A low hissing noise intruded on Pocket's dreams. Grumbling, she threw an arm up over her head, trying to block out the annoyance and savor a few more minutes of sleep. Unfortunately, the noise grew louder and more insistent.

"Pssst." A pause, then again. "Pssst." Then a sharp whisper. "Pocket."

She cracked one eye just enough to make out Racetrack's face in the weak half-light of morning.

"Pocket, wake up," he repeated.

She gave a disgusted snort and burrowed deeper under the blanket, hiding her face in Spot's shoulder. "Jesus, Race," she complained. "It's too early to get up. We ain't gotta sell papes today. Let me sleep!"

The young Italian groaned and reached out to poke her arm. "Pocket, ya gotta get up," he persisted.

"Why?" she huffed.

He rolled his eyes and leaned in closer, poking her some more until she finally opened her eyes to glare at him. When he had her attention, he said, "Thought you an' Spot might wanna get up before da uddas."

Pocket just stared blankly at him. Racetrack sighed back, waiting patiently for her sleep muddled brain to catch up.

"Oh," she murmured when it hit her.

"Oh," Race mimicked sarcastically.

"Yeah, okay," she said. "I'm up." He eyed her dubiously. "I mean it, I'm up," she assured him. "Thanks."

With a crooked grin, the other newsie ambled off towards the stairs.

"Hey," she called softly. "Thanks Race. Give us a bit. If ya wait up, we can go get coffee." He waved over his shoulder.

Pocket reluctantly eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Spot. He stirred slightly as she moved his arms off her, but soon settled back to sleep. She hurried to the washroom for a bath, ducking quickly under the water to scrub her hair. She swore softly at the shock of the icy cold water. Well I'se awake now, she thought. Teeth chattering she rushed to dry off and throw on clean clothes before the other boys started waking up. Most mornings, she waited until they were all dressed and out the door before going to wash. Normally she took advantage of that privacy to tend to personal hygiene, but with Spot there she wanted to get done first. She knew he would rather the newsies didn't find them sharing a bed.

Spot was always careful to keep their closeness a secret. In Brooklyn it was easy, Pocket had been sleeping in the loft for years. When she first started spending her nights there, he had pulled an extra cot in, saying he didn't trust the boys in the main bunkroom. She had long since abandoned the cot for Spot's bed, but nobody else knew that.

Once in a blue moon, Spot stayed over in Manhattan, but he usually slept in one of the extra bunks. She hadn't given it much thought last night when he came to her bed; she had needed his closeness. But she was glad it was Race that had found them rather than the other fellas. She wasn't worried about them teasing her, she could dish out insults with the best of them, but Spot's reputation was important to him. It wouldn't do for people to know the King of Brooklyn had a softer side.

Padding softly back into the bunkroom, she perched lightly on the edge of the bed. Softly rubbing his shoulder she tried to wake him. He didn't move, even when she whispered his name. She tried shaking him gently, but that didn't work either. With a heavy sigh, she finally reached up and flicked his ear with her forefinger.

The Brooklyn leader jolted awake, hand reaching for his cane even before he opened his eyes. He relaxed when he saw her sitting there, and expression of exaggerated innocence on her face.

"What'd ya wanna go an' do that for?" he asked grumpily.

Pocket smirked at him. "I tried shakin' ya but ya wasn't budgin'," she said. "How else was I s'posed to wake ya?"

Spot raised an eyebrow at her. "I can think of much better ways," he murmured silkily, leaning forward to nip at her ear.

She gave him a playful shove, laughing at his pouty look, like a child denied his favorite toy. Before he could protest she stood, rummaging around for her comb.

"Better get up an' get dressed, Spot," she told him. "The oddas are gonna start wakin' up soon."

Running a hand through his hair, he nodded. He let out jaw cracking yawn, then stood, stretching widely. "I'll be out in a minute," he said.

"Yeah, put some hustle in it then," she ordered. "Race is downstairs waitin' to go get coffee."

Pocket was lacing up her boots when Spot returned, freshly shaved and hair slicked back. She watched as he buttoned his shirt and pulled his key over his head, tucking it under his shirt. By the time he got around to pulling his boots on, she was tapping her foot impatiently.

"Alright woman," he groused. "I'm ready. Ya act like ya got somewhere to be."

"Anyone would think you was the goil, ya take so long gettin ready," she teased him, already walking away.

Spot caught up with her at the top of the stairs, snagging her sleeve to pull her against him.

"Hey," he said smugly, dropping a quick kiss on her lips. "Perfection like this takes time."

She rolled her eyes and started down the stairs. "I guess it ain't your fault," she said snootily. "Not every one can be as naturally good lookin' as I am."

Spot grinned as he followed her into the common room.

"Heya Race," he greeted the dark haired newsie who was at that particular moment digging around in the sofa cushions.

"Heya Spot," his friend answered absently, bending to peer underneath the furniture.

Already at the door, Pocket cleared her throat insistently.

"Aw, c'mon Race," Spot said. "Get movin'. Ya know Pocket ain't fit ta be around until she gets some coffee."

"Yeah, yeah, here I come," Race mumbled as he crossed the room, pausing to look under newspapers, patting his pockets distractedly.

"Where tha hell did my cigar get to?"