Okay sorry this is long overdue... I've been crazy busy lately and I haven't had any time to write. I will assure you all, however, that I will finish this story eventually, it just might take a while. Thank you so much Anna W. for your review! You encouraged me to finally upload this chapter. :) So without further ado I'll let you guys read, and also, sorry this chapter's short, the next will be longer I promise!
Jack grunted as a Queens newsie clouted him in the gut. Recovering quickly, he threw a punch at the boy's face and hit him square in the jaw, sending him sprawling backwards. Jack pushed his way forward and attempted to make his way through the fray of the numerous newsies of both boroughs to the Queens leader, Patch.
They had come out of nowhere. It had started out just like any other day when all of a sudden the Queens newsies had surrounded the boarding house and ordered surrender from Jack. He knew this was all a result of Patch's personal vendetta. The kid had been sulking about ever since the strike, claiming that Queens hadn't received enough credit for the victory; that Jack and Spot had stolen all the glory. He had made his anger and jealousy known on several occasions by soaking any newsies from either Manhattan or Brooklyn who ventured into his territory. Spot had wanted to retaliate after Patch had beat up a few of the boys, but Jack had talked him out of it, stating that Patch was partially right in saying that he and Spot had gotten much of the credit for the strike. Of course they had, along with David, led the whole operation to begin with, but Jack could still understand why Patch might feel cheated or left out.
Now Jack wished he had let Spot deal with Patch when he had the chance. The Queens leader was a nuisance and a massive pain in the ass and Jack could hardly believe that the kid had the nerve to attack them on Manhattan soil. He was demanding that Jack hand over twenty percent of his selling area to Queens, and also break up the union between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Was he mental or what? Did he really think Jack would ever, in a million years, agree to those terms? He had obviously tremendously underestimated the will and power of Jack, Spot, and the boys under their leadership. When Queens had attacked, Jack had immediately sent Eaves, one of the Brooklyn birdies who had spent the night in Manhattan, to alert Spot of the situation. He knew that Brooklyn would arrive at any minute, and that they would fight side by side and obliterate Patch's feeble attempt at gaining the upper hand.
"Patch!" Jack finally reached the other boy's side. Patch, who had been doing nothing but observing and yelling at his boys, narrowed his eyes at Jack, but didn't say a word. Jack, not deterred in the slightest by Patch's attempt at intimidation, simply rolled his eyes and smirked. "Man, yuh must be dumbuh den I tought. Yuh really tinks yuh can win dis?"
"No. I knows dat I can," Patch replied with an overconfident simper. "Everyone knows dat de Manhattan newsies are wawhthless when it comes tuh fightin', and in case yuh haven't noticed, we's winning, Jacky-boy."
Jack surveyed the situation. The Queens newsies had attacked in the early morning so Jack and his boys had been taken by surprise. They had been getting ready to go out and sell, so there were some boys fighting half-dressed, or with food in their hands, or even with shaving cream covering their faces. He swore he even saw Kid Blink running by wielding a toilet paper roll as a weapon. The Queens newsies had the element of surprise, and Patch was right in saying that the Manhattan newsies weren't great when it came to fighting, but despite these seemingly grim circumstances, Jack laughed. Patch scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion, which only made Jack laugh harder. Now Patch looked even more uncomfortable, and he began to shift his feet uneasily.
"Uh…" he said uncertainly as his eyes darted back and forth, attempting to unearth the humor of the situation. "Yeah, so uh… You's gonna hafta surrenduh, right? And I wants yuh tuh break de union wit Brooklyn, and give us a third of de Manhattan sellin' areas. If yuh surrender now-"
Jack cut Patch off as he burst into another round of incredulous howls of mirth. He clutched his aching belly as it took him several minutes to regain his composure enough to speak.
"Just wait, Patch," he choked out between guffaws. "You's an idiot."
As if on cue, there was a sudden earsplitting holler resembling an enthusiastic war cry. Bursting forth through windows, doors, and every direction came boys with guises that could kill. Bulging muscles, gritted teeth, and weapons of every kind from steel pipes to wooden sling shots were flashed ostentatiously at the newsies of Queens. The enemy began to quiver where they stood and each member cast wary glances at their leader, wondering despite their orders if they should flee the scene. Patch himself had gone stock still, his face as pallid as a ghost, and his hands tremoring slightly as his poise caved. Jack felt the corners of his mouth lift up in triumph and he sneered at Patch with a malevolent glint in his eyes.
"Never fear," he said slowly, tauntingly. "Brooklyn is here."
Queens didn't stand a chance. Once Spot and his boys showed up, the fight was already won. Notwithstanding Patch's failure to surrender, his boys had simply lost their zeal for victory. They knew that they had already lost; that they were no match for the Brooklyn newsies. They fought vacantly and half-heartedly and were soon laying down their clubs and conceding their dignity as they raised their arms in surrender. Patch himself had called off the skirmish and ordered a cease-fire. After a good telling-off from Jack and a few well-aimed punches from Spot, the Queens leader and his boys had all scurried off with their tails between their legs.
