullvine.
"An' why's dat?" Spot turned and walked backwards, so he could look at them.
"Ya nevah know who's ya goin' ta run inta," Charlie made a motion with his hand and both of the goons started towards Spot.
Simply raising his cane, Spot gave each of them a good whack over the head. While they were still stunned, he jogged back, fetching his slingshot and a few shooters. Aiming, he hit Charlie first, who hadn't gotten a taste of his cane, then Chester, then Caleb. The shots were all deadly accurate, giving Spot just enough time to get away.
Hand to hand, Spot would never be able to take those buffoons because they were huge. Even Charlie, the smallest one, was a few good inches taller than he was. They weren't too bright, but they did know how to do one thing, and that was fight. Their reaction time wasn't the greatest, but one solid hit to the jaw from Chester or Caleb and you would be out like a light.
Now in the busy streets, the smaller boy was able to blend into the crowd without so much as a second thought. With a Cheshire smile, Spot watched the three bumbling idiots try to find him, as he stayed hidden behind a street vendor. The group quickly gave up their search, and returned to their shadowy stalking place. Someone wouldn't be as lucky today, the most part of the reason he got away was his reputation and he knew it. Those boys could have easily attacked him at any time when he had his back turned. Never would he admit the fact that this oversized, under-brained, clumsy ox's would be able to get the better of him.
"Look yous, I ain't in youah spot, an' I'se woikin' hahd heah, so would ya mind leavin'?" Spot knew that voice.
"I'se done wit' my papes," he turned to find a very cold looking Frost. "Is da tah woikin' a'ight on ya shoes?" He pointed with his cane.
"Yeah," She pulled her thin coat closer around her narrow shoulders. "It's woikin' fine, t'anks."
"'Ow many papes you got left?" He asked, knowing that she had near forty.
"Dunno," She shifted the papers that she held at their mention. "But I'se gotta go sell dem now," She started to leave.
"A'ight," he made his own moves to leave. "Just don' go back inta doe's allies," he pointed but she didn't ask why, so he didn't tell her. If she didn't want to know, he wasn't going to tell her.
So dis is wheah she's sellin', he thought. I t'ought dis we'ah Ghost sold, he moved towards some steps and took a seat. Not'in wrong wit' lookin', he reasoned. An' if she sells as much as me, I gots a right ta look, he swirled his cane in a pile of sludge.
"Extrie! Extrie! Read all 'bout it! Hookah found froze tied up froze ta deat' outside! Murdah suspected!" Frost called and Spot frowned. What headline had that been? Could it have been the one about the barmaid? Or the article telling of the numerous deaths from living out in the unsheltered cold? Maybe she had combined the two into one more alluring headline. Her shouting continued, but few bought papers.
He went unnoticed, but he watched her every move. It was when he watched her hands that he saw what she was doing. The girl was playing pickpocket with her customers! Spot was flabbergasted. No newsie did that on the job, it just wasn't done! That's how she had gained her money for poker. The girl was a bloody thief. A slow smile crept onto his face. So, this Frost was not only good at selling papers, she stole from those who purchased her wares. He had seen enough, he was cold, and he was going back to the lodging house. Tonight, there promised to be an interesting conversation.
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The strange boy with dark hair and light eyes stared up at the sky again. The frozen angel tears sticking to his eyelashes and the soft planes of his boyish features. Some who passed by would have sworn him to be a statue as he stood so still staring into the heavens above, others that he was asleep, but most didn't dwell on the unusual boy. No, that would take too much time from their own precious thoughts.
"Patrick! Get in heah befoah ya freeze ta death!" His mother called to him from out the window.
"No, I'se countin' da snow!" He insisted.
"You're goin' ta catch youah death!" His mother told him. "Besides, ya canna count tha snow, it be impossible," Her Irish accent clear, overpowering the Brooklyn one that she had learned to use. No one liked the Irish, so she would hide it when she could.
"Not'in is impostable," he frowned and then repeated. "Impossible."
"Don't make me come out there an' get you, lad," His mother threatened.
Blinking for the first time since he had heard his mother's voice, the boy lowered his head with great deliberation. Turning it from side to side, as if to test if it still worked, Patrick looked up at his mother in the window.
"Muddah, how is I goin' ta know if it's impossible if I nevah try?" he asked sincerely.
For that question, the mother had no answer, and let the boy try to count the snow for a few more minutes. It was all she could do, for no real mother had the heart to crash the dreams of her child.
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"So how much did ya steal taday?" Spot dropped the question casually as he walked over. For a moment, he thought that he actually saw a flash of true emotions in her eyes.
"Doncha mean sell?" She returned to her leisurely reclining pose against one of the bunks.
