"You ain't eating," Race said.

Spot made a sound of annoyance low in his throat. "Not you, too."

"Not me too, what?"

The band of survivors had quickly settled into a modified routine. With both Jack and Snoddy recuperating from yesterday's injuries, Race and Spot had taken it upon themselves to make sure things got done that needed to be. Not that anything had devolved into chaos; Jack and his boys had established an effective system over the months, and everyone knew how things ran. Specs, Race had explained, could be counted on to keep an eye on their water stores; Blink and Skittery kept track of who went out on the scavenging teams and, along with Dutchy and his maps, of where they went. But someone had to pull all the details together, and make sure nothing slipped between the cracks.

Spot ignored the question, taking a small swallow instead of the cup of water he held, like a man might sip a particularly potent whiskey.

Race watched him. Spot had always commanded attention, but—attention, now, that was not the same thing as scrutiny. It still shook Race, even after a couple of days, to know that he could just stare openly at Spot and not be caught doing it—that is, not unless the Brooklyn boys took it upon themselves to report him. Which, he had to readily admit, was entirely possible; Spot, as always, seemed to know a hell of a lot more about things than he should. Not too surprising, really.

So he took the opportunity to study the other boy, even if he had to do it out of the corner of his eye—Spot's boys, after all, were just to the other side of their leader. A bit of studying anything, really, was generally worth it. A little investment of his time, as it were, sometimes with unexpected payoffs. Spot, for instance, was damned good at showing only what he wanted to show. But Race, if he didn't mind saying so himself, could at times be even better at seeing things that weren't shown.

Spot looked, at first glance, nearly as he always had: alert, confident, aloof. His fingers loosely cradled the underside of the dented cup in his usual manner, as though it were a fine crystal snifter.

The confidence, so familiar, was still there, in the way he spoke, in the way he carried himself: shoulders back, head high. The alertness, however, was these days overlaid by something a great deal more cautious, something very much like wariness. Race had somehow never expected to see it happen to Spot, but with the advent of dragons and his blindness, the change had been all but inevitable. And that aloofness—well, that aloofness now was threaded through with—

Unable to take it anymore, Race bumped his shoulder lightly against Spot's under the guise of shifting position, unsure whether he'd initiated the contact for Spot's benefit or his own.

That aloofness now was threaded through with an almost desperate loneliness, showing only when the mask slipped. Which was hardly ever; Spot was too good at that—Race had caught only the tiniest flash of it once or twice, so fleeting that he wondered if he'd only imagined it. But it was there in the almost imperceptible widening of those unseeing gray eyes, there in the way the ever-present smirk almost began to falter, whenever the sound of easy, companionable laughter from private conversations rang out around them.

"You gotta eat," Race tried again.

"Go an' bother someone else," Spot snapped.

The Brooklyn boys on Spot's far side stiffened, looking half-ready to back up their boss and half-ready to duck his anger; but Spot made no further move, and they eventually returned their attentions to their own small suppers. The caustic tone hadn't had the same intimidating effect on him, but Race let it go for now anyway. He hadn't quite thought that he'd one day find himself trying to persuade Spot Conlon to eat, yet here he was.

He looked away, for now, a short ways down the tunnel and against the opposite wall to where Jack was trying to get David to do the same. David seemed more withdrawn than usual today—and Race noted that it wasn't listlessness, as it often was, but something different. He seemed...not unable but rather unwilling to interact, hardly responding when Jack would hold out food to him. It struck Race, not for the first time, that Jack had done this, one or two or (rarely, so rarely, on those precious days when a little more of their provisions could be spared) three times a day for months on end, and amazingly he seemed just as patient today as he had on the first. Jack's capacity to reach inside himself these days, to gather his energy and find the resources to do what needed to be done, seemed limitless.

It wasn't limitless, though. And that was the concern, the whole point of the matter, but Race wasn't going to bring it up. Now was not the time, and at any rate those conversations never ended well.

Jack was holding out a small chunk of dried apricot. David did not actively look away when Jack tried to speak to him, not quite; but it sure appeared as though he were refusing to look up. Jack murmured something to him, far too quietly for Race to hear.