As Spot grinned at Jack in conquest, he sensed the gaze on him without looking around. Glancing down at the ground he slowly raised his eyes to meet those beautifully flecked hazel-brown ones that he still couldn't quite stare into without catching himself intensely admiring them and, to his chagrin, their owner. She stared back with that odd look on her face; the same one she'd retained since their encounter when Spot had first arrived on the scene…
Spot motioned for the boys to surround the building and met Rusty's eye as they dutifully followed his instruction. Rusty smiled broadly at him, and Spot glimpsed that unmistakable glint in his eye; the one full of anticipation and excitement for the encounter to come. He knew that his own expression would mirror Rusty's. It had been months since the Brooklyn newsies had seen any action, and the air was thick with foreboding eagerness and excited tension.
A loud clash sounded from the skirmish within the Manhattan boarding house, and Spot chuckled darkly beneath his breath. The Queens newsies wouldn't know what hit them. Without further ado, he flashed a mischievous grin at Rusty, before raising his cane into the air and hollering out with all the air in his lungs.
The response was immediate. Windows crashed, doors splintered, and fearsome war cries sounded from every direction as boys penetrated the boarding house from all sides, immersing into the fight with courage and pride in their hearts. Rusty, unable to contain himself any longer, bellowed out a cry of his own as he hurried to join the brawl. Spot was right on his heels, fully intending to stick to the plan and help his boys crush Queens into the ground beneath their boots… but then he heard it. A petrifying scream of horror sounding from the alley to his left, followed by loud bouts of protest in an unambiguous voice that he knew all too well.
Spot froze. He craned his neck to peer into the alley but could not see past the edge of the boarding house. For a mortifying moment he considered leaving her there. He was still angry after their argument that morning, and she was the last person he felt like saving, but when he heard another terrified scream followed by a pitiful sob, he knew that he could never leave her. Jaw set and determination in his steps, he marched purposely around the building. What he saw sent a flood of unbounded rage coursing up and down his spinal cord.
Two rather bulky Queens newsies had Sarah pressed firmly against the building wall. Her once clean white blouse had been ripped apart and was clenched into the fist of one of the boys as he held her arms down, and repulsively attempted to plant kisses across her collarbone. Tears were streaming down Sarah's face, and her shoulders shook as she continuously tried and failed to push him off her. Meanwhile the other boy had begun to drift lower and tug at her skirt.
Spot didn't like where this was going. Roaring with fury he surged ahead, a reeling locomotive of sheer anger and force. He gnashed his teeth together and squeezed his fists hard enough to draw blood on his palms. Grabbing the shirt of the first boy, he ripped him off of her with enough strength to send him tumbling to the ground where he landed with a thud. Rage still surging through his veins, he turned to the other boy who had jumped back in surprise at Spot's arrival but was now cracking his knuckles as he eyed Spot with evil intent. The first boy also quickly regained his composure, as he leaped to his feet and squared up.
They were big, Spot had to admit. Even with his newly acquired height, they easily stood five or so inches taller than him, and their fists looked like giant gavels attached to tree limbs. But Spot was not intimidated. He had lived his whole life playing the role of the smaller fighter, the one who had to be quick and smart to outwit his opponent. He thrived on being the underdog, and he knew that his fighting skills alone would tip the scales in his favor.
He smirked at them and goaded them on with a confident gesture. For a moment they exchanged hesitant looks with each other, before turning back to Spot and advancing with conviction. The first to reach him attempted a clumsy swing at Spot's face. Easily avoiding the jab, Spot whipped out his cane with lightning-fast reflexes and struck the boy firmly on the back of his calves. The Queens newsie grunted in pain as his legs wobbled and he fell to his knees. Spot leered at him victoriously, knowing a hit like that caused severe pain, and would likely leave a brazen mark. His glory was short-lived, however, as the second newsie advanced quickly and attempted to pull Spot's arms behind his back.
A rookie move, Spot thought as he resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. This kid had read one too many crime fictions. Sure, hold back his arms so that your buddy can pummel the shit out of him; yeah, that'll work. But this wasn't fiction, and Spot was no easy target.
Feigning defeat, Spot struggled against his muscular arms for a bit, and even let the first newsie get a jab in for effect. He needed a mark to prove he'd taken them on anyway. He couldn't wait to recount the tale of his bravery and near-death experience with two, mountain-like, Queens newsies, and how he'd barely made it out with his life. A black-eye would simply add to the effect. Spending too much time in his thoughts, the first newsie swung again and his fist connected with Spot's jaw. Okay then, make that a black eye and a dislocated jaw. Suddenly a small barely audible whimper sounded from the other side of the fighting.
"Spot." His eyes found her, still huddled against the wall. She stared back at him with an expression of fear, horror, and something else Spot couldn't place. She clutched her tattered blouse against her exposed chest, and she visibly shook as her skin dawned a deathly-pale hue. Spot could see the beginnings of bruises rising in contrast on her slim neck and arms. She looked so helpless, and so miserable; and she was looking to him. It was all the encouragement he needed.
