For Brooklyn 2

By: Ambrlupin

Chapter Three: But I keep pushing them away

Summary: Spot is being forced to leave New York, but how will Brooklyn take it? How will Red...? One thing is for sure though. No one is going to let him go without a fight. (Sequel to For Brooklyn)

Disclaimer: No. I. Do. Not. OWN. Blah.

A/n: SECOND half of my first Newsie fic. -smile-

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"You don't get it, do you? Spot isn't just a newsie of Brooklyn. He is Brooklyn. He is the air that you breathe, the ground under your feet, the sky above your head, everything you see he has bled to protect, and you will, BY GOD, SHOW HIM SOME RESPECT!" - Red.

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"Red!" Someone was shaking him, pulling him off the mattress and onto the cold stone floor. "Red! Wake up!"

"WHA!" He yelped, jumping up and blinking blearily at David, "Whaddya want? I was sleepin!"

"Spot is gone!" He cried hurriedly. "Him and Race!"

"Wakin me up for- WHAT!"

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"Extra! Extra!"

"Hey, Spot? Ya sure this is a good idea and all? I mean, you didn't tell Red where we were going, wont he be worried?" Race asked, wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve.

"It'll be good for him." The leader commented, leaning heavily on his cane. "Plus, he told you to watch me, right? You're watchin me."

Race shook his head, laughing. "Ya know, for such a big shot, you cant sell papes worth nuttin." His own stack was half gone, while the other still had most of his hanging from one arm.

"This aint my territory." He muttered, "I cant sell in Manhattan, its throwin me off."

"What? Do you have all of Brooklyn afraid of you?"

It was a joke, really it was.

"Yeah, I do." His eyes were shards of ice, piercing and cold. "Got a problem with that, Racetrack Higgins?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat he shook his head quickly, "N-no, Spot... No, no problem here. I get it, I do. I swear!"

Spot raised an eyebrow at him and then threw back his head to howl in laughter. "Oi, I was just joking, Race. So, why don't you teach this Brooky how to sell papes on this side of the bridge, eh? Im hopelessly lost 'ere."

Race laughed as he threw his arm around the other's shoulder, "Yeah, man. Come on, ill teach ya." They walked off the sidewalk and onto the street, just as a dark clothed figure walked past them, eyes seeming to stare at their every move.

Spot stiffened, every cell in his body screaming at him to run away. His grip tight on his cane he spun, looking, searching for the threat he felt even now. But there wasn't anyone there.

Hidden by the shadows of the building, Jake Conlon watched. And learned..

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Ace raised his hand and knocked a few times on the door to the Manhattan safe-house. A few of his men were behind him, travel companions really. He had left his co-leader Munch in charge, the kid could take it. He had wanted to come see how Spot was doing. He expected comatose, maybe denial when they opened the door.

He hadn't expected a dead guy.

"AHHHH!" He screamed, leaping back, nearly falling on his butt. "RED!"

Red blinked at the Bronx leader, eyebrow shooting to his hairline. "Well, yes, that is my name...But I don't think I've ever gotten a hello like that before."

"YOU'RE DEAD!"

"I most certainly am NOT!" He snorted, slight anger changing to amusement as the other moved forward a little, as if he were approaching a skittish horse.

And then he just reached out and poked him in the ribs.

"What are you doing?"

"Im poking a ghost." Ace replied calmly, "But im trying to figure out why it is im not going through you."

"IM NOT A GHOST!"

"AHH!" Ace was behind a nearby crate in seconds, cowering, "Don't hurt me, Ghost-Red, I swear I didnt mean anything by it! I swear!"

Red could only stare at him, wondering how the heck he had survived on the streets of the Bronx. "Look, im not a-"

"BACK AWAY!" Ace held his fingers in a cross like style, "BACK GHOST OF RED! BACK!"

"Ace, im not-"

"Got any salt?" He asked the guy next to him in a hurried whisper, trying to keep an eye on Red while he talked. "Salt works on ghost's right?"

"IM NOT A-"

He got salt thrown in his face.

"What the heck is going on here?" Mush asked, sticking his head out the door, a frown on his face. "Yo Ace, long time no see! But...what are you doing throwing salt on Red?"

"HE THINKS IM A GHOST!" Red exploded, wiping the crystals off his face and clothes.

"You're not...?" Ace blinked at him. "Well why didn't ya just say so?"

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"Race..." Spot said slowly, eyes riveted on the ground in front of him.

Racetrack looked up at him with a smile. "Yes?"

"If you get another full house im going to soak you."

His partner just laughed, "What are you saying, that im cheating?"

Spot just glared at him. "Four full houses in the past ten minutes? Yeah, I think you're cheatin." Why did he even agree to the stupid idea of playing poker? Well, because it was something to do, and...well...

It got his mind off the lurking suspicions that told him something wasn't quite right.

Sweeping the cards into his hand he shrugged. "I wasn't cheating...just improving my odds." He said it so innocently too, as if what he was doing was perfectly legal.

Spot shook his head with a chuckle, "Okay, whateva." He looked up and frowned, "Its gettin late, maybe you should head on home."

The good mood evaporated just like that. "Where are you going?" Race asked, his voice dropping down a few notes.

"Its not of your business." He used his cane to pull himself to his feet. He hadn't felt this weak in a long time, and it showed. He was irritated, snapped more, and was more prone to doing stupid things.

"Oh, I think it is my business, Spot."

Spot didn't even know he had moved until he was standing over the other newsie, fists clenched, the knuckles on his right hand split slightly. Race stared up at him in shock, his hand moving to his jaw, some of his teeth loosened by the blow.

"Its not your business what I do or don't do." Spot fought to keep his self-loathing out of his voice. How could he HIT him when all Race had been doing was being a concerned friend!

"What, do you think I care about you or sometin? Do you think that gives you the right to tell me what is or is not your business?" His voice was cold, hard, unfeeling. "Well wake up, Race! I don't care, you hear me? I DON'T CARE!" He squeezed his eyes shut as he yelled this last, and when he opened them again...

Race was gone.

Spot could have went after him, he almost did, but stopped himself at the last moment. He had done what was needed, no more and no less. He couldn't afford to have friends, not now. He wouldn't be able to live with the pain of losing them, when he left. Yes, it hurt to force those words from his mouth, but he had to do it. For Race's sake.

"Who da ya think would want you? Who do you think would help you!"

Spot's eyes closed wearily as he began the slow and agonizing walk to, not the Manhattan safe-house, but to his own. It was time he went home to Brooklyn, at least to say good-bye.

"You're wrong, father. There are people who want me...who would help me..."

'But I keep pushing them away.'

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Jake Conlon slipped back into his house, walking carefully to pull a leather bound book from its place on the shelf. Flipping to a page he sat down and pulled out a pen, scrolling to the end of the list he had made, writing down one name.

'Racetrack Higgins'

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i loved this chapter. it was a good one, well writtn! -grin-
so read and review! thanks!