Chapta Twenty-Faw

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any characters in it.

A/N: Boy, I haven't updated forever. Yeah, I gave myself a break. We all need one once in a while. This chapter is sort of a filler, and I had a major brainfart when writing it... I didn't know what to write, or how to make the transition from one plot point to another. But you can review anyway.

A week had passed from where we left off. It was now the month of December, bringing ice and frost and freezing winds with it as it came. Both Spot & Natalie and Racetrack & Ali were preparing for Christmas, cutting down trees and setting them up, even though the holidays weren't to be there for three more weeks. Snow covered the ground like a white blanket, and no one dared to go outside without a scarf and gloves and a thick jacket.

Which meant Spot had to stay inside, not having these things.

In fact, it got to be so bad that all he could do was stare out the frosted windows at the snow falling and warm his hands in front of the fire. Natalie's parents, with some hesitation, agreed to let him temporarily halt his newsie work, but when spring came round, he was to start again.

However, he only asked because Natalie encouraged him to - he would have preferred to be outside doing something than inside and sitting around - he was not that kind of person. He tried to help around the house, but as seen before, caused more of a mess than fixed one.

It was one of those nothing days when Spot Conlon was lying in his room, inspecting his slingshot absentmindedly (now rarely used) when Natalie came up. She stood in his doorway and waggled a finger at him.

"An idle mind is the devil's workshop, Spot," she warned, smiling. Spot stared at the ceiling.

"I'm his town centa, den," he said, drawing the rubber band back and shooting an invisible target.

Natalie chuckled and sat on the foot of the bed. "Go see Racetrack."

"Why?"

"You knew he was back, right?"

"Yeah, ya told me. Why do I hafta go see him?"

"I don't know... You look sad. I've never met anyone that can make you happier than him."

"Maybe lata."

Natalie didn't answer, but put her hand out and stroked his forehead. There was a silence, as Spot sighed and Natalie pushed the hair behind his ears. "What's bothering you?" she asked gently.

Three months ago, Spot would've said to back off, or completely ignore this question, believing he was too tough to answer. But, without feeling the least bit uneasy, he said, "I don think I'm da King o' Brooklyn anymaw."

Natalie's smooth face creased into a frown, and she pursed her lips, but did not stop massaging his scalp. "When you come back," she said, after a thoughtful pause, "You'll get your place back and no one will ever challenge it again."

"Yeah, in a dream," he muttered, "Dey're gonna call me a cowad."

"Will they?" Natalie asked, "Or will they admire you for avoiding the whole of New York's police force? I think that takes some skill."

"I dunno if dey'll see it dat way."

"Then make them."

She kissed him tenderly for about five seconds, then stood up. He sat up, but for no reason. Natalie smiled.

"We're decorating the tree today," she informed him, "So you can help if you want to."

"Uh... Sure. Not now, though?"

"No, I have some errands to run... places to go." There was a pause, before she demanded, "Come with me."

"Nah, I'll stay heah..."

"Please?"

"I can't. I don got no clothes faw da weatheah."

Natalie stared at him. Apparently, this was a shock. "...You haven't got any winter wear!"

"Nope."

Natalie was horrified, shaking her head. "That's pretty disgusting, Spot. That, that's really disgusting." At the same time, she was trying not to laugh. "The... That's the King of all Kings."

Spot snorted, and stood up. "I'll go," he offered, feeling a bit better.

But Natalie would have none of that. She took him by the shoulder and sat down. "Oh, no you won't. Do you know how cold it is!"

"Jus' a quick run to da bah," he said, with eyes that could melt stone, and even Natalie couldn't deny the fact that beer warmed people up. She rolled her eyes in defeat.

"Fine. But it's pretty far, just warning you."

"I'll be quick."

"Go, then! Before I decide to keep you here and make you my slave."

A weird grin came onto Spot's face. Smiling, he took a seat. "Now that ya put it that way, stayin' heah sounds betta..."

Natalie shoved him. "Go on, go. Now."

But she was laughing all the same.

Spot scurried into the hallway, down the stairs and out the door, and he was a little taken aback by the temperature. Warmth from the house was surrounding him in a little bubble and he was okay, but he knew from experience it would soon be gone and he'd be left to rely on his clothes and speed.

So it was time to make some haste.

He rubbed his bare arms a few times, then realized he was forgetting something, and reached inside the doorway, where his cane leaned. An odd sight to see, a T-shirt clad boy with bare arms and a cane in the middle of winter. But he had somewhere to get to, and chose to ignore the jeers from the warm, properly dressed passerby.

He strutted along, toeing the line between strutting and sprinting, and was almost at the bar, when he felt a jab from behind. Turning around and putting on his best evil face, he stared.

No one was there.

The crowd of rude people had long since passed him, and it was growing dark. An icy wind picked up, blowing snow into his eyes with a sting.