"You knows just whot I mean," Spot moved to the pole opposite of her and met her midnight eyes. "You's a foist hand pickpocket," the smirk was in place.
"I don' know whot da hell yous talkin' 'bout," Frost answered coolly.
"I stuck 'round longs enough ta see ya clean out a couple o' people dis aftahnoon," he answered plainly. "'Ow longs ya bee picking off o' people?"
"I ain't no thief," she took her one long, single braid and tossed her behind her shoulders. "I gets what I get, an' I oin it too."
"I noticed dat you seem ta go foah da people dats wearin' dem long ovah coats," Spot continued. "Ya like dat extrie layah 'tween you an' da poyson?" He asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"I don't knows whot yous talkin' 'bout," She brushed him off smoothly.
"I'se been watchin' yous an' I really t'ink dat yous got da technique wrong," he informed. "Ya really should go foah da right instead o' da left, most peoples ah right handed an' dey drop dere change and wallet in dat pocket," He kept testing her, trying to get some sort of reaction.
"If I were a thief, dis would all be real interestin'," she pushed away from her post. "But I ain't, so it ain't," with that she turned to leave. In one smooth movement, Spot had his hand in one of her pockets and pulled out a large handful of coins.
"An' yous goin' ta tell me dat dis is from sellin' youah papes taday?" The triumphant glow already radiating from his eyes.
"Give dat back," Frost spoke, trying to avoid attracting any more attention than they already had.
"Not till ya tell me wheah ya gots it?" Spot shook his head.
"I gots it from woykin', it's me life's savin's," She lied glibly.
"Us newsies don't steal," Spot said plainly. "At least not on da job," he amended, he had picked his own share of pockets after his papers were gone. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't afford board and food most of the time. "Just wanted yous ta know dat," he handed her back the change he had stolen, knowing that she was lying to him. His point had been made, and his authority position established further. The thought was a bleak reward. Going to his bunk, he grabbed his coat and shrugged it onto his shoulders.
"Wheah yous goin' Spot?" Outsider called when he saw his comrade putting on his jacket. It was freezing outside, and Spot normally stayed in on nights like these.
"I'se goin' foah a walk," he tugged his cap down extra low and trudged out the door. No one noticed the girl that followed him.
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The sky was dropping it's overly full reserve tonight as the tiny white specks dotted the sky and fell to the ground to be trampled by the careless feet of those that passed by. The careless feet of people like Spot Conlon. Without thinking, his feet were taking him to the bridge. The later he stayed there, the less he had to sleep, the less he had to sleep, the less he had to dream, the less he had to dream, the less he had to remember. It was a vicious cycle, but at least it was familiar.
The tiny ice crystals smashed under his feet as he ambled onward, his thoughts consuming him. The normally tall, proud stature was gone, replaced by poor posture with slumped shoulders and dragging steps. The terrible reality of his solitary life was crashing down around him. When he was around his friends, he was more alone than he had ever been in the refuge. Each time he thought of this, the urge to jump returned.
Who knows? He thought. Maybe Is'll do it tanight… his thoughts drifted as he caught sight of something moving behind him in the reflection of his gold tipped cane. Spinning around, he did a sensory search, but not finding anything he returned to his walking, there was something familiar about this night. The way the snow crunched under his feet, and the way it feel from above, the biting cold and the terrible feeling that he held inside. He knew this feeling, from a long time ago, something hidden far away, not for anyone else. Tugging on his cap, he brushed away the mystery and trudged onward to his possible doom.
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// I don't know,
I remember this all,
But I don't,
It's like a memory from a dream…//
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"John, Rebecca, take Patrick down to the diner on the corner, your da an' I have some t'ing we need ta woyk out," their mother said to them, and the older children seemed to know what she meant.
Lately, their father had been coming home in a bad temper and a bottle in his hand. Patrick wasn't sure what was in that bottle, but it smelled terrible and made his dad do things he had never done before without reason. Like hit his mother, his sibling, or him. Before when his dad had thrashed him, it had always been for a good reason. Like after he had been pick pocketing, there had been a reason. Now he would come home, and if Patrick even looked at his father the 'wrong way' it was cause to hit him.
Not understanding his father's mood swings, Patrick would try to talk to his dad, offering comfort only to be shunned or beaten. Lately, his old man had been getting more and more violent. Sometimes, his mother would send them all on an errand, but when they came back, mother was always crying and father was no where in sight. The next day, mommy would almost always have a new bruise.
There had been a lot of money talk too. Patrick couldn't understand what the problem was, but he knew it had to do with the coins and bills that he had seen so many times and the ones that he had stolen. They needed more of it, and Patrick only knew one way to get it. When they went out into the streets tonight, he quickly separated from his brother and sister. Try as the duo might, they couldn't find the little boy who seemed to have vanished into thin air. After a long hard search, they went on, hoping that they would find him on the way. They wouldn't find him though. He was off earning money the only way he knew how.
