Disclaimer: I don't own it, and it makes me sad.

Author's Note: This story is drawing to a close quickly. I saw the ending while writing the last chapter, and I'm afraid my muse has spoken. There will only be one, maybe two, chapters to follow this one. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's got a little sad and a little cute all mixed in. As always, please leave me some feedback. Thank you.

Mickey was a Brooklyn newsie. Had been for as far back as he could remember. He had been around long before even the infamous Spot Conlon had taken the throne of Brooklyn. He had seen leaders come and go, but never in all his years had he seen anything like this. He was one of the older newsies, and many thought of him as sort of an older and wiser brother. He and the rest of the boys watched Spot trudge out the door and heard him thunder down the stairs. Some went to the window to watch their king sprinting away from the docks as fast as his tired legs would carry him, all wondering what he was running from. Mickey had never seen Spot run away from anything.

There was an extended silence during which no one spoke. A few boys crowded around Mouse's body, limp on the floor. But only one was brave enough to approach the mangled form of Spike. It was Spike's cousin, Red. Mickey watched as Red knelt and wiped some of the blood from Spike's face. It was a hard sight to behold. But there was nothing anyone could do. The Brooklyn boys would have to manage as best they could. They would bury their dead, one way or another they would adopt a new leader, they would wash the blood away, and they would move on. There were mouths to feed and rents to be paid – no one could afford to care too much.

Mickey sighed and was the first to leave the room. He followed the trail of blood Spot had left behind and made his way out into the chill afternoon. He had always been loyal to Spot. He didn't think it mattered what Spot did with his personal life – Spot was the strongest leader Brooklyn had ever seen. Nothing would change that; nothing could.

So Mickey knew what he had to do. He didn't know who this boy was from Manhattan that Spot was seeing - he didn't spend much time out that way - but Mickey had been in love once, and he was certain that the boy would want to know the news. God only knew where Spot was, or if he had any plans of going to Manhattan, tonight or ever. He had left completely broken, ripped wide open at the seams, and Mickey didn't know where he planned to go. Sure enough, glancing over his shoulder, Spot's bloody footprints were headed in the opposite direction.

The walk to Manhattan was filled with disturbing thoughts for Mickey. Thoughts of what would happen to Brooklyn now, without Spot Conlon. Thoughts of Spot, the once great king wandering off somewhere miserable. And somehow, more important than the rest, thoughts of the poor boy who was soon to learn that Spot was gone.

Mickey reached the Manhattan Lodging House close to supper time. It was Jack Kelly who came to the door to greet him. Mickey recognized him and stretched out his hand. "Da name's Mickey O'Malley," he said expressionless, "I'm from Brooklyn, an' I got some bad news…"

Jack shook hands, "Jack Kelly," he said, suddenly anxious, "C'mon in an' we can tawk."

Mickey nodded his thanks and followed Jack inside, very professionally. They sat down at a table together, in a more private corner of the room, and Mickey looked around at the boys, a few of whom had raised their heads in curiosity when Mickey had entered, but they didn't dare stick their noses in Jack's business.

Mickey began talking as soon as they were seated. "Dere's been some trouble with Spot," he said quietly, and noticed a dark-eyed boy who'd been playing cards with himself glance up at the name. Mickey continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Dere's been talk he's been neglectin' his duties back in Brooklyn, an' it's been rumored it's 'cause of a boy here dat he's been … involved with."

Mickey noticed Jack swallow hard, but the Manhattan leader never let his eyes leave Mickey. He would not slip and glance towards the culprit - he was protecting his boys. Mickey's tone was not accusatory at all, but Jack couldn't be sure.

"Well a' couple a' da boys confronted him about it dis aftahnoon, an' a kid, name a' Mouse, an' da one startin' all da trouble, Spike, dey both got knocked off."

Jack's face was hard and unreadable; he was waiting for the unavoidable end of the story.

