Chapta 'Leven

Disclaimer: Don't own it.
A/N: A long chapter, let's see if you can make it through! To Garen Maxwell, here's the character you asked me to put in!
Spot didn't like this town.

As he walked around, weaving through the crowded streets, he decided right then and there, at the corner of 89th and 78th, next to Paula's Diner, that he didn't like this town. No one knew him or recognized him or even friggin' looked at him, and it made him angry. When you have a life filled with attention, it becomes like a battery, and Spot's battery had just run out.

A man shoved past him, and Spot flipped him off. Pulling himself over to the side to escape the crowd, he leaned against a brick wall and pulled out the cigar he had been promised. As he closed his eyes and tried to picture Brooklyn and the good life, he heard a voice yelling to him.

"Hey, you who I think ya are?"

Spot looked up to see a red-headed newsie with a dirty green cap on, grinning at him with admiration. Spot knew him anywhere and smiled.

"Is dis Spot I see?" asked the newsie, pretending to feel faint. He smiled.

"Ay, Whistler," Spot greeted, and the two exchanged spittle before wiping it on their pants. Whistler took Spot by the shoulder and led him through the crowd, and this time, people moved.

Whistler was the King of Queens, but spent most of his time in the Bronx,and, like every good King should, knew the Kings of other towns and boroughs and cities. Spot and Whistle had met before the strike and become good acquaintances.

"So, Spot, what ya doin' in da Bronx?"

"Hidin'."

"You? Hidin'? I ain't neva known Spot Conlon ta hide from an enemy."

"Well... Dey ain't really an enemy. I'm hidin' from da Bulls."

Whistler stopped and looked at him. "Whaddya do?"

"Beat da livin' shit outta Curly."

Whistler laughed, and Spot felt relieved. At least he wouldn't be frowned upon by his peers.

"Dat's it?" Whistle asked, and Spot laughed. "Yeah. Ya think I'd committed a moider aw sumthin'."

"Well, dem Bullses go afta everythin'. They don rememba how it feels ta be a newsie."

"Yeah, yeah."

They walked around town, filling each other in on everything they had missed. Spot told his whole story, of how Curly had attacked him and how he fought him off, and how Curly had thrown the chain and knocked the people out, not him. He told how he had ran all the way here and met up with Racetrack (Getting an "Oh, Racetrack - How's he been?" from Whistler) and how Race had hidden him with a girl named Natalie O'Rourke.

At this, Whistler looked curiously at him. "Natalie O'Rourke?"

"Yeah, what about her?"

"Yer a lucky guy," Whistler complimented, slapping his friend on the back. Spot stopped walking and stared at him.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Natalie O'Rourke is onna danicest goils in dis town. An' she's single."

Spot started walking again, keeping his head down. He felt a little uncomfortable having his friend talk about the girl he was living with, kind of like if someone was talking about how much they wanted to date your sister when you were right there. He now knew what Race felt.

"Is she," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"Yeah, but I don think she wants ta go out wit anyone now, cause of dis guy who was here 'fore you came."

"Who was he?"

"Paul Pumming."

Spot racked his brain. "Nope, neva heard o' him."

"He was a real jockey type, ya know?"

"Kinda like Race?"

"Ezactly like Race."

Speaking of Race...
The Italian scurried to and fro, and the Wells abode was alive with the sound of clinking glasses, clattering plates, silverware being dropped down on the table, and there was the wonderful aroma of chicken and herbs cooking.

Race, who had never set a table in his life, stood in the center of the kitchen awkwardly, holding a bunch of cloth napkins in one hand and forks in the other. Ali had given them to him, saying, "Here, put these out," and since his meals had always been eaten off his lap or served to him, he stood there like a tree amidst the chaos and did nothing.

"Racetrack!" cried Ali in annoyance, "What are you doing?"

"Nuthin'."

"I can see that. Didn't I tell you to put those out?" She pointed to the forks. Race held them out.

"I don know what ta do wit 'em."

Ali gaped. Never in her life had she met a person who could not set a table. She snatched the forks away from him, folded the napkins under them, and put them around the table. Race watched in curiosity.

Ali's mother stepped around him carrying the platter of chicken, making his motuh water and his stomach rumble.

"Anthony, dear," she asked kindly, "Would you be so good as to help me carve the chicken?"

If the poor boy couldn't even set a table, he'd have no hope with carving chicken. But Ali shot him a warning look and he smiled and nodded. "Uh, sure, ma'am."

Victoria put the chicken on the counter and Race stared at it. Had it been his only, there'd only be a pile of bones sitting there. It was plump and fresh and warm and the smell was delicious. So he picked up the knife and stuck the tip in. Steam billowed out, and the white meat was visible.

God, what he would give for that chicken.

And he knew that the faster he carved, the sooner he'd get some. So he finished the slice he had made, and a perfect little end piece was sitting right there, nicely cut and waiting to be eaten.

'This ain't so hard,' he thought to himself gaily, and just as he was getting in the mood of it, the knife hit something.

He stopped. He pushed again. The knife made a grating sound that sent shivers down his back. He pulled back the meat the reveal a bone, in which his knife was stuck on.

'God dammit,' he thought. He wouldn't let this ruin his mood.

"Hurry up with that chicken, Race," Ali reminded him, finishing up on the table and running to the stove to get the corn that was cooking.