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//A memory from a dream,
Nothing tangible,
Nothing complete,
Just something that haunts…//
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"Yous don' have da guts ta jump," Spot swiveled his head at the uninvited voice.
"Nevah said I'se gunna," he covered the deep thought that he had been having with his normal cocky mask. "I dunno 'bout yous, but I'se not jumpin'."
"Smoke?" Frost offered as she reached him and he took it from her outstretched hand.
"Gotta match?" his muttered and she provided one. He uttered his thanks and then they both faced out over the siding on the bridge. Silence reigned in a comfortable way for a time before Frost spoke.
"How'd ya know 'bout my pick pocketin'?" She asked and Spot grinned wryly. So, she admitted it.
"I gots my ways," he answered confidently.
"I'se hoyd 'bout youah lil' boidies," she laughed cynically, her laugh turning into a cough.
"'Ave ya now?" He chuckled. "Seems dat evahybody's hoyd 'bout dem, I'se doin' somet'ing wrong I guess," he took a long drag before going on. "But I didn't need 'em foah dis."
"Yous da one dat was spyin' on me?" She asked, voice void of emotion.
"Not spyin'," he shook his head. "Observin'," he nodded.
"Do ya make habit o' watchin' all da new kids 'round dese parts?" She inquired.
"Nah, just da ones I don' trust," Spot answered freely, watching her reaction.
"Didn't 'spect ya ta trust me," she wrapped her mouth around the butt of her fag. "Not many do," she exhaled heavily, watching the smoke swirl upward against the falling snow.
"Ya said yous been a newsie afore," Spot entered the topic smoothly. "Wheah ya sold?"
"Lotsa differ'nt places," she coughed against slightly. "Not all o' dem was in New Yawk," She admitted before taking another deep breath of smoke.
"Outta state?" Spot wondered out loud. That must have been why she could play the vocal chameleon.
"Yea, whot's it to ya?" she turned and blew her smoke into his face in a fairly playful fashion.
"Not'in," Spot didn't flinch under the assault. "Just askin'," the silence drew long again and Spot finally flicked his finished cigarette over the edge of the bridge, followed by Frost's. The conversation was over.
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Through the streets, the little dark hair boy darted. His pale face and sunken cheeks stood testament to his days in the factory, spent away from the light and good food. His dirty hands made their ways into pocket after pocket, taking some of the treasure that they had worked hard to earn.
Though his father had said that this was wrong, what he was doing was wrong too and Patrick knew it. The cold hard metal felt so good in his palm, it made him feel like he finally had control over his own little world. Finally he had his fill and went to find his siblings. He went to the diner, but they weren't there, and he couldn't find them in the streets, so he did what any little boy would have. Patrick went home.
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"Damn ya Spot Conlon," Frost muttered, seeing the confidant swagger approaching him. "Damn ya ta hell," She knew that he was already done selling his papers. While she might sell as many as he did, there was no way she could sell them as fast. "Ya goin' ta make a habit outta watchin' me Conlon?" she asked as soon as he was near enough. "If yous gunna, I'se gunna havta chahge ya," She spoke with a serious enough tone that Spot didn't know if she meant it or not.
"I'se heah ta tell ya somet'ing," he brushed off her comment about payment.
"Whot?" She didn't wait but called out the headline she had doctored.
"Ya sold in Manhattan didn't ya," he stated it more than asked.
"Yea, I'se sold dere," she nodded. "I should tell ya da story some time. Buy me lunch an' I might," she tempted. Any real information from that girl would be welcome, but Spot wasn't about to grovel.
"Well I'se goin' ta dat area an' I makes a habit o' getting' messages from me boys foah da boys ovah dere. Ya got anyt'ing ya want ta tell anybody?" Spot could have sworn that her spine had grown slightly more rigid when he asked, but he assumed it to be wishful thinking of actually getting a reaction out of the girl.
"No," She shook her head, her long braid swinging. "I ain't got no one ta talk ta ovah dere. Dey all hates me," She laughed bitterly at the self-deprecating humor.
"A'ight," he nodded, wondering if she meant what she said, she had a feeling that it was true. "I'se off," with that he was gone, cane swinging, head held high, smirk in place no doubt. The same unapproachable, intimidating, overly confident, bastard that she had heard about. How different than the boy she had shared the smoke with last night. The boy was an enigma, but then again, so was she.
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The leaders were going to Queens today to meet with Brink, their leader. It was only Manhattan and Brooklyn that were going there, but Spot has some things he needed to talk to Jack about before they walked back to Queens. While it was doubling his walking time, he didn't care. Frost had sold there and maybe they knew something about her.