"Spot ran off soon as it was all ovah," Mickey explained. "I dunno where he's plannin' on goin', I dunno if it's safe fah him – dere's still boys who think Spike was right challengin' Spot an' might wanna get back at him, I dunno if you'se even wanna get involved…"

There was a pause in the Brooklyn boys' speech, and Jack waited patiently for him to finish.

"But I do know dere ain't much in dis woild as coulda made Spot Conlon leave Brooklyn behind him like dat. Whoevah dis boy is, if ya even know who it is, he's special – important. He's gonna wanna know what happened, an' dat's why I'm here."

Jack nodded solemnly, grimly thankful for this messenger of ill tidings. He was trusting of Mickey now, and tried to be polite. "Thank you," he said quietly, still unable to keep the businesslike tone out of his voice. But he was sincere. "Brooklyn's always been one a' our closest allies, an' Spot's always been one a' my closest friends. We'se gonna do our best tah find him. I can't make any promises 'bout his goin' back tah Brooklyn, howevah. Dat's up tah Spot."

Mickey nodded, sage like, "I undahstand. I'm just heah tah delivah da news. I'm headin' back tah Brooklyn now, dose boys are gonna need help cleanin' up dis mess. Jus' take care a' yaself - an' Spot, if ya find him. He was da best thing dat evah happened tah Brooklyn, an' I'm sad tah see him go. But everybody's gotta grow up soonah or latah I guess."

Jack nodded and both boys stood up together. Mickey cast one more glance to the brown-eyed boy who'd lifted his head at Spot's name. He was still watching them, his eyes full of worry. He looked away quickly when he saw that Mickey was looking back at him. But it was too late, Mickey realized with a jolt that this was the boy, and he felt like he was going to be sick.

The entire way home it was impossible to shake that face. How pale it was, and afraid, about to find out that his lover was lost, in danger, possibly gone forever. It would take Mickey weeks to forget the feeling he'd gotten looking at those anguished eyes, and by then, it would be too late…

As soon as Jack had closed the door behind Mickey, Race was on his feet. He practically ran to Jack across the room, not caring what the boys thought. He tried not to let his voice shake too badly as he asked, "What about Spot? What's goin' on, Jack? Ya don't look good …"

Jack grimaced. He didn't think he'd ever had to do something so hard, in all his time as leader of Manhattan. "C'mon, let's step outside a' minute, okay Race?"

And then Race knew it was bad. He was silent as Jack guided him through the door. The wind whipped at the boys as soon as they got outside. Night was just falling now, and it brought with it a stinging cold that hadn't existed in the glare of the winter sun.

"What happened Jack?" Race asked, and his voice sounded so childlike that Jack thought he could have cried for his friend.

"It's Spot," Jack nearly whispered. "Dere was a sort a' rebellion. Da Brooklyn boys weren't happy with da way Spot was runnin' things." Jack paused, knowing he couldn't bear to tell Race that it was his fault, and realizing he didn't know the specifics of the story well enough to tell a good lie. So he did the best he could. "I guess dere was a fight –" Jack saw the panicked look on Racetrack's face then and said the rest very quickly. –"Spot's fine," he assured his friend, "he won. But I guess he left right aftah, an' nobody knows where he's goin'. An' dat Mickey boy said it might not be safe fah Spot tah be out. Dere's still dose who'd want him tah pay fah abandonin' Brooklyn."

The look of panic was gone from Racetrack's face, to be replaced by a dull nauseated expression, as if he were going to be sick right there. Jack waited for him to say something.

"Race? You okay?"

Race shook his head and sat down. Jack didn't want to tell Race that he was sitting in a snowdrift, so instead he crouched down beside him. He could only imagine what this was doing to Race. If it were David who were lost and in danger, Jack didn't know what he'd do. Probably lie down beside Race and the two of them could wish away reality together, going numb together in the wonderful icy nothingness... But he couldn't let Race know that.

"It's gonna be fine, Race, c'mon," Jack tried to sound as comforting as possible. "I'm gonna send da boys out tah look fah him. We'll find him, an' everythin's gonna be okay."