" 'Be done in a minute."

Now he started to get annoyed. The chicken was mocking him, saying "Haha, you don't evevn know how to cut a chicken, so bite me," and it was going to pay.

With a little grunt and a push, Race put all his weight into the knife - and cut straight through the bone. Wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead, he rolled up his sleeves and looked at his masterpiece. To anyone but Race, it would've looked like a chicken that got stuck in a shredder, but to Race, well... It was the most beautiful chicken on the face of the Earth.

He smiled to himself.

There was more work to be done.

"Well, it's been good seein' ya," Whistler said, looking at Spot. He was ready to turn in for the night, or at least, retreat back to Tomcat Ally, where he and his posse hung out. Spot nodded.

"See ya tomorra?" he asked, putting his Spot face on, stern and cold with the hint of a grin. It was his business face, the one he used when he was talking to people on his level. Anyone else usually got the cold shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Signin' off."

"Signin' off."

'Signin' off' was like the Bronxie's 'Carrying the Banner' - It was a little more for the boys like Spot and Whistler and Cowboy, the older ones, the leader's national anthem. Spot wondered if Natalie knew it. He'd have to ask her later.

Dragging his feet on the cobblestone, he walked slowly home, tapping on the door. Natalie's father opened it, and gave him a weird look.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, eyeing the boy.

"I'm Sp— Sean Conlon," he said, "Natalie dere?"

"You're Sean Conlon?" Her dad sounded upset.

"Yeah."

"Oh... Well, come in. She's in her room."

He opened the door wider, and Spot stepped in carelessly, not bothering to thank the man or take off his hat or shoes. He wasn't in the mood. Instead, he went upstairs and swung open the door. Natalie lay on her bed, reading. She looked up as he walked in.

"Oh, hi," she said, "I thought you'd be back later."

"I'm hungry."

"So I'm guessing you want me to make you food?"

"Yeah." He smirked.

"You live here now. Make your own."

"No."

"Well, then you aren't eating, I guess."

Spot was persistent. "Make me food." He wasn't angry, he was annoying - it was like feeding a baby bird. Natalie sighed and stood up, and Spot took her place on the bed. He looked at the cover of the book she was reading and dumped it on the floor. It landed with a thump.

She'd let him get away with it, just this once. Since he was new and all.

He rest his head on the down pillows and looked at her with icy blue eyes.

"Food," he reminded her, pointing. She rolled her eyes.

"Okay, hold on."

Taking as long as she could to reach the bottom of the stairs, she shuffled her feet along into the kitchen. Reaching into the cupboard, she saw the only thing she had was a loaf of bread and some eggs. Her mother hadn't gone shopping in a while, so tomorrow she'd do it herself.

She took the bread and spread a bit of butter on it. She also, to her own dismay, took an egg, because she'd heard of people, boys especially, eating raw eggs. And who knew what Spot liked but Spot? So she brought it up with her.

Spot was laying on her bed, face down into the pillows, and perked his head up when she entered.

"Food?"

"Hold your horses, hold your horses." She balanced the egg on the end table and handed him the piece of bread, which was gone in a few seconds. Chomping noisily with his face covered in crumbs and his fingers with butter, Natalie eyed him. She found him cute, in a little kid kind of way... even though he wasn't a little kid. He was just a slob.

An adorable slob, no less.

Spot sat up and wiped his hands on his pants.

"What's that faw?" he asked, pointing at the egg. Natalie shrugged.

"I thought you might want it."

"A egg?"

"Yeah."

"Okay..."

"What, you've never eaten a raw egg before?"

"Naw, can't say I have."

"What kind of guy hasn't eaten an egg!"

"Dis kind."

"Oh, I see," she taunted, "You think you're so much better because you haven't eaten a raw egg before. I'll bet you Race has."

"An' I bet ya he ain't neva eatten sumthin' that nasty," he challenged.

"Okay, so you be the first guy to eat one. Let's see how tough you really are."

Spot hesitated. He looked at the egg, and realized that if he said no, he's sound like a wuss and she'd never let him live it down. He picked up the oval object, rubbing his thumb on it.

"Fine," he said, and tapped it on the side of the end table. The shell cracked and broke into pieces, and he held the egg over his mouth and pulled the two pieces apart. Thick, gooey egg white and yolk plopped into his open mouth, shell bits and all, and Spot swallowed, just to get rid of the horrible taste. Natalie laughed.

"That'll make your hair healthier," she said, going into the bathroom to get him a glass of water. Spot swallowed again, his face paling, trying to keep the wretched thing in his stomach, where it belonged, rather than on the floor.

Natalie returned. "Here." She handed him the water, which he drank vigorously, and then she spotted the eggshells all over the floor.

"Spot!" she cried, bending to scoop them into her hands.

"Wha?"

"You knocked over the eggshells!"

"Oh."

"And now you're standing on — Move your feet," she demanded, irritated. Spot, who had been trying to move out of the way, had stepped on them, causing them to break into little pieces with a crunch. He did more damage when he was trying not to.

Spot sat down on the bed again, looking at her. He gave an annoyed sigh as she swept.

Life here was so... ordinary.

Unbeknownst to him, over the next two weeks, things would be so unordinary that the Spot then and now would seem like two different people.