Crossing the bridge to Manhattan, he paused and looked down. It had been awhile since had actually been able to see what was under him. His late night walks had always cloaked his possible future with darkness. Maybe that was a good thing. The drop would be long, but maybe he would fall fast.
Now wasn't the time though, now was the time for meeting, now was the time for friendship, and now was the time for life. There would be plenty of time for death, but now wasn't the time. Passing some children, he watched them stand on their tiptoes, trying to yell over the side of the bridge and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
How long ago had it been that he had tried to do that with his brother and sister? They had to hold him up, but he had done it once on one of the hottest days of the summer. They had been coming home from the factory and they had made the stop under the insistence of their baby brother. They had been good to him, his brother and sister, it was a shame…
No, now wasn't the time for remembering either. Now was the time to think of the future, now was the time to move on. It had been months since Jack and Spot had gone to Queens, and they didn't know what to suspect. As far as Spot knew, Jack was still mourning over the loss of a mysterious girl that he had never met. Someone that they had dubbed 'The Cowgirl of Manhattan.' Whoever the whore had been, she had torn him up pretty well. She was the first girl he had after he discovered that his relationship with Sarah was nothing more than a close friendship. As far as Spot knew, he wasn't over the girl, and never would be. Sometimes there were girls like that, the kind that wiggled their way under your skin like a splinter. Maybe this girl was Jack's splinter.
The thought of old flames distracted Spot from his childhood past. Now he was in Manhattan, the Brooklyn Bridge behind him. The streets of the whole New York territory were ruled by Spot Conlon, he knew them all, and they respected him. The newsboys were abuzz when the living legend walked in the door and was met by their own leader, the Cowboy of Manhattan.
"How you's doing, Brooklyn?" Jack asked after the customary greeting of the spit-shake was exchanged.
"I'se alive," He offered. "Whot 'bout you Jackie boy?" He put his cane in the crook of his elbow, his slingshot in the waistband of his pants.
"I'se good," he nodded. "Yous ready ta go?" the tall boy asked.
"No," Spot responded. "I'se got some messages foah youah boys from some o' mine," with that he began calling out the greetings, telling who they were from and who they were for. After this was done, he turned back to Jack. "Yeah, I'se ready ta go now," with that, the duo of leaders left. "I saw some new boys," Spot dropped casually as they fought their way to Queens against the bitter wind.
"Yeah, dere's a couple," he conceded. "Seems dat evahybody wants ta be a newsie," he chuckled and Spot nodded in agreement.
"Dere's some new ones in Brooklyn too," he eased into the topic. "Most o' dem won' make it," Jack's face showed understanding in this comment. "Some will, like dis one goil. Goes by da name Frost, says she's sold afore in lotsa differ'nt place," Spot looked at his dark companion. "She says she sold heah," he didn't see any remembrance in Jack's face. "Ya knows 'er?"
"I nevah had no goil heah named Frost," Jack frowned. "Haven't had too many goils 'round," he searched his memory. "Ain't been none of dem dats sold papes afore been heah foah a long time," his face grew distant. "Not foah a long time," Spot knew that he was thinking about the famous Cowgirl and moved on.
"Ya hoyd anyt'ing from Queens?" He changed the subject.
"I hoyd dat Brink lost 'is goil," Jack shrugged. "So 'e ain't goin' ta be in da best mood," he speculated. If they only knew how true that statement would be.
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The leader meeting never took place. Brink was madder than a mother bear that had lost her cubs. When the other two made it to the warehouse where the Queens newsies stayed, they were nearly run out of the area. Apparently, not only had this mysterious girl left Brink with a broken heart, but she had also taken his favorite pair of brass knuckles. The ones that had his name real name engraved on them and little brass balls on each of the knuckles, adding to the insurance of extreme pain for the one who was being assaulted.
So the leaders went their separate ways, not really knowing what to do about it. So the mysterious Specter of Queens was now a thing of the past and Spot wondered where she was now. It had stopped snowing for the time being, leaving the sky a deep shade of gray that was quickly fading to black. The snow had redeemed the bland sky, but now it remained the same dull continuous stretch of smoke gray.
Shoving into the lodging house, he kicked the snow off of his boots and brushed the remaining flakes off of his jacket and hat. He noticed that a lot of his fellow newsies had knocked their boots and a melted puddle lay at his feet. Almost like she had sensed it too, Emily, the lodging house owner's daughter, came out with a bucket and mop.
"Youah pops 'round?" Spot asked, not sure why he did.
