"And he's sure it's them?"
"Yeah. Twins, boy and girl. Surname of Caden. Josephine and, uh, somebody. But it's close enough. They fit the description."
"Did you give him the knife?"
"Yeah, like, six months ago."
"Good. He doesn't even know what he's doing, does he?"
"Nope."
Silence.
"So, um, since we know we got 'em, what are we gonna do now?"
"Right now? Right now, we're gonna wait. So they think they're safe."
"What?"
"I said, we're gonna wait."
Flight felt like she had a hangover when she finally woke up to weak morning light. Not that she'd ever had a hangover, but considering what Blink looked like the mornings after he got drunk, Flight was pretty sure this was what a hangover felt like.
A pounding headache, the absolute worst one she'd ever had. Ever. And the voices, oh Lord, the voices! There seemed to be a million people packed into the room, all shouting to each other at the top of their lungs. Which wasn't helping the headache at all, let me tell you.
Flight cracked open her eyes slowly, only to shut them tightly again before she could even register that there were only three people in the room besides herself. Flight opted not to try to open her eyes again. The voices of two of the three people in the room conversed loudly (what seemed like miles) above her head. They were actually talking in hushed tones, but at that moment Flight neither knew nor cared, as a sharp pain shot through her ankle. She cringed, but still did not open her eyes. The conversation went on without even knowing she was now conscious.
"And you let him walk here all the way from Manhattan?" Unfamiliar voice asked.
"Her. And she wouldn't let me carry her, so yeah." Spot.
"Now, how did he break it again?" Unfamiliar voice.
"She broke her ankle falling down a set of stairs." Spot.
"Is he usually this clumsy?" Unfamiliar voice. Shrug from Spot.
"What happened before that?" Unfamiliar voice.
"We was playin' poker." Spot.
"Was he drinking?"
"Flight is a girl. She." Spot.
"Sorry. Was she drinking?" Unfamiliar voice.
"No. Don't think I've ever seen her drink." Spot.
"Who were you two playing poker with?" Unfamiliar voice.
"Racetrack Higgins, her brother, Mush Mey – hey, what the hell does this have to do with her ankle?" Flight laughed, and she felt Spot jump beside her. She tried cracking her eyes open, and it didn't hurt so much this time.
"Nothing, I just wanted to know." Flight turned her head to the source of the other half of the conversation. She wanted to laugh again.
An old, wrinkled man was hunched at the end of the bunk she was laying on. His lips were pressed together, and they were so far away from his nose he looked somewhat like a turtle, helped by the fact that most of the skin of his neck was hanging loosely, his head thrust forward. He squinted, even though he was wearing thick, wire rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to three times their normal size. The whole thing was topped off by two tufts of grey hair sticking out of either side of his spotty head.
She hoped this was a doctor, because her ankle was killing her. Luckily, it was.
"Look, Brightman, how much? To set an ankle?" Spot again.
"Uh, let's see," the doctor said, adjusting his glasses on his nose, "I would guess ten dollars. Yes, ten dollars seems reasonable." Spot ran a hand through his hair.
"Ten bucks?"
"Yes, ten dollars, Mr. Conlon." Spot shook his head.
"Yeah, sure, the guys and I can scrape it up. Will you just set the ankle now, Brightman?" Doctor Brightman looked at Flight critically.
"He'll be in a lot of pain once I touch it, but –"
"SHE. Flight is a SHE. Okay?" Spot was stressing this like, a lot. Flight was actually glad she could still fool somebody into thinking she was a boy. Oh well.
"She, yes, of course. For and extra five dollars I can make sure she won't feel any pain."
"Look, ten bucks is enough. She can do it. She's used to pain." Spot looked at Flight. "Right?"
"Yeah." Flight grimaced as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Shit, that hurts," she said, glaring at her ankle. Spot smiled.
"Just set it, would ya, Brightman?" The old man nodded, adjusting his glasses again. He reached out for Flight's ankle. Flight had to suppress a scream when his fingers connected with bruised skin. She did, however, jerk away.
"You'll have to stay still if you want this fixed so you can walk on it again," Brightman said, quirking an eyebrow. Flight nodded mutely. Brightman placed one hand on her foot and the other just above her ankle. As long as he was careful, he and Flight were on good terms.
The stupid doctor then twisted the two to fit together. Flight yelped, and her hand shot out to grab Spot's without thinking.
