Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter please.

Author's Note: My beta is taking awhile to proof this, so I'm posting it with as much editing I can do myself.

Thanks for the reviews.

This Town

Chapter 2

There was little one could do when under the scrutiny of Spot but accept the fact that he was going to get the answers he wanted. Stalling would only get you so far, and lying would get you nothing but trouble. Mostly the painful kind. The rules were bent slightly in her favor because she was a girl. But Rogue wasn't some dame in a pretty dress, gloves, and hat. She was a kid of the streets, just like him. She'd rubbed elbows with some of the worst and always came out on her feet. Sure, she may have stumbled a little on the way and there were always a few new bruises and scrapes, but she would be alright.

Spot had been there for many of those moments. Always on the sidelines, blue eyes taking in all that was said and done. Rarely stepping in and never missing a thing.

To not be informed about Saint's death must have been a hard blow. Not to his feelings, for as far as she could tell he didn't express any. None that really mattered, anyway. All she'd ever been able to get out of him was anger, displeasure, or an occasional look of amusement when she did or said something that was worthy of his attention. Everything else was hid behind a carefully constructed mask of indifference that made him who he was: the most respected and feared newsie in the state, if not the tristate.

No, it wasn't his feelings being hurt that she had to worry about. It was his damned ego. Even to so much as scratch the surface of it was enough to ensure a wrath that would leave the most resilient of people wishing they still had parents that would allow them to crawl into their bed after a particular frightening nightmare. Anger from Spot left a residual disquietude that kept you on shells until, by some grace of God, he decided he was over it. Even then you kept an eye over your shoulder, just in case he changed his mind.

Rogue could tell by the casual smile he was giving her, the one that never quite reached his eyes, she was in for it. She had to find a way to pacify him, and fast, because she was fair game stuck under him the way she was.

"You remember when this used to be fun?" She asked suddenly, ignoring his question. The smiled wavered, slightly.

"No, I don't remember this eva being fun. I remember wanting to strangle you, but not being able to because there was always someone breathing down my neck 'bout not hittin' goils."

"I remember when this used to be fun."

"Yeah, well I remember that there ain't nobody here to tell me what to do anymore. And your little body guard is on his way back to Queens, and we're alone." He looked around the room to emphasize his point. "I'se got in my right mind to knock you in the head."

She wouldn't put it against him either. But instead of lashing out like she expected him to, the smile turned into a frown and he patted her on the cheek. "Not that it would do ya much good. I don't think you've got enough sense left in that head of yours ta withstand it." And then he sighed and rolled off her.

She watched him stand and straighten his clothes out in confusion. Leave it to him to use her own ploy of distraction against her. She often forgot that he was a lot smarter then he made himself out to be.

When she finally got up herself she saw that he was making his way out of the room.

"Hey, where you think ya goin'?"

He turned. "You wanted a smoke, didn't you?" She nodded, still lost, and he smirked. By the time he reached his bedroom she finally remembered that she was mad at him.

The Brooklyn lodging building had once been the most notorious brothel east of the Hudson. Back then it housed over twenty women, of varying ages, sizes, and nationalities, including two Asians (from China and Indonesia respectively) and one girl that had made her way all the way from Cyprus. But those days were long gone. Mademoiselle Lisette Ferronaire had closed shop and passed on. The many rooms that were once dens for any man's wildest dreams and fetishes was now home to about seventy teenage boys. They slept three or more to a room and shared six communal baths. Out of all the places that the many newsies in the city called home, whether it be a pay by night bed or a dry area under a bridge, the ones that were chosen to be apart of Brooklyn had the nicest.

The first official Brooklyn leader had been Mademoiselle Lisette Ferronaire's only mishap in her thirty something years of alternative services. A tenacious but well learned child by the name of Jean Pierre who in no way bore any resemblance to his mother with his dark hair and blue eyes. Jean had taken up the habit of selling newspapers to occupy his time after his studies. After a while, he gave up schooling all together in favor of his new profession. When the authorities put an end to the lady's profitable but lewd business, Jean suddenly found himself in possession of one of the best things to every happen in his life. The former whore house became the refuge for parentless and penniless boys, chosen by Jean himself for their street knowledge and survival skills.

Thus began the Brooklyn newsboys' reign of supremacy. Their resilient and truculent handle on life became well renowned. They weren't really the best of sellers because, truthfully, most of them hated it. But it was a good front for other ways to make an earning. Such as thieving and gambling, which it seemed to be a necessity when becoming a Brooklyn newsie. It wasn't easy to be admitted into their circle, and once accepted it was even harder to tough it out. But she and Spot had stuck through it together for many years before he earned his position and she had moved on to gain her own.

For as long as she could remember all he would sleep, drink, eat, and breathe was the prospect of being in charge of that base group of kids. After years of observing his passionate obsession she asked finally, out of curiosity, why he wanted the position so bad. He gave her that fabled smirk and pushed his hair, which was much longer and unkempt back then, out off his face.

"I want the room." It was said as if it was the most simple and obvious reason in the world.