"No," she answered simply, and didn't try to continue the conversation. Spot knew automatically that she was shy. Moving out of her way, he climbed the stairs to the bunkroom. A poker match was started in the corner and captivated the majority of the group, Frost and Outsider included.
For the next half an hour, till around six o'clock, Spot watched the battle be narrowed down to just Outsider and Frost. Ultimately, Frost won and Outsider looked crushed, but quickly went over to his leader. The past loss already forgotten in the excitement of knowing how it all went. It wasn't often that the leaders met.
"How'd it go?" He asked in a hushed tone as Frost reveled in her winnings and the group congratulated her and then dispersed.
"Not'in happened," Spot frowned. "Saw Jackie boy an' went ta Queens, but Brink's maddah dan one o' da bulls when ya steal dere cap," he whistled under his breath. "'Is broad ran off an' he's in helluva mood," Spot pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his fine dark hair.
"Did dey run ya outta Queens?" Outsider questioned.
"I'se just sayin' dat we'se didn' get da woimest welcome," the look on his face explained it all to his partner and Outsider knew better than to press the matter.
"How's Manhattan?" He switched topics.
"Dem's fine," Spot nodded. "Gots some new blood in dere, some goils, some guys, all young," he mentally flashed through all of the faces. "Cowboy still ain't ovah dat dame," Spot stated and Outsider snorted in disgust. "Ol' Jackie boy's softah dan 'e should be," Spot conceded. "Dem Manhattan bunch is da best place foah beginners. Dem's all soft," Spot shook his head. "Mosta dem wouldn't last a week some wheah else," Outsider knew the truth of the comment. While the Manhattan group was similar to a family, the others were just out for blood. "Dis heah bunch give ya any trouble whiles I'se was gone?" Spot changed subjects.
"Nah," Outsider shook his head. "Just played some pokah," and so they launched into a more casual conversation about the game and what had happened since Spot had been gone.
Over on the other side of the room, Frost watched them with detached interest. Now she was counting her winnings, and they were sizable. They made up what she had lost on the last game. Pocketing all of it, she moved stealthily towards Spot and Outsider, having a few words she wanted to get in before Spot was taken over by someone else. As she walked, she would stop every once in awhile and strike up an uninteresting conversation with someone, not really caring, but gathering information. Always gathering information. She arrived at her destination just as Outsider left on some other errand.
"Brink didn't see ya taday did 'e?" She spoke knowingly and Spot whirled around to find her. The surprise quickly placed by the all-knowing, superior air.
"Whot ya talkin' 'bout?" Spot gave no sign of knowing what she was talking about.
"Oh, just call it a hunch. I'se just happen ta know dat when 'e's been hoyt, he don' like ta talk ta nobody," she chuckled slightly. "One time 'e got 'is pride hoyt by some whore on da street an' 'e moped 'roud foah a few days likes da sky 'ad falled on 'im," she informed Spot and he stood there taking this all in. "But I'se could be wrong," her voice one of pure dismissal. Already knowing that she was right, and knowing that Spot wanted to know more. "I'se been wrong afore," she started to walk away when she felt a hand on her arm, keeping her where she was. Inside she smiled outside she stiffened and produced a cold front that she had well developed. "Lemme go!" she demanded.
"Not till ya tell me wheah ya loyned all dat," he growled.
"But me dinnah an' I'se just might be poysuaded ta tell ya," she bribed, smiling devilishly.
"Lead da way," Spot let go of her arm and gave her a mock bow, and that was enough for Frost. Grabbing her coat, she and Spot progressed out of the door, much to the amusement of the group that had watched them go.
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It was strangely quite in the hall that led to his tenement apartment as Patrick walked along the corridor. Normally life could be heard bustling around inside of his lodging from out in the hall, but Patrick didn't hear any of that. Turning the handle he pushed open the door. On the floor lay the bodies of his brother and his sister, the red liquid had ceased to seep from their open chest wounds. The now crusting liquid lay staining the floor.
The immediate effect of this didn't hit Patrick as he looked at them, the initial shock kept him from really feeling anything towards the event. Moving numbly into the shared bedroom he saw his mother's body lying in the pool of her own blood, much like his brother and sister's had been. Kneeling down next to his mother, he touched her face. It was cold to the touch. When had this happened? Who had done this to them? Was his father all right? Standing, he heard a noise and saw his father enter the room. Instead of looking at his wife, he saw his son and a black anger entered his turquoise eyes.
"Ya lil' brat," he growled. "I'se goin' ta teach ya a lesson yous'll nevah forget," he promised menacingly as he walked over to him.
He had spoken the truth when he said that Patrick would never forget the beating. Again and again, his father used all of his strength to pummel the tiny frame. Slamming him into walls, kicking him on the floor, beating his tiny body into a black, blue, and bloody heap. They were now out of the bedroom and in the main living area. His own blood mixing with his brother and sister's.