'Whateva,' he thought, blowing it off, annoyed. He had somewhere to get to, somewhere to go, he was wasting time and energy waiting–

And no sooner had he gotten five steps away then when someone threw a rock at his back.

He spun around, slingshot at the ready.

Not a soul in sight.

He looked at his surroundings. Behind him sat an alley way and a closed up shop. There was no one for at least three or four blocks, and their figures were muddled and blurred. No one could have gotten that far that soon...

There also were no footprints on the ground.

He was beginning to get a bit nervous. It was too eerie here...

Another gust of stinging wind reminded him what his business was, but he could not help feeling someone else was with him on Broken Street.

How right he was.

His slingshot was held by his side, but he kept walking through the biting snow, when suddenly, he heard snow crunching underfoot.

"Well, if it ain't da King of Brooky I be seein'. What on earth is he doin' heah?"

Spot turned ever so slowly around, fearing it would be Curly.

It was not.

A teenager, around his age, stood before him, challenging. Black hair and brown eyes, he looked on Spot fiercely, sneering. Spot gave his famous glare.

"Who da hell are ya?" he growled, his fist clenching the small wooden weapon. He may need to use it.

"Dat don't really matta now, but I'll tell ya lata... So, what is you doin' ova heah? Shouldn't ya be in Brooklyn?"

"Ya know me?"

The boy rolled his eyes snobbishly. "I wouldn't be askin' why ya isn't in Brooklyn if I didn't."

Spot bit his lip. "...Who are you!"

The kid before him shrugged. "Like I said, it don't matta. What does matta is da rumors goin' around."

"What rumors?"

"The rumors sayin' yer goin' out wit a certain Natalie O'Rourke."

Spot started to ask, "Nat–" before he froze. Rumors about him and Natalie? How did this kid know - he had never seen him before... It was dangerous that people he didn't even know knew his secrets. What is Natalie's parents heard?

"So, are ya?" The kid pressed, sounding something like... hatred.

"...I don think that's any of yer business."

"Ah, but it is. It's my business what goes on in Natalie's home."

Spot paused, wondering if he should be talking to this guy, before saying, "...Yeah, we are."

A sudden flash of movement, catching everyone off-guard — the boy took a swing at Spot, trying to box his face, but Spot had been preparing the whole time for an attack, and caught the kid's fist.

For a split second, the boy's face reflected shock, but he yanked his hand away and stared coldly at Spot. Spot's slingshot was aimed and pointing...

"Tell me who ya are aw I'll blow ya eye out," he threatened, his lips raised in a snarl. This was not the time to mess with Spot.

The boy seemed hesitant to answer, and looked as though he'd turn and run, but he remained glued to the spot. He bit his lip, looked around, and shrugged.

Spot was getting sick of this bullshit.

"What. Is. Yaw. Name!" he growled, glaring and nearly shoving the kid on the ground.

The boy stared, and made a tiny motion that resembled a shudder...

He seemed to cough out his name, but it was enough for Spot.

"...Paul Pumming."

Spot stared, and it was a wonder his mouth didn't just fall right open. Paul Pumming.

Natalie's ex-boyfriend.

Paul Pumming.

It was him.

Spot racked his brain as fast as he could - How could Pumming know he and Natalie were going out? Racetrack didn't know the guy, and wouldn't tell anyway. Was he following them? Had he gone to her parents?

"Ya-You..." he breathed, shocked.

Pumming glared. "So she's toild ya about me, I presume?" Only the way he said presume sounded like 'prez-oom-i'.

"What are ya doin' heah...?"

"I live heah, genius. So, how's da bitch been? Good, probably - dat's how she'll treat ya in da foist few weeks, den sleep wit ya, den kick ya out." And a devilish grin appeared on his face. "Yeah, she's good in bed, an' she knows it—"

BAM.

Pumming's obnoxious words were instantly cut off as Spot aimed a fist at his head.

The blow knocked him down, sent him sprawling on the ground. Apparently, he had never been in a street fight, otherwise he could've seen that coming. Really.

And it was also obvious he didn't know who Spot was. No, he knew that he was Brooklyn's leader, but didn't know exactly how serious Spot Conlon could get when it came to things that were his. No wise fighter would have mentioned Natalie to his face.

Blood spouted from Pumming's nose, and a mixed look of shock and horror came across. His hand traveled to his wound, covering it, and stared up at Spot in fear. And he had good reason - Brooklyn was seething, teeth clenched, ready to pounce on him and hit him again.

'Self control...' he reminded himself, 'Don't want him to talk to Natalie's parents.'

Pumming scrambled to his feet, blood on the snow, red on white. He kept staring, blood dribbling out from under his hand and down his chin, and his breath came out in rapid puffs. Finally, he stuttered, " I'm g-gonna get ya back...I'm gonna ruin ya."

"Get outta heah."

Pumming didn't feel like being difficult.

He turned and ran.

And, one day, he'd ruin Spot more than any of you can possibly imagine.

One day...

A/N: Ooh, something to think about! Please R & R!