A/N: This ficlet sprung up after watching 'Ash Wednesday'. Even though Elijah Wood's acting was physically painful, Ed Burns had manky hair, and neither of their characters were really likeable, it was still enough to give birth to a plot bunny. So here you are. IF YOU'RE OFFENDED BY RELIGIONS OTHER THAN YOUR OWN AND YOU'RE NOT CATHOLIC, DON'T READ. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. NO BASHING OF RELIGION, PLEASE. Thank you.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. Me no own, so you no sue. Rated for swearing and violence.

Race swirled his shot glass absently, watching the amber liquid slosh around. It was Tuesday night, and things were slow. Tuesdays were always slow. They were fillers, wedged in between the dreaded Monday, and the hump of Wednesday.

Usually, he had the weekly game of craps in Queens to break the monotony, but not today. He had trekked all the way there, then found out that half the players had been busted by the bulls, and Mikey had called it off. I hate Tuesdays. Hate, hate.

With a sigh, he tossed back the mouthful of bitter liquid, not even bothering to pull a face at the taste. He should really head back for the Lodging House – the walk from Queens to Duane Street was a bitch at the best of times. But after a glance at his pocket watch, he gave up. Hell, I won't make curfew anyway…

"Race?"

He looked up, blinked, then blinked again. "Spot? What the hell are you doin' here?"

Spot Conlon raised an eyebrow. "I work here, stupid. Just started my shift. What the hell are you doin' here?"

Letting his eyebrow rise to mirror Spot's, Racetrack lifted his empty glass. "Drinkin'."

"You came all the way to Queens for a drink?"

"Hey, fuck you."

Spot smirked slightly. "Relax, Higgins. It's just a question." He set two shot glasses on the bar and filled them both. "On the house."

Race snagged one with a half-smile and raised it mutely to his friend. After both boys tossed back the drinks, Race sighed. "I came for a craps game, but apparently it was canceled."

"Heard a bunch of guys got busted. Hard luck." Spot said, before stepping away briefly to deal with some older guys farther down the bar. When he returned, Race raised a speculative eyebrow. "You still a newsie, Spot?"

The blond boy froze, then carefully turned to Race. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you're still a newsie. I ain't been to Brooklyn in a while."

Still looking defensive, Spot frowned. "'Course I'm still a newsie. No one's killed me yet, huh?"

"Then why you workin' here?"

Spot shrugged, and wiped the bar absently with the towel thrown over his shoulder. "Eh. Money."

Race rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Conlon. I ain't stupid. You make more than Jacky on a good day. It ain't money." Suddenly suspicious, he leaned forward. "You got debts?"

A derisive snort was answer enough. "No, I ain't got debts."

"What, then?"

Almost reluctantly, Spot shrugged again. "It was my birthday last week."

"So? I mean…uh, happy birthday."

Spot let out a quiet chuckle at that. "Shut it, Higgins. I'm eighteen now. I gotta be a man. I can't be a newsie forever."

Race sobered and nodded silently. It was a conundrum faced by all of them – he himself would come up to it in less than half a year. Jack and a few of the other newsies had expressed worries about it just a few nights ago, and Pie Eater and Swifty had already left.

"So I got another job. I'll settle things down in Brooklyn, then I'm out. Just got to get enough dough together for a decent room, or maybe a train ticket."

Startled, it was a minute before Race replied. "Where you goin'?" Brooklyn without Spot was like… like a newspaper without a headline, a race without a finish line, a bet with no odds.

Spot shrugged. "I dunno, Chicago maybe. I might not leave, I like Brooklyn. But I think need to move on, you know? Kinda get tired after all these years."

Disconcerted, Race mulled this over while Spot stepped away to fill more orders. "You told anyone else yet?" he asked, when the other boy returned.

"Sorta. Jacky and I kinda hintedto each othera while back. But no one else. And Race," he leaned over the bar to stare straight into the Italian's eyes. "Don't tell my boys, all right? They don't need to know yet."

Race nodded. "Sure, Spot. I understand."

Spot smiled and filled another pair of shots for them. "Hey, it's Shrove Tuesday, drink up."

Surprised, Race blinked as he took his glass. "You Catholic?"

"I'm Irish. You?"

"Italian."

"I meant, are you Catholic?"

"I'm Italian."

"Oh, right." Spot chuckled again. "I went out this mornin' and got a full pancake breakfast."

Race grinned. "I stopped at every vendor I saw."

Spot leaned back and snagged a pair of pint glasses. "We might as well round it off, eh?"

The grin on Race's face grew as Spot filled them to the brim. "I'll drink to that…"

Several hours and glasses later, the bar was nearly empty, save for Spot, Race, and an old guy in a corner seat, apparently asleep. Rain dripped down the windowpanes, and the dim light of the bar didn't do much in the murky darkness.

