Sorry it's been so long! I have it all written, just can't find the time to type! Anyway, here is the next chapter, hopefully I will be able to post another chapter tonite to make up for my long absence Sequel on the way too and keep an eye out for short pre-strike background stories!

Disclaimer: Duh.

A holiday atmosphere reigned in Manhattan for the rest of the day. The Brooklyn newsies stayed behind when Spot rode off into the sunset, and they joined their Manhattan counterparts in raucous celebration back at the lodging house. A handful of the Bronx and Queens boys hung around too, drawn by the lure of the seamstresses Blink persuaded to attend. The older boys played cards and drank beer and generally made fools of themselves in an effort to impress the group of girls. For their part, the girls just giggled and smiled, sighing to each other over Jack Kelly, who was obviously taken, and speculating about the dashing Spot Conlon.

Pocket wasn't in the mood for a party, she soon grew bored of drinking and cards. Feeling obligated to join the festivities, she relaxed in a corner listening to a couple of girls gossip about Spot's good looks.

"He's so gorgeous," one of them sighed.

"I know!" her friend agreed. "So mysterious. What I wouldn't give for a date with him."

Pocket surged out of her seat, on her feet and hell-bent on snatching them both by the hair, but she checked herself.

"He's my man."

The words were on the tip of the tongue when she realized they were no longer true. She had to content herself with glaring evilly at the prattling twits before sneaking upstairs.

She went immediately to Slips' bedside where she proceed to tell him, again, how they'd won the strike. The little boy peppered her with questions that she answered patiently in an attempt to distract herself from thoughts of Spot.

They were interrupted by Racetrack and Fiver entering the bunkroom. The Brooklynite greeted Slips warmly, ruffling his hair.

"Ya did good kid," he pronounced. "I'se real proud of ya."

Slips glowed with the praise, grinning happily at Pocket. Fiver turned to her, holding out his hand.

"Proud of ya too Pocket," he told her.

She nodded her thanks and spit on her palm to shake his hand, all the while staring up at him curiously.

"Ya come up 'specially ta tell me that, or ya got somethin else on ya mind?" she asked shrewdly.

Fiver chuckled. "Ya too damn smart, that's what," he teased. "Yeah, I wanna talk ta ya."

"Bout Spot?" she guessed. She made a face at his nod. "Nothin doin," she said firmly.

Racetrack spoke up. "I think ya prob'ly wanna hear this, Pocket," he advised. "Can't hoit ta listen, can it?"

Pocket glared at him, including Fiver in her dark look as well. She was all set to refuse despite the determination she saw in both boys' faces, but she relaxed when Slips snuck his small hand into hers with a gentle squeeze.

With a heavy sigh she rose and reluctantly followed the two older boys up to the roof. Once outside, she stood defiantly, cradling her injured arm, and waited for them to speak.

Race held out a cigarette as a peace offering, motioning her to sit down.

"Don't be like that," he scolded. "We just wanna talk ta ya. Have a seat."

With an air of exaggerated patience, Pocket dropped down onto the ledge, dangling her feet over the edge. She took the cigarette grumpily, but no longer glared at them. Fiver came to sit on one side of her, Racetrack to the other side, hemming her in.

"I ain't goin nowhere," she complained. "Ya don't gotta trap me."

"Just in case," Race laughed. "Now listen."

She gave Fiver an expectant look. He lit his own cigarette and began his story.

"Thought ya should know, Pocket, that he ain't been the same since ya left," he told her.

"Mornin' afta ya'd gone, he went kinda mad, crashin and bangin up there in his loft. Tore the place apart. Past few days, he ain't come down, not once. Just sits in his room starin out the window. He won't talk ta nobody, he ain't eatin. Scariest part is, he don't care about nothing no more. Don't' care bout Brooklyn, don't care about the boys. I been runnin things lately, and he don't even listen when I try ta tell him what's goin on." Fiver exhaled a long puff of smoke, troubled by his leader's strange behavior.

"Bout the only time he perks up," Fiver went on, "is when he gets word from the boys on how you'se doin."

Pocket raised a curious brow. "What boys," she asked sharply. 'Boidies?"

"Nah," Fiver shook his head. "Spot don't like the idea of ya wanderin around by yaself. Likes ta have a coupla fellas lookin out for ya."