Race looked up and nodded wearily. How could this be happening? Now, after everything was so perfect …

Jack was about to help Race up when the Italian picked himself up and told Jack, "I'm goin' now. Send whoevah ya can tah help. I wanna have him home by tamarrah."

Jack didn't have the heart to argue with Race as he trudged away, shoulders slumped against the cold. Jack watched him go, and just when he had turned his back and pushed the door open, he heard Race in the distance, calling Spot's name …

Less than an hour later, Jack had emptied the entire Lodging House. Manhattan boys flooded the streets of every borough, searching everywhere for their friend. Mostly they stuck together in groups of two's or three's, and Jack shuddered every time he had to think of Race, alone out there somewhere.

But Racetrack was not alone. He had plenty of miserable thoughts to accompany him. He wandered on, not sure where to look. He checked all the obvious places first, but beyond that, he was lost. Around Midtown he stopped and sat beside a dumpster. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a few other boys calling Spot's name. It made him feel good to know that he wasn't alone in the search, but it still seemed hopeless.

Race closed his eyes wearily and just concentrated on breathing. Then he opened his eyes and he did something he'd never done before. "Hey," he said quietly to the empty air around him, "I know dis ain't somethin' I do dat often. But dat's why I figure you'll listen tah me now."

Race didn't pay any attention to how crazy he must sound, had anyone been close enough to hear him. "I can't remembah da last time I asked ya fah anythin', so ya owe me, right? Everybody gets at least one favah, an' I'm cashin' mine in now. Spot," then Race stopped and corrected himself so he could be sure his audience would know exactly who he was talking about. "Benjamin," he began again, "he ain't like anyone I evah known befoah. An' I really care about him, ya know? So I dunno really what I gots tah say heah, promise ya tah be good or somethin', but whatevah it is, ya gotta know I'll do it. 'Cause Spot's da most special thing dat's happened tah me, prolly in me whole life. I can't lose him now. Please. I'm beggin' ya."

When Race stopped speaking, he realized that at least some unconscious part of him had been wishing for an audible answer to his prayer, because when none came, he felt tangible disapointment sieze him. Grudgingly, Race pulled himself up and kept walking. He kept on walking for hours, no idea where he was after a while, and it was with a heavy heart that he realized he couldn't hear the voices of his fellow newsies anymore. Had they given up so easily?

Race sighed, knowing it was nearly dawn by now, and he couldn't feel his feet for cold. He would have to continue the search tomorrow. Race spent the walk home occupying himself by trying hard not to think of Spot, alone and possibly freezing to death on this frost-bitten night.

Coming upon his home he realized all the lights were on, and so he quickened his pace. By the time he reached the stairs he could hear muted voices through the door. He threw it open and inside he found all the Manhattan boys, looking at him with sad eyes. The reason: Spot was lying on the floor in the middle of the room on a couple of folded blankets, Jack kneeling by his side. Spot was even paler than usual, if that was possible, his hair was matted in blood, just like his clothes – whose blood it was, Race had no idea – and his eyes were closed. He was breathing heavily and unevenly, so while clearly alive, he was in awful shape. Race only noticed briefly how uncomfortable everyone else in the room was: as if seeing the King of Brooklyn in this condition weren't bad enough, now they were watching Race's misery over it. It was like they were watching something they shouldn't be, intruding on Race's privacy, and yet none of them could bear to leave Spot. Instead, they all merely diverted their eyes uneasily.

Jack was the only one who didn't seem at all disturbed by the situation. He was tending to Spot calmly, and didn't even look up when Race had entered. Race was on the floor by his side in seconds.

"Where'd ya find him?" he asked.

