Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Author's Note: Another long wait. Le sigh. All I can say is sorry. Nothing more aside from that. Except I hope you like it.
This Town
Chapter 4
Rogue was pacing the kitchen floor when Brute walked in, his face neutral but his hazel eyes speaking volumes for his concern. A wave of relief crashed over her when she saw him. There were very few people that understood the strain that the newsie leaders were constantly under. Most lodging houses were run by the churches, forcing the kids who stayed there to go to school and service on a regular bases. But there were a few that were privately owned, allowing the boys and girls to run their own lives as long as they paid for the bed they slept in and didn't cause too much trouble. She had come into the position of leader of that particular lodging house by being in the right place at the wrong time, and happening to have a purse full of money. She never intended to be the one in charge. Unlike Spot, she had been quite content with staying behind the scenes, taking care of her and her own, and trying her damnedest to stay out of trouble.
Problem was, she couldn't seem to keep away from it. Trouble followed her to Manhattan, when her brother decided to hop on a train and rough it with her in the big city. Trouble found both her and Spot, forcing them to book it to Brooklyn and grow up much faster then either intended. When she moved on to Queens, trouble was there waiting for her in the form of a deed. Now trouble was ganging up on her from all sides and she was starting the crack under all the pressure.
If it wasn't for Brute's quiet strength, she would have gone stark raving mad a year ago. He was the only one that looked out for her and didn't expect anything in return. She'd given him a home and he'd given her a shoulder to lean on. Most people thought there was something more to their relationship and she could understand why when he walked over and warped his familiar arms around her in a gentle hug. They were wrong. He was like a brother. And he was better then the actual one she shared a womb with and made her life miserable at times.
"What was that for?" she asked as she pulled back.
"Thought you'd need it when ya see who's waiting outside."
The frown that she'd been wearing what seemed like all day deepened.
"Is it Conlon?"
He shook his head. "Worse. Though I figure he's on his way."
She sighed, scratching at her scalp. She hadn't had a bath in a few days. Hadn't had the time really, and she'd been hopping to get one while everyone was sleep. But news had come that Brooklyn had been attacked.
"Damn," she muttered under her breath as she shuffled out of the kitchen and to the front door, Brute on her heels. When she walked out the first thing she noticed was the cool breeze playing through her hair. If they were lucky they'd get some rain soon. Then she smelt the cigar smoke. Her stomach flip flopped as she bit her lip and turned to the figure that was leaning casually next to the door, one foot propped against the brick wall.
"What's the headline, Ro?"
She stared at him as if he was a ghost. He was dressed in dark slacks with suspenders and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There was a bowler hat placed lazily over his dark hair, and he pulled it off for a fraction of a second when she first walked out. Jean Pierre had always been a charmer, and even if she didn't act like it most of the time, he always treated her like a lady.
"You're out late, JP," she replied as she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. He shrugged, sticking the cigar between his teeth before shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Heard there was some trouble at my building." A small smile formed around the cigar, "Thought I'd come ova see what the ruckus is all about."
"You realize you ain't a newsie no more, right?"
"Yeah, well I still own dat building," he blew out a cloud of smoke and it melted into the night air, "And don't get smart wit me, either."
She sighed, rolling her neck as she sat down on the stoop. Brute was standing in the doorway, waiting for their little talk to be done. She turned to look at him,
"Go get some sleep. You got work tomorrow." He started to protest but she cut him off. "Look, if you were pushing papes I wouldn't care. But you ain't gonna be no use to nobody at the factory if you're not rested. You're likely to get yourself killed."
He nodded finally, slinking back into the lodging house with near silent footsteps. Jean Pierre waited a moment before speaking again.
"How'd he learn ta be so quiet?" He asked, eying the open door. He was probably wary that Brute was still hanging around despite her order. Rogue wouldn't put it against him either.
"You heard the story a million times," she said, running the back of her thumb across her forehead, trying to ease the ache behind it. "A kid grows up in a bad home. He learns pretty quick the best way to stay away from a fist is to act like you aren't even there."
He nodded, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and spitting down onto the cobble stone street. "Yeah. I heard it. Different face, same story."
"Spots on his way."
"Figures."
"You gonna take me through the ringers now, or are you gonna wait for him to get here? I know you like ta hold an audience."
He didn't answer for a long while. Finally, he took another puff from the cigar and blew the foul smoke in her direction. She really hated that smell. It reminded her of her no good father. She didn't give him the satisfaction of crinkling her nose or waving the smoke away. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of her.