Of course she had know that wasn't his only reason for wanting to be leader. He wanted the control, the power. He wanted to prove that a pale and malnourished Irish kid could hold his own and then some. That he could gain the respect of every child laborer in the city and have then hang on his every word and action. He wanted to be king of their poor and dysfunctional world. But she had to admit, as she walked through the threshold, the private room he received when gaining Brooklyn leadership was a pretty good reason to want to be in charge. The privacy and solitude that it offered in a world of constant interaction was very inviting. It must have been nice to have a place were people needed your express permission to enter. She certainly didn't.

His was sitting on the bed, one of three pieces of furniture that outfitted the tiny room, rolling the cigarette with his ink stained fingers. She leaned against the doorway and waited for him to finish before she spoke. She really wanted that smoke, and if she pissed him off she may never get it. He closed the tin can he kept the tobacco leaves in and stuck it under his mattress before licking the edge of the rolling paper and folding his over.

"So," he began as he held it out for her.

"So." She repeated as she walked over and sat on the bed with him. Once the cigarette was securely in her hands she crossed her arms and glared at him. "What was Kelly doing 'ere?"

His look said he was irritated. "He was goin' hear it either way. Might as well hear it when I did." Producing matches from his pocket, he held those out for her also, but when she went for them he pulled his hand back.

"What's with the secrets, Rogue?"

"Oh, as if you care. You didn't even know the kid." She scowled and grabbed his wrist to pry the matches from his hands.

"I don't need ta know him to understand it's a pretty shitty thing when he dies cause your havin' a fray with some punk."

"I told him to mind his business." Her fingers were wrapped around his own, trying to loosen his grip enough to get to the book, but he wouldn't relent. "Damn it, Spot."

"Damn it nothin'." He pulled out of her grasp. "A boy is dead. Dead! Don't you get that? He was your responsibility and your actin' like he just ran off to join the freakin' circus."

She started a little at his outburst and he frowned before throwing the matches at her chest.

"Get your act together. I'm not cleaning this up for you, Rogue. Not this time."

"When have I eva asked you to fix my problems? I'm not a child and I don't need you treatin' me like one. I don't need a damn babysitter."

"Yeah you do." He said quietly and wiped the sweet off his forehead. "But I can't be there ta watch your back all the time. And I won't do it at all if you can't be straight with me. I shouldn't have ta pay Merc to know what the hell is going on ova there."

"I told you I don't need your help."

He shrugged and reached for the momentarily forgotten matches. "Doesn't mean I don't care." He struck one and held that out for her and she ran a hand over her tired eyes before leaning over and lighting her cigarette.

"We'se getting too old for this." He told her suddenly. It was a random comment to make and completely out out context, but she understood the point he was trying to make. Both of them were pushing eighteen and had long outgrown the newsies lifestyle. She had been thinking about it a lot. An awful lot. The times were changing, as they would say, and it was time for them to catch up.

"What are you gonna do?" She reached over him to flick ash into a empty can, his makeshift ashtray, before responding.

"I'm gonna get this Wilcox mess out of the way, and then I'm passin' it on. I'm not exactly newsie material anymore." She looked down at herself and gave a week smile. "People look at me funny. Don't think it's right for me to be doin' what I am. It's pretty obvious that I'm not boy, and goils my age should be thinkin' about marriage and a family and what kind of curtains should be hung up in the drawing room, silly stuff like that. Not selling papes and rollin' with scum like you."

He smiled back at her, the first genuine one he'd given her all day. She finished the cigarette stood.

"I should get goin'. I need to get les petits diables ready to be sent here, since Jack doesn't want to be bothered with them." She said while fanning herself, using the nickname she often called the younger children that slept in her own lodging house.

"I'll clear some rooms out."

She nodded and headed for the door.

"Get some rest, you look like shit warmed over."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure thing, Dad." And then she walked out of the room, leaving one sweltering place for another.

The walk back to Queens was long, hot, and uneventful. She finished the bag of nuts in her pocket, thought about finding some real food to eat, but decided against it. She just wanted to go home. When she reached the fronts steps she found Brute waiting for her.

"Is everybody 'ere?"

"Yeah."

She nodded and started to go inside, but he grabbed her arm and held her back.

"Your brother showed up. Don't kill him." The last part was added as if it was an after thought. She sighed and walked in, seeing the others lounging around, suffering just as much in the impossible heat as she was. She searched the faces, looking for the one that matched her own. Someone noticed her inquest and told her that he was upstairs.

She found him in one of the bunk rooms. The air was much warmer up there and she sucked in a deep breathe at the sudden change.

"Claude Phillipe LeBlanc, you should be sure to know that Mère will hear about this in my next letter. Disappearin' for almost a month. You had me out of my head with-"

She let the words trail off when she saw who was sitting next to him. Samantha Wilcox, younger sister of Johnathan Wilcox, gave her a sad smile and then looked down at her lap.

"Are you stupid? What is she doing here?"

"S'il vous plaît." He stood up from the bunk, "We need to get out of the city. I need money." She started at them both, hard. His look was pleading and Samantha kept her head bowed, her hands wrapped protectively around her middle. That's when she noticed.

"Oh, mon frère." She groaned weakly, falling to her knees on the hardwood floor. "Tell me you didn't."

He made no attempt to reply, not that he needed to. Rogue closed her eyes, shutting both their images out. The situation just kept getting worse.