. : ^_^ : .
The dinner was almost full, but somehow Spot and Frost found their way to a corner booth. Sitting opposite of her, Spot watched impatiently as she scanned over a menu. She was obvious relishing this moment. To make his point of impatience, he began drumming his fingers on the table, the gesture went ignored.
"Whot's good ta eat in dis joint?" Frost asked obnoxiously.
"When ya starve in da street, mosta it's good," Spot answered bitterly, he hated having to wait.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," she made the clucking noise with her tongue. "Tempah, tempah, ya really should watch dat," she smiled sassily, the light from the street-lamp shining in her midnight eyes.
"Look yous, I don' need youah help oah youah infoahmation, but if yous goin' ta be stayin' wit' me newsies, ya gotta tell me whot I wanna know," All of the kindness and patience was gone from his voice.
"Funny," Frost puzzled. "I'se don' remembah heahin' dat rule," she was relieved from the conversation when the waitress came up.
"Whot can I gets foah yous?" She asked, smiling at Spot, he smiled back, they obviously knew each other.
"Gimme whotevah e's havin'," Frost motioned towards Spot.
"An' give me whot I noymally get," he nodded, dismissing the still smiling girl.
"She ya whore?" Frost asked blunted.
"Nah," Spot shook his head, removing his cap. "I ain't got one right now," he admitted. "Ain't none dat catched me eye."
"I'se hoyd dat yous quite da skoyt chasah," she smirked.
"I'se had my shah o' fun," he smiled at the memories. "But ya seemed ta have 'ad some fun youah self," he changed the subject back to her and she inwardly cringed. She had almost had him totally diverted. "How did ya know 'bout Brink?"
"I'se got my ways," she answered flippantly.
"An' whot ah doe's?" He prodded.
"I'se been 'round, guess ya could say dat I'se see'd a lot," her cryptic words aggravated him.
"I'se buyin' ya dinnah, an' yous goin' ta tell me how yous know 'bout all dis," he said plainly.
"I gots money," she quipped. "An' if dis dinnah is a bribe, I'se just gonna ta be goin'," she started to stand, but Spot motioned her to stay down.
"Stay heah," he growled.
"Whot's it ta you if I don't?" She dared.
"Ain't not'in ta me, but you ain't goin' ta be feelin' too good if ya do," his threat hung in the air and she didn't challenge it. When they were outside, he would get his.
"Heah's youah food," The same waitress interrupted, placing two bowls of hot, thick soup in front of them and two large sandwiches. "Enjoy," she placed the bill on the table, smiled at Spot, and walked off. The dinner was spent in silence.
. : ^_^ : .
The breath of his father smelled like that terrible stuff he drank that made him angry. Patrick could smell it when his father held him up so he could hit him. Finally, he dropped him on the ground, and went off in search of something. Patrick's face was bleeding, his body was bleeding, he hurt all over and even in the innocence of his young mind, he knew what his father was going to do. He was going to kill him.
Crumpled on the floor, Patrick opened his eyes and saw something shiny in the darkness of his blurred vision. It was a gun. Once, his father had taken it out and shown him how to use it. The man that was now so violently destroying everything that made up Patrick's tiny world, had told him to only use it when he had to. Never use this gun unless you are going to die, his father had instructed.
Reaching out his tiny hand, he grasped the cold metal. The cool metal reminded him of the coins that pressed into his palm after he stole them. Scared, he heard his father stumble back into the dark room, his silhouette blocking the window. Cocking the gun, he took aim just as his father staggered forward. A deafening bang, he pulled back the hammer, and placed his finger on the trigger again, then pulled. Another loud roar made Patrick shudder, it was only then that he looked to see what his menace had done.
The large man that he called his father had stopped in mid-step. Though he couldn't see his face, Patrick could imagine the uncomprehending face that would create his expression. Stumbling forward a few feet, his then staggered back, trying to keep his footing, but found it impossible.
The gun then slipped from the small blood-slicked fingers, crashing to the floor. That wasn't the only thing that made a crash, the body of his father hit the ground with a sickening thud. The rattling breath let Patrick know that those tiny metal things had taken their toll.
. : ^_^ : .
//Her masks are many,
Her disguises multiple,
But it is the one underneath,
That holds to intrigue…//
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Dinner was over and they were walking together in the cold night air. They would talk every once in awhile, but not often. Just as she said, Frost had paid for her own dinner and Spot didn't know what else to do. This girl was holding secrets that were driving him crazy. The only logical explanation for it was that she had sold in Queens, but why did she come here? It was true that Queens was hostile to female newsies, but she was a strange girl.