"How's your brother doin'?"
She closed her eyes, suppressing a groan as she stuffed her face in the palms of her hands. He knew. Of course he did. He was the first and true leader of Brooklyn. Nothing got past his ears. She was in a bad spot. If Jean Pierre know, then there was no telling how many other people did. Wilcox included.
"You haven't told him, have ya?" she asked, not bothering to hid the desperation in her voice.
"I'm gonna give you the privilege of tellin' him." And as if he could sense the thoughts in her head he added, "If you don't, you'd be a damn fool. And I know you'se not a fool, Rogue."
Of course she wasn't. But she wasn't suicidal either. If Spot new the true reason behind this whole silly newsie war, her bad month would get about ten times as worse. She had worked too hard to let something like this bring all that she'd struggled for crashing down. What Conlon didn't know at the moment wouldn't hurt him.
"If I tell him now it would ruin everything," she said firmly.
"If you don't tell him soon, it'll ruin more."
"Aw, you make my head hurt," she whined.
He chuckled lightly as he stubbed his cigar out on the bottom of his shoe. She ignored him as she saw a familiar figure making it's way down the street. Standing up on stiff legs, she nodded at Spot as he walked up the steps.
"JP," he greeted, spitting in his hand and holding it out. Jean Pierre returned the gesture and they shook. He didn't bother to do the same with her when those blue eyes trained themselves in her direction.
He raised his chin at her. "Claudette."
She hadn't heard that name in a long time. Hadn't thought about really, except for the letter she received from her mother every few months. Spot was one of the few people in New York who knew her real name. He only ever used it when his was angry with her. And not just the normal annoyed with everything she did anger, but the 'if you were a boy I'd soak you' anger.
She raised a brow. If he wanted to play that way, she could too. "Desmond." She responded in kind, even lifting her own chin up to mimic him. He spit at the ground near her feet and she sneered. Honestly, what was with boys and that nasty habit? Despite her disgust, she didn't break his gaze. They continued this staring contest for almost a minute, while Jean Pierre glanced back and forth at the both of them. Finally he let out a curse and stepped between them, severing eye contact and ending the silent battle before a victor was declared.
"Alright, children, enough of this." He still had the cigar stuck between his lips, though it was unlit, and he chewed on it as he held up his hands. "Now isn't da time for petty games and name calling." Spot snorted while she rolled her eyes. Leave it up to him to call using a persons birth name 'name calling.'
"We obviously have a problem that needs sortin' and I'm not goin' to sit here and mother the both of you while I do all the figuring out."
Spot fingered the handle of his cane. He looked about ready to skin he alive.
"Your boys alright?"
"Just fine. Your kids are too."
She nodded. "I'm sorry about all dat, Spot. I didn't really think Wilcox would bother you'se guys."
"Seems to be your problem a lot lately, da not thinking," his jaw clenched, "He was looking for me, Rogue. You wouldn't happen to know why dat would be, would you?"
She cut a quick glance at Jean Pierre, who was watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, hoping for once he'd keep his mouth shut. "I'se don't know, Spot. Maybe he wanted to know where you get those pretty pink suspenders from."
His dirty finger was suddenly in her face, his eyes a little darker as he frowned. "Don't get smart with me, goil."
"Won't be a problem, seeing as how I can't think and all."
"If you'se were a boy..." he let the threat hang in the air.
Reflecting on her actions later, she figured she must have suffered a momentary bought of insanity. A combination of stress, lack of sleep, and generally being pissed at everyone assuming she couldn't handle her business.
One second Spot was standing before her. The next he was clutching the stair rail, one hand cupping his mouth. She blinked, wondering what just had happened and why her knuckles were stinging when Jean Pierre let out an eloquently hissed, "merde."
Shit indeed. She had just punched a fellow leader. There was a brief moment of panic but she brushed it off before it could overwhelm her. Too late to take it back now, and seeing the look on his face, she really didn't want to. That punch was a long time coming. Spot Conlon and his superior attitude could rot in hell, busted lip and all.
Besides, they hadn't had a good fight in a long time. The tousle a few days ago didn't even come close.
His tongue snaked out the corner of his mouth, his frowned deepening ever more when he realized he was bleeding. Her glee was short lived when he set his jaw and lashed out at her with the back of his hand. She managed to avoid the blow, leaning back just in time to feel the wind from the force. But she lost her balance and had to shift a foot back to right herself. The only problem was there was no solid ground to step down on. It was then she remembered that they were still on the front stoop.