He jerked his left arm free with new-found strength and a deep guttural snarl emitted from lips. His elbow found contact with the second newsie's face before either of them knew what had happened. A satisfied smile graced his lips as the pointy part of his arm sunk deep into the soft flesh of the boy's left eyeball. The latter cried out in pain and released Spot from his grip. Pointy elbows do come in handy.
The other newsie had stopped mid-swing and was now staring at Spot with an expression of uncertainty and something resembling fear and apprehension. Oh, the joy of bringing that look to someone's face; Spot never grew tired of it.
Spot struck out and punched him square in the jaw, kicked him in the sweet spot, and clouted him over the head with his cane in rapid succession. The boy crumpled in an ungraceful heap at his feet. The bigger they are, the harder they fall; apparently this one didn't have such a thick a skull. He turned to the second newsie, prepared for another fight, but the boy brushed passed him and fled the alley, sporting a fresh black eye and depleted pride.
Panting heavily, Spot watched him go, slightly put-out at the loss of another good soaking. All thoughts of the fight that could have been left his mind, however, when he heard an exhausted sigh of relief and felt a presence just behind his right shoulder. He turned to peer at her and his eyes widened at the way she gazed back. She had that look on her face; the one he couldn't place. Was it admiration? Respect? Fear? God forbid she look at him with anything other than contempt. He knew he was staring but the way she appeared was just so foreign, it slightly unhinged him.
"Thank you," she spoke in a timid voice. It took him a moment to realize she'd said anything at all, but eventually he cleared his throat to reply.
"Uh, yeah. Yuh knows… anytime, er, it was no problem." An awkward air settled around them, and Spot began to shift his feet in discomfort. Sarah seemingly just remembered her torn shirt and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she covered her chest, once more.
"I, uh, have to go," she said hurriedly, and she began to scurry away, but not before giving Spot another dose of that odd look. He wanted to say something to ease the tension, he didn't think they should leave things so unsettled, but his mouth was dry and his tongue stuck in his throat. Just before Sarah disappeared around the corner of the building he finally called after her.
"Hey, wait, do yuh need any help o' anyting?" If she heard him she gave no indication and she was soon gone, leaving Spot alone with his thoughts. The Queens newsie at his feet groaned and began to stir, so Spot soon found himself following her example, and hurrying out of the alley. As he made his way into the Manhattan boarding house to join the fray, only one thought was going through his mind:
What de hell just happened?
Oh God, she was staring.
She began to absently fiddle with the hem of her shawl as she bit her lip nervously. She just couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd come rushing to her rescue and fought with such ferocious protectiveness. In that moment she'd been praying for someone to save her, but she never would have expected Spot Conlon, of all people, to help her like that. It was a dream come true, except it should have been Jack. Jack was the knight in shining armor type, not Spot. Hell, Jack was her knight in shining armor. So why did she find herself so captivated by the set of blue eyes locked with hers? Why did it feel like she wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else?
Her feelings terrified her, so she did the only thing that seemed rational in the moment: she bailed. Without a word, she turned her back to him and began to push her way through the crowd of celebrating newsies, until she reached the door and burst out into the street. She breathed in a long, gratifying gulp of fresh air and let out a sigh of relief. After only a moment of relaxation, however, she heard a voice call out her name.
"Sarah!" She turned to see Jack jogging toward her, a look of concern sketched across his brow. As he ran up to her she began to turn away, but he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to look at him. "Hey, are you's okay? What's de mattuh?"
"Nothing, Jack, I'm fine, really," she attempted to smile at him, but it came out as more of a pained grimace, and he looked at her skeptically. He could see right through her.
"Sarah, you's shakin'," he reached up and brushed a fallen piece of hair out of her face. "And you's as white as a ghost, come on, what's wrong?"
He pulled her in for a hug as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Sarah had always loved Jack's hugs. He had a way of making everything feel alright even if it wasn't. He made her feel safe, and warm, and happy. But as he held her now, she felt none of this, and only felt trapped in his embrace. When she didn't reciprocate the hug, Jack only pulled her closer, and although she knew he only wanted to comfort her, she wanted nothing more than to push him off her immediately.
Then, as she peered over Jack's shoulder, her decision was made. She had to get out of there. Lingering in the doorway of the lodging house, was the cause of her troubled state of mind. She couldn't read his expression, Spot had always been good at putting a mask over his emotions, but she couldn't stand the way he made her feel. She gently pulled away from Jack and backed away, trying to ignore the hurt look in his eyes.
"I'm fine, Jack, I just felt suffocated in there. I just… I have to go." Without another word she dashed away, hardly even paying attention to where she was going. She couldn't believe how conflicted she felt. There were so many emotions coursing through her that she could hardly bear it. She felt fear and anxiety over what those boys had almost done to her and she felt guilty for leaving Jack the way she had, but more than those she simply didn't know how she felt about her rescuer. All she knew was that the moment Spot came barging into that alley with fists flying every which way, her respite and hatred of him seemed to have vanished altogether. Replacing it was somethin else entirely; something that made her as uneasy as ever.