Someone—Race suspected Bumlets or Mush—had rinsed the blood as best they could out of David's sleeves, but a muted ruddy tinge remained in the weave of the fabric. The cuffs mostly covered the gauze that still wrapped his wrists. Their supply of gauze was meager, but their supply of soap and clean water was even more so; the risk of infection was too great to ignore, and so they would continue to change the gauze on Jack's and David's wounds until they both healed over enough to be safe.

David finally accepted the dried fruit, eyes still downcast. But when he still made no attempt to eat it, Jack waited a moment, then plucked it again from his fingers and dropped it into their shared cup of water.

David, Race had heard from Spot and Boots earlier, had only struggled against the ropes off and on after the rescue team had left, whenever the panic had become too much and had overwhelmed him. Otherwise, he had been desperately, painfully still, as though holding himself together only by sheer force of will. Even so, it had been enough to score his wrists bloody. They had made damned sure not to let Jack see the red-streaked rope.

And yet, it gave Race an odd kind of hope. David might not have been successful the entire time, but that was not the point. The fact that he'd been successful for even a minute meant that he was battling to maintain his awareness, his self control, despite his crushing fear and the horrors of the past. A week or two ago, that probably would not have been possible.

Jack had his eyes shut now, leaning almost bonelessly back against the metal wall. It had only been a day since the dragon attack, and it was obvious that he tired easily. Race didn't miss the way David's gaze flickered upwards tentatively before fastening on him, intent and unflinching, in a way it no longer did when Jack was looking, not since Jack had returned.

Race couldn't help the small surge of impatience that rose up in him. He didn't blame David, not really, but he didn't want to see Jack overdo it, either. Regardless of how much Jack thought he could push himself, and it sure was a goddamned lot of pushing, he just didn't have that kind of energy right now. He needed real rest, not the additional strain of looking after someone else. Couldn't David see that, couldn't he at least try to meet Jack halfway? There was a kind of deliberate resistance now in the way David was reacting; if Race didn't know better he'd call it bordering on obstinacy. This was something new. Race made to get to his feet, ready to go over to them and—well, he didn't know what the hell he could even do once he got there, he couldn't think of a single thing to say that had a chance of going down well, but he couldn't just sit here and—

He stopped mid-rise as he saw David's hand furtively slide over to his small, mostly-uneaten pile of food, pick out the larger morsels and silently deposit them in Jack's. To Race's surprise, the move had been swift and practiced, where he had expected nervousness and possibly even fumbling as David tried to keep the action secret. So. How many times had David done this, surreptitiously slipped extra food to Jack? It couldn't have been at every meal; Jack tended to keep his focus on David during those times, and anyway it would've been so obvious that Jack would have caught on. And Race hated to say it, but he doubted David had been sufficiently...present at many of the meals as to even think of attempting it. Nevertheless, he'd apparently done it often enough to become proficient at it.

At the first hint of movement from Jack's lids, David hastily dropped his gaze again. Race sank back down to the floor as Jack slowly sat upright a little more, reaching for the cup of water and fishing the bit of apricot from it. He held out the plumped, softened piece of sweet fruit encouragingly, almost as though David were a sulky child who could be tempted into finishing his supper by means of treats. Which wasn't the case of course, and Race had rarely seen Jack try such a thing. But if Jack was feeling particularly indulgent at this moment, Race certainly couldn't blame him.

And hell if it didn't actually work. Most likely it was the faint ridiculousness of essentially being bribed with what might as well have been candy, but whatever it was, it was enough to pierce David's barrier of tension and he seemed to relax a little. He still didn't meet Jack's gaze, not exactly, but he did take the proffered piece and eat it. After a slight hesitation he even unwound enough to start in on the rest of his meal without further prodding. His shoulders remained hunched, but at least there was something about his bearing now that spoke more of simple ruefulness than of whatever was roiling around in his head and making him try to avoid his partner. Jack, despite his weariness, looked satisfied enough with this small victory; he was grinning.

Race unscrewed his canteen, took a swig. Huh. He wondered idly how well bribery with sweets would work on Spot.

"What's the matter with ya?" Spot hissed, but underneath the sharpness was a trace of concern.

Race finished choking rather spectacularly on his mouthful of water and wiped his face with his sleeve. "Nothin'," he croaked. "Went down wrong, 's all."

Yeah, he'd just keep that thought to himself. He didn't want to end up choking for real, thank you very much.