Still Jack did not look up. "Some rundown pub, jus' south a' da Bronx, 'bout an hour ago. Was Mush dat found him. Says he was jus' sittin' out on da stairs with a bottle in his hand, shakin' like crazy. He's been drinkin all night." Jack stopped there and let his tone become harsh. "Dumb fuck," he said through a clenched jaw, "as if he weren't in enough trouble, in bad enough shape, he goes an' gets hisself drunk …" Race saw that Jack was nearly as upset over Spot as he himself was. Jack rolled his eyes and said under his breath, as if it were meant for Spot's ears only: "It don't always fix ya problems, Spot. When ya gonna learn dat? Damn, ya so stupid sometimes ..."

Race reached out a hand and traced the length of Spot's face. Only now did Jack chance a brief look at Race's, and he wished instead that he'd kept his eyes on Spot. Jack sighed, "Mush said da whole way home he was callin' ya name, Race. Mush kept tellin' him dat you was gonna be heah waitin' fah him. But Spot's still so outta it, I don't think he hoid a woid. I'm gonna go get some more blankets an' set him up a bed. You two can have my room tahnight," Jack said solemnly, "I'll take ya bunk Race."

Race didn't try to protest. He hardly had the energy to raise his head, let alone start a fight with Jack about getting his bed…

Twenty minutes or so later, Jack had helped Race carry Spot up the stairs – the skinny king didn't look like much, but it took all Jack and Racetrack's combined efforts to lift him and haul him to Jack's bedroom. They placed him as gently as they could on the bed, and Jack turned to Race. "I'm goin' tah get some sleep, Race," he said, "I've still got woik in da mornin'. Well … in a couple hours. Spot ain't dat badly hoit. I took a look at him when dey got him heah. Jus' keep cleanin' anythin' dat's still bleedin' an' keep him as warm as ya can."

Race nodded. He was starting to get feeling back. The shock of seeing Spot so hurt and vulnerable had passed, to be replaced by a fierce protectiveness. Jack seemed to understand. "Oh, an' hey Race," he turned back, halfway out the door, as if he'd forgotten something.

"Yeah?"

"I tawked tah da rest a' da boys befoah ya got heah. We all undahstand if ya ain't gonna sell tahmarrah; we know ya haven't been sellin' in a while. But we get it - we see dat ya got a lot on ya plate right now. …So we all pitched in, an' we'se gonna covah ya food and rent fah a couple a' days. Dat alright with you?"

Race could only nod. Of course it was alright with him: he didn't know what he'd do without Jack and the rest of the boys. "Thanks so much, Jack, dat means a lot." Jack saw the tears welling up in Race's eyes and smiled a little before he closed the door on his way out.

Race turned around to face the boy on the bed beside him. Spot's eyes were still barely half open, he was slipping in and out of consciousness. Not that it mattered, even if Spot had regained complete coherence, he was too intoxicated to notice anything going on around him. Race worked carefully. The blood was all gone from Spot's skin where Jack had washed him, but his clothes were still miserably dirty with grime and blood. Race peeled off Spot's shirt with gentler fingers than was absolutely necessary, and then pulled off Spot's trousers. Race shuddered to realize that Spot's skin was still freezing. "Race?" Spot murmured through blue lips.

Race dropped Spot's trousers on the floor by the dresser where he'd been folding them with care and rushed to the bedside. He took Spot's hand in his and whispered, "It's me, Spot. I'm right heah. How ya feelin?"

Race knew Spot was too incapacitated to respond, but it made him feel better to be talking to him anyhow. Spot managed another mumbled little "Race …" At least it wasn't a question this time, and that was enough for Race.

Silently he took stock of Spot's injuries. The boy had an enormous bruise under his left eye, as well as several scrapes and gashes all over his body – the worst of which being on his right bicep. That cut was so deep, Race had to hold the wet cloth Jack had left on it for several hours before the bleeding stopped.

But Race did not forget what Jack had said about keeping Spot warm. He removed his clothes just as he'd removed Spot's and climbed under the covers. He held Spot close to his body, whispering to him every once in a while, even knowing that Spot could not hear him.

And then, right before he fell asleep, he remembered his conversation of the afternoon. He kissed the top of Spot's head, and looked up to the ceiling. "Thanks," he whispered, "I mean, really thanks. I owe ya one …"