"Stop," He commanded and she froze. "Befoah we'se go any fahtah, yous goin' ta tell me whot I wants ta know," he spoke with the authority that he was used to having.
"I don't have ta tell you not'in," she started walking again.
"Yeah ya do," Spot grabbed her arm firmly, and pulled her back.
"Lemme go!" She repeated this scene from earlier.
"I ain't lettin' ya go till ya tell me whot I wanna know!" He spouted back. The street was surprisingly empty, but Spot was oblivious to this fact, all he wanted was answers.
"Lemme go dammit! Ya can't keep me here!" she pulled against him but found his grip unusually strong.
"No," He growled and she drew back her fist. Slamming it into the brunette's face, she watched his head snap back, but his grip only tightened. Again she punched him and again his grip tightened to the point of pain.
"Damn ya Spot Conlon," she spoke through clenched teeth. He appeared unfazed from the blows, though she knew that they had to have hurt, at least a little.
"Just tell me whot I wanna know an' I'll let ya go," he spoke with a frightening calm. "Youah makin' dis hahdah dan it has ta be," he pointed out and her eyes flashed.
"Fine," she stepped closer to him instead of straining away from his touch. "Wes'll just try dis anoddah way," with that, she raised herself up slightly and pressed her mouth firmly to his. The pure shock of her gesture caused Spot to loosen his grasp on her thin arm, giving her just enough freedom to pull away. Jerking out of the embrace, she took off at a dead run, leaving Spot standing dumbfounded.
"Whot da hell was dat?" he finally asked out loud as he watched her retreat into the darkness.
. : ^_^ : .
Right then, something died inside of Patrick, he had killed someone and he knew it. The small boy knew that it was wrong, but he would have died otherwise. Pushing himself to his own feet, he moved into the area that was their kitchen. With his arm screaming in pain, he pumped some icy water into a bowl and splashed it on his face. Wetting a rag, he scrubbed at the blood that covered him, the blood that marked him as a killer.
Scared and a lone, he steeled back the tears and went to look at his brother and sister once more. Their faces were so peaceful, their suffering on this world was over, but his wasn't. If he could, he would have sacrificed his life just to hear them argue one more time. Not even looking at his father, he went into the bedroom and saw his mother there, illuminated in the lamp light. For once, he was able to see what she might have looked like when she was young. Nothing of the pain or worry marring her face, she was beautiful.
Moving to the one dresser in the room, he rummaged through, taking his things and all of the things that might have been of some value in his young eyes. Then going to his mother, he reached around her neck where she kept the house key. A simple little brass skeleton key that was unique for it's silver strip running up the long side of it. Her blood had stained the string, but Patrick tied it around his neck anyway.
Weak from the beating, scared for what he had just done, he tripped going out of the room, knocking the kerosene lamp off the table onto the wooden floor. Instantly, flames sprang up, feeding off the fuel from the broken lamp. Dumbly he watched them begin to eat away at the floor, creeping over the bed and devouring the bedcovers. Not knowing what else to do, Patrick ran.
He ran and ran as fast as his injured legs could carry him. Out into the snow he ran, and never looked back. Above him the heaven's wept for him, covering the boy with the multitudes of tears that froze on their way down. Weeping for the little boy who wasn't, crying for the years that they knew were to come. They all cried knowing that their little Patrick O'Connel had died that night, and that the scoundrel Spot Conlon was born.
. : ^_^ : .
"'As Frost come in heah?" Spot called over the bunkroom, he wasn't done with that girl yet.
"No," Spitfire shook her head and looked around the room. The rest of the room agreed with her, none of them daring to ask the questions that blazed in their minds. What was their leader's interest in this new girl?
"Outsidah," Spot spoke his name and he was at his side quickly. "I'se goin' out ta look foah 'er, she's got some answahs ta some questions dat I wants ta know," he whispered, not wanting the rest of the room to hear. "If she comes back heah, don' let 'er leave," with that, he was out the door again. The momentary warmth of the lodging house forgotten as the bitter cold struck him again. Unsure of where to look, Spot went to the one place that he could think of, the Bridge.
. : ^_^ : .
"Spectah," she heard the voice in the back of her head and it kept her running. "Spectah, you knows dat yous'll nevah be able ta outruns me," she could see his taunting smile. "I'se goin' ta be da leadah, an' yous is goin' ta be my goil," she shuddered at the thought. "No I ain't Lice, an' you ain't goin' ta be no bodies leadah," she protested. "I could be a bettah leadah dan yous," she remembered the words that she regretted. "Bettah leadah dan yous," the dangerous glimmer in his eyes told her that she had said that wrong thing. "Bettah leadah dan yous," she shook her head and kept running, her feet carrying her to the place where she had gone last night, the Bridge.