"-and these territory wars are gettin' real old."

Race nodded. "Yeah, this last one with Midtown really was too much. Jacky says he's tired of 'em, and we ain't gettin' involved no more."

Spot absently twisted a shot glass in his towel. "I almost walked away from that last fight, Race. It's just so stupid. All those boys dead over a few blocks of land?"

"At least we won."

"Won what? It was ours to begin with. I guess it's good that we've pushed Midtown back for a while, though. Hopefully I'll be gone before they regroup."

"Jinx didn't seem too happy with the agreement - it might be sooner rather than later."

Sliding the clean glass into place behind the bar, Spot frowned. "He can't do nothin' about it though. He lost, and winners make the terms."

They fell silent, each thinking his own thoughts about the last weary battle for a few tiny squares of land on a map.

Spot was just replacing the last glass in its place, when a group of guys walked in, talking loudly. They'd obviously already had something to drink, but they plopped down at the barstools anyway.

"You know we close in half an hour?" Spot asked calmly.

One of the guy slapped a meaty hand on the bar. "Beer!"

Rolling his eyes to Race, Spot dug out a pitcher and began filling it up, as the trio of guys went back to their loud debate.

"-dunno how you dunno what Cowboy of 'Hattan looks like. Everybody knows him."

"Well, I just-"

"Don't you worry, we'll point him out to you."

"Hey, that ain't fair, you'll just shoot him and call it pointin' him out! I want a fair chance at the kill too!"

Race's eyes flew to Spot, who was still nonchalantly filling the pitcher. Only a quick deliberate eye flick let Race know that he had heard, and he wanted Race to stay quiet.

"Shut up,you idiot! Someone will hear!" The men all looked suspiciously around the bar. Thanks to Spot's warning, all they saw was the bartender noisily getting down glasses, an Italian guy obviously too drunk to register anything, and an old man way across the room, fast asleep. Nevertheless, they drew closer together and lowered their voices.

Spot brought their pitcher and glasses, then became involved with sweeping up the floor, just barely in earshot of the scheming trio. Race watched through lowered eyelids as Spot's knuckles tightened on the broom handle, gradually becoming whiter and whiter, until Race expected the bones to just pop right through the skin. Whatever Spot was hearing, it wasn't good.

Slamming his glass down on the bar, Race mutely called Spot over, still keeping up the appearance of a drunk.

"You sure this is a good idea, mister?" Spot asked, raising an eyebrow.

"More…" Race growled, slamming his glass again.

With a shrug, Spot refilled the glass, and Race drained it in one go. "Uh oh…" he said after a moment.

"Jaysus!" Spot muttered, hurrying out from behind the bar. "I just cleaned up!" He grabbed Race under the armpits, and with a surprising show of strength, manhandled him quickly into the bathroom behind the bar.

Once the door was tightly closed, Race dropped his drunken façade. "What did you hear?"

Spot clenched his fists. "Exactly what it sounded like. They're goin' to Manhattan to get Jack. Jinx paid them, I think."

"Dammit!" Race swore. "D'you want me to run and warn Jack?"

Spot shook his head and began pacing. "We can't get 'em in Manhattan territory, or Jinx'll call it murder and start another war. No bulls, and Queens is too pissed about the last war to help us out, I bet. Still tryin' to stay neutral."

Race ground his fist into his forehead. "Dammit!" he muttered. "I hate Tuesdays."

Surprised, Spot stopped pacing and blinked at Race, before chuckling weakly. "Me too."

They fell silent after that, desperately trying to find a solution to avoid losing a leader and friend, or starting another war.

"That's it, then." Race said finally, breaking the tense stretch of quiet. "We've got to do it."

Spot said nothing, merely met Race's eyes and nodded.

Resuming their charade, Spot dragged Race out of the bathroom. "Come on," he grumbled. "Let's get you out."

"No!" Race slurred. "More beer!" he struggled until Spot 'relented' and plopped him back on the barstool.

"You stupid slob." Spot grumbled, setting another shot in front of him.

"Hey!" one of Jinx's trio called. "I gotta piss."

Jerking a thumb towards the bathroom, Spot tipped his head slightly. "In there."

The guy rose, followed eventually by the other two. "Thanks."

Spot nodded, and watched them silently until the door closed behind them. Then he dived behind the bar and came up with two pistols. He handed one to Race, cocked his, and nodded grimly for the bathroom.

Nervously, Race waited while Spot silently nudged open the door. The gun was cold and heavy in his hands, but the hammer was back, and he knew what to do. "Go." Spot hissed, and Race slipped inside, covering the room.

The goons were around the corner at the urinals, Race could hear them talking. He nodded in their direction, and Spot nodded slightly back. Together, the two boys slipped forward, holding the guns double-handed straight out in front of them, and edged around the corner.