Using the only safety line available, she grabbed Spot's still outstretched arm, praying he saw that she was about to fall and pull her upright. She should have known better. The confusion on his face was almost comical as her momentum yanked him forward and they both went crashing down the stairs in a tangle of legs.
She cracked the back of her head on the sidewalk right as Spot's chest landed on her face. They were still half on the steps, her back pressed into the bottom stair, throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat. He let out a muffled curse as he sifted, causing that stupid cane of his to dig painfully into her side.
"Jesus Christ."
She wanted to say something witty, but she couldn't seem to get the air in her lungs. Life must have been treating him good, because he sure had packed on some pounds. Finally the pressure was relieved as he slid off and sat down next to her, one knee propped up as he rested on his elbows.
She waited a few seconds before attempting to move, easing onto her side before getting her legs under her. She managed to sit up, wavering a little as her vision tilted.
"You'se alright?" He asked, a hand coming out to rest on her shoulder and steady her. Her expression must have been answer enough because he sighed and pulled her a little closer.
"Come 'ere," he said, "Where ya hurt?"
His fingers probed the back of her head and she winced when he touched the lump forming. He pulled his hand back, looking at it.
"Yah bleeding."
She did her own exploration, feeling the warm, sticky mess as it seeped through her hair. It wasn't much though and it felt like it was already clotting. Didn't changed the fact that it felt like a parade was going on between her eyes. She swore she could even hear the high pitched whistle of the drum major.
"Where else?"
She frowned. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room, "Huh?"
"Where else you hurt, Ro?" He sounded a little impatient, so she pointed to her back and closed her eyes. He touched her gently through the fabric of her shirt before un-tucking it to inspect the injury beneath.
"Just broke the skin a little, is all. You'll live."
She didn't think nodding was a good idea with the state her head was in so she just sat there. Not that it mattered because something that felt very much like a palmm collided with her temple, almost sending her back to the ground.
She gasped, catching herself on her elbow before turning to glare at him. His frown was back.
"Split my lip, you crazy broad."
She'd do a lot more then just that, she thought, her pain momentarily forgotten as she slapped him in his now swelling mouth.
That was enough to start things up again, this time on a level surface, as they scrambled around on the dirty sidewalk. It was a clumsy fight, full of knees and scratching, and an occasional bite on her part. Neither one of them was able to get the upper hand. There was no telling how long they could have kept it up if Jean Pierre hadn't stepped in to end it for them.
Rogue had forgotten all about him, focused on inflicting as much damage as she could to the lean body wrestling with hers. But when something wet and filthy was splashed onto them she stopped an inch away from grabbing Spots throat and turned to look up at the doorway.
"What the hell, JP?" she scrambled off of Spot and sat down hard on her rear, pulling at her soaked shift to sniff it. "What was that?"
Jean Pierre looked down at the bucket in his hand, "Dish water, I think. Found it in the kitchen."
She glanced down at Spot, her anger now aimed at the older man rather then him, to find him still laying on his back with a dirty cloth clinging to half of his head. She bit her lip, nudging him with her booted foot,
"Hey kid, you got somethin' on your face."
He sat up, pulling the wash rag away and flinging it to the side. He didn't seem amused at all, but she couldn't help but smirk at his dripping cap and sour expression.
"So do you, doll," he said finally and pointed to her check.
She reached up and came in contact with something cold and mushy, whipping it off with a grimace and looking down at her hand to identify it. The white mass must have been the remains of someone's dinner roll. She ran her hand on the thigh of her pants, trying to get the gritty mess of her fingers. When she looked at Spot again, his eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter, despite his stern look. It was too hard trying to hold her scowl and after a few silent seconds they both erupted in a fit of giggles. Well, his was more of a deep chuckle. Spot didn't giggle. It wasn't becoming of a Brooklyn leader.
He slung an arm over her shoulder, patting her on the check with his other hand. "We haven't argued like that in a while."
She grinned, "Been a least a month, yeah?"
"No one's made me bleed in a long time," he turned his attention to Jean Pierre, who was standing at the top of the stars shaking his head. "Someone should give dis goil a medal," he said while pointing at her.
"Someone should stick the both of you in a mental institute," he replied as the set the bucket