When she made it onto the bridge quite away, she leaned her back against the stone edging and breathed deeply. What had happened back there? It was all a blur. The dinner, the grip, the punches, the kiss, it all swirled together in a confused blur. Why had she kissed Spot? That was trouble for her, more trouble for her mainly because she had liked it.
Another leadah, she reminded herself. Ya said yous weren't goin' ta go foah anoddah leadah, she frowned as she slid down the rough stone, curling her knees up to her chest as she rocked back and forth, shivering against the cold. That is how Spot found her as he walked up the bridge.
"Ya goin' ta jump?" She turned her head to see Spot walking towards her.
"Whot's it ta yous?" she grumbled, irritated that he had found her, but she couldn't think of anyone else she would want to be with.
"Just wonderin'," he stood in front of her now. "Cuz if yous goin' ta, dere ah a few questions dat I wanna ask yous afore ya go."
How can he be so insensitive? She wondered and glared up at him.
"Youah such a bastard," she said out loud and he took on a look of mock surprise.
"I'se a bastard?" He held out his hand to help her to her feet. "Den why did yous kiss me?" the smirk was in place and Frost pointedly ignored his outstretched appendage.
"You knows why," she said stiffly, standing on her own. "I'se done it afore ta get away an' I'll do it again," she tensed as he stepped closer.
"Yous'll do whot again?" his eyes met hers as they looked in her face. "Kiss me, oah get away?" he dared.
"Whot evah I wants ta do," she said proudly.
"Well, when yous in Brooklyn ya do whot I want ya ta do," he put it frankly. "An' yous goin' ta tell me how ya knows Brink."
"'Ow else da ya t'ink I know 'im?" Frost sounded incredulous. "I sold wit' 'im," she met Spot's eyes with defiance. "Ya coulda just t'ought 'bout dat one a lil' an' figured it youah self," she smiled and Spot's eyes darkened.
Dere is somet'ing she ain't tellin' me, Spot thought. Dis goils got moah sides dan a dice, he continued his thoughts.
Together they stood, unsure of what else to do. Spot had gotten the answer, even though it left him with more, he didn't know where to start with his inquiry. The winds began to blow, bringing a change to the mood. Their bodies were close and the chemistry of their last kiss wasn't forgotten. Slowly, Spot lent over, and without the earlier false pretense, his mouth met hers.
If nothing else could be said about the short Brooklyn leader, let it be known that he could kiss, and he used his ability. The gentle embrace deepened until Frost pulled back, somewhat startled.
Anoddah leadah, she lamented sadly. Just anoddah leadah, his eyes met hers then looked up at the sky. Snow had begun to fall again, and the wind had died down.
She ain't tellin' me 'er secrets now, Spot reasoned. But she will soon, he thought of all the questions he had. Goils always tell, he speculated. Still looking at the sky he did something he hadn't done for a long time. He started counting the snowflakes as they fell softly towards the earth.
Impossible, the word echoed in his mind, and he knew it to be true. Looking back down at Frost he saw that she was looking at him still, a glazed expression in her eyes.
"Ya doin' a'ight?" he asked, semi-worried.
"Yea," she snapped back from whatever world she had been in. "I'se good," she gave him a token smile, and moved so she would be looking over the edge of the gargantuan bridge. Standing beside her, he let his finger's tangle with hers without any more words.
Bettah leadah,
Impossible,
Spectah,
Murderer…
Different memories flashed through the minds as they stared into the blackness. How many times had they wanted to block the thoughts, those memories, and the things that they would do anything to forget? But much like counting the snow, forgetting things like that is only one thing.
Impossible.
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A/N: This is kind of a weird chapter. I don't know where this is all going, but I am figuring it out. Just you hold your horses and I promise that it will all add up… err… maybe.
Spot!Muse: What are you doing with me? What? I killed my dad? But I am a nice guy!
Raven: Well if you didn't kill him, you would be dead, and there wouldn't be a story anymore.
Spot!Muse: Why couldn't you have had the bastard shoot himself in the head or something?
Raven: Because, that wouldn't be as dramatic and you wouldn't have quite the same disturbed dark past.
Spot!Muse: And what is with naming me Patrick? That is a stupid name.
Raven: Stop fighting with me, or I will have to send you to your corner!
Spot!Muse: You can't do that, I am the star of the story!
Raven: Well, I'll just send you to the refuge again!
Spot!Muse: Noooooo….
See what I have to deal with? Temperamental actors… - sigh - Oh well, I really would like some review on this chapter because I am kind of like, ehhh… in it's regards. Be brutally honest, I really like that in a review. Tell me everything you thought about it and make my life easier. ^_^ Thank you all so much! Take care.