Every time stupid fucking Brightman (as Flight so lovingly dubbed him) touched her, Flight squeezed Spot's hand tighter and tighter, and she kept her eyes fixed on Catwalk in the back round as she bustled around, making beds, clearing piles of clothes from the floor, generally cleaning up after the newsies of Brooklyn.
She felt the bone of her ankle click together, and she squeezed Spot's hand again. She thought that that was the only thing keeping her sane, his warm hand in hers, gently squeezing her hand back reassuringly.
"Well, that's done," Brightman said, adjusting his glasses for the third time. "Don't walk on it for three weeks. I'll be back then to check up on it and collect my ten dollars. Good day, Mr. Conlon." Flight stared at his protruding back in disbelief.
"Three weeks?" she whispered. "Three weeks of not being able to sell. Jesus, how am I gonna pay for board?"
"Look, we'll give it to you free, you could use it." Flight jumped, she had nearly forgotten Spot was there. She looked at him, managing a weak smile.
"Thanks." She glanced down to find that her hand was still in his. She pulled her hand back, a light blush spreading over her face like poison ivy before fading. Spot thought she looked sweet when she was blushing, but he quickly shook that thought off.
"Sorry," she muttered. Spot didn't answer. She thought for a minute, and then looked up at Spot as the door snapped shut behind Catwalk, the girl's footsteps clunking heavily on the stairs. "Hey, look, I can pay some of the ten bucks –"
"No. Just don't worry about it okay?" Spot looked down, and then stood up quickly, nearly knocking over his chair. "Look, I gotta go, see you in a bit." He walked out the door of the bunkroom without a backward glance.
Catwalk arrived back in the bunkroom with a bowl of warm soup. It wasn't hot, but it wasn't cold either, so it was good enough for Flight, who wolfed it down in two minutes flat.
"Three weeks, huh?" Catwalk inquired of Flight, looking down at the slightly younger girl. Flight nodded.
"I'm gonna be bored outta my mind." Catwalk grinned.
"I can help you there," she said, holding out a tan hand with chewed fingernail. Flight took it without hesitation.
"So, you know how to play crapshooter?"
Catwalk didn't, and Flight taught her how to. Once Catwalk got a hang of it, they could actually talk without having to concentrate on the game too hard.
The two found out that their greatest short term goal was to eat a bucket full of chocolate ice cream, they both had brothers, were orphans and had had blue stuffed bunny rabbits named 'Bunny'.
"I don't think I'll be as bored outta my mind as I thought," Flight said grinning, scooping up the dice. "Bet you three cents it'll add up to eleven."
"You're on." Flight rolled the dice. A six and a five. Flight held out a hand.
"Three cents, please."
Boy am I lazy. My computer suggested I make the am in that sentence an is. Boy is my computer stupid. All right, that took me like five days to sit down and write this. I dare you to tell me I'm not lazy. Come on, I dare you.
Cinnamon Spice: I know you don't bite your nails, but it just seemed good, so there. Bad typing day? You are still alive, aren't you? I haven't talked to since, like, last week.
antiIrony: I'm working on the plot, so it only sort of has one. Yeah, Skittery's psycho. Blink actually just got into a really heated bar fight, nothing real important. (cough cough). I hope you start writing. I'd review anything you wrote, even if it did suck. Which it probably doesn't.
SilentTwilight: Sorry if I scared you (that was kinda the point, however, but, oh well.) I agree. Tumbler is too innocent to see such bloody things. I take pity on him for making him watch such awful things.
Race: I hate your grandma, Butterfly.
Me: It's not my fault she has alzheimers and still thinks I'm going into the fourth grade, and she believed me when I told her I'd taken up skydiving. At least she knows who you are.
Race: But, but she made me lose a bet.
Me: She's 81. I doubt it, I mean, I don't even think she remembers that today is her birthday.
Race: Fine, don't be on my side and don't put me in this chapter!
Me: Hey, if you complain to much you'll drop from my best friend to worst enemy.
Race: I'll go pout in a corner now.
Me: Fine. All right, I'm done being insane, one more week till my birthday! Cue, Mush!
Mush: Review, I say! Review!
Me: Anything to add to that, Mush darling?
Mush: Butterfly doesn't own Catwalk, Cinnamon Spice does.
Me: And?
Mush: I love Bailey!
Me: Oh, very good! Review, I say, review!
madmbutterfly, out.