"What the-"

BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM. BAMBAM. BAM.

Race hadn't realized he was holding his breath until it left him in rush, leaving him feeling limp and shocked. But he kept his pistol trained on the bloody corpses, just in case.

Spot edged forward, and inspected them carefully. "It's done." He was silent for a moment, then tucked his gun into one boot and knelt. "There's couple big knives in the top center drawer in the bar, and two trashcans outside the back door. I'll get started while you get those. Check on the old guy too, don't want him runnin' to the bulls."

With a nod, Race slipped the gun into the waistband of his pants and hurried out of the bloody bathroom, glad to escape the carnage.

He used the time it took him to gather everything and check the old man (strangely still asleep) to gather himself together again. He had seen death before, but something about the blood spattered on the whitewashed walls and on the toes of his boots made his stomach crawl towards his throat.

But he forced himself to stay firm, shoving down the gorge rising in his throat, and carrying the necessary items determinedly into the bathroom. It had been a necessary thing to do.

He found Spot already starting to wipe the blood from the walls, a small pile of valuables gleaned from the bodies standing a testament to Spot's first task. "I got 'em." Race called out.

Spot looked up and nodded. "Let's get started." He took a knife and approached the nearest corpse.

Race wiped a hand across his face, not noticing that it left a bloody streak across his forehead. "Will the lid fit?"

Spot frowned. "No. This guy had huge arms."

Race sniggered, and then Spot too began to chuckle. Their snickers soon turned to outright laughter, but Race wasn't sure quite what he was laughing at.

"Race, we gotta stop…" Spot eventually managed to get out, breathing heavily. "Hysteria."

Realizing the danger he was in, Race clamped his mouth around the guffaws bubbling up in his throat. Briskly, he crossed to the cracked sink and splashed some cold water on his face.

"Take deep breaths." Spot advised, already back in control of himself.

Race dried his face on his bloody shirt. "Sorry." He muttered.

Spot smiled crookedly, and slapped him on the back, before returning to the trashcans full of body parts. "Should we risk just setting the lid on top? No, it might fall off and make a loud noise."

"What if we just cut the hands off – they're the parts sticking out, right?" Race stubbornly bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing.

"Actually," Spot put in, staring carefully at the cans. "If we sent the hands anonymously to Jinx, it might buy us some time. Let him know there's people lookin' out for Jacky."

Surprised but satisfied with the solution, Race nodded. "That might be a good idea. Do you think we should do both hands, or just one?"

"Both, give us a bit more room."

They quickly sawed off the offending appendages, and Spot triumphantly closed the trashcan lids. "All right, let's get these to the docks."

Spot pulled the door shut, and locked it easily. "Why don't you stay in Brooklyn tonight? It's too late to get back to 'Hattan now."

Race pulled out his pocket watch, grimacing at the blood he hadn't managed to clean from under his nails. "Uh…okay, I guess." He had actually been planning to stop by a church on the way back to Duane Street. Tonight – or this morning really – was the night of cleansing yourself of sins, and he had the biggest, fattest, sin of them all hanging like an albatross around his neck. But he'd just have toexorcize it in the morning. Maybe I can catch the eleven o'clock mass at the Redemptorist.

They set off for the Brooklyn Lodging House, walking along in an awkward silence. Spot was solemn, and his expression as stony and inscrutable as ever. Race himself just felt tired. Maybe he was getting too old for this as well. Maybe it was time to find a 'decent' job and save up some money. Maybe it was time to move out, move on. Spot had said Chicago – it sounded like place he'd like.

"Heya, Race?"

He blinked, startled by Spot's random question. "Yeah?" He'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hadn't realized that they'd been walking right past the great cathedral. The forbidding stone façade towered above them, but a faint light glimmered under the main door.

"You mind if I go in?"

It took him a few minutes to process what Spot had said. "You wanna go in?"

"Yeah. Don't tell anyone."

Race grinned. "I won't, if you won't." He started out for the door, leaving Spot toget overhis surprise and catch up.

The sanctuary was lit only by a few sparse candles, flickering in the draft from the door. Race breathed in deeply, relaxing as he smelt the familiar scents of incense and wax. Already he felt more at ease.

Spot led the way up the center aisle, his boots silent on the thick carpet.

There didn't seem to be a priest in the building, but they settled in the front pew, directly in front of the altar and golden crucifix. Without speaking to one another, they pulled out their prayer cushions and knelt. Together, they folded their hands and began the words ingrained in their brains since birth.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…"

When Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins strolled into Manhattan the next morning, no one said anything about how their clothes were slightly damp and wrinkled, or about the slight brown stains on the fabric. No one looked twice at the bundles they carried. No one wondered about the quiet conversation they held with Jack. No one asked about where they had been the night before. And no one mentioned the crosses of ash traced on their foreheads.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.