"For how long?" she questioned, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"For evah," Fiver admitted. "Sent them every time ya left Brooky, just ta make sure ya made it back safe. Told 'em ta come afta ya walked outta the barracks, and evah since ya started roamin around New York he's had 'em keepin watch."

Pocket looked to Race for confirmation.

"Yeah," he nodded. "But he just wants to make sure nothin happens to ya," he rushed to explain. "It ain't that he thinks ya need watchdogs, he just can't stand the thought of ya gettin hoit."

Pocket started to argue but Fiver interrupted. "Ya shoulda seen him, Pocket, when Slips came an' told us about the Crips at the distribution center. I ain't nevah seen him so angry, when he found out ya was headin inta a trap."

"Yeah," Race agreed, then related his own story. "Afta the ralley, when we didn't know where ya was, he was frantic. Had to pull him off Davey, he was so mad that the kid lost ya. Had ta sit on him, too, ta keep him from chasin afta ya." Race grinned slightly at the memory before his face grew serious again.

"Pocket, when Lucky came in carryin ya, and we didn't know if ya was alright," he shuddered, "I ain't nevah gonna forget the look on his face."

Pocket said nothing, only stared at her hands. Then she shrugged.

"Look, I know he's protective an' I know he can't help it. I was mad at him orderin me around, but I woulda got ovah it. That's just how he is. I shouldn'ta said what I did bout not wantin ta be his goil," she admitted.

Race and Fiver looked encouraged by her confession until she spoke again.

"But that don't excuse him cozyin up with some tramp a coupla hours later. Didn't waste no time replacin me, did he?"

Now they'd reached the real issue. Fiver heard the hurt behind the bitterness in her voice and knew he had to set her straight. He respected Spot, looked up to him, and he didn't like seeing his idol hurting.

"I know it looked real bad," he said, "but ya got it all wrong."

Pocket snorted derisively. "He came out of his room half-naked with that nasty little whore rubbin all ovah him, Fiver. What is that I got wrong here? Pretty obvious what happened."

"No," Fiver argued, "ya got it all wrong."

He handed her another cigarette and lit one for himself before continuing.

"Afta Kelly turned scab, Spot came home in a foul mood, growling and snarling at everybody. The little ones was even more scared a him than usual. Disappeared for a while and came back halfway through a bottle a whiskey. When I asked him bout ya, he threw the bottle at me. He kept drinkin, an' the boys started drinkin too. Somebody brought them goils ovah, but he didn't even notice 'em. I stayed sober cause I was worried about him. Spot likes ta drink, but I ain't nevah seen him drink that much." Fiver paused for breath. " So I can tell ya for sure what happened, cuz I watched the whole time. That goil kept flirtin with him, tryin ta snuggle up to him. He just pushed her away, but she kept at him. Afta a while he stopped playin cards and went upstairs. Almost fell a coupla times he was stumblin so much. Bout an hour later, I saw her go up. Weren't up there for more than a coupla minutes before you showed up, then they came back down. He didn't touch her. I saw it. She was all ovah him, but he didn't put a hand on her."

"He kissed her," Pocket insisted.

"She kissed him," Fiver corrected. "An' he turned his head away so she got his cheek insteada his mouth. I promise ya, Pocket, nothin happened."

"Why should I believe ya?" she challenged. "How do I know he didn't tell ya ta say all this?"

Fiver gave her a look. "I don't lie, Pocket. Ya should know that. An' ya know he'd nevah send me to talk ta ya. Ain't his style."

Race put his two cents in. "I believe him," he piped up. "I didn't recognize him taday, he looked so different. Like all the fight's gone outta him."

Pocket sat quietly, considering his words, and Race decided he had to tell her one more thing.

"I told him, this morning, that his ego was what started this whole mess," the Italian said softly. "An' he'd better get ovah it fast, or else Brooklyn would be all he had left."

Here he paused and looked Pocket dead in the eyes. "Know what he said?" Race didn't wait for an answer, just continued sternly. "He said you'se the only one he's wanted more than anythin for five years. He told me he'd give up Brooklyn right now if it meant ya'd come back ta him."

Those words seem to finally penetrate her defenses. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes watered. Rising, she leaned down to give both Race and Fiver a kiss on the cheek.

"I gotta think about all this," she announced. "I'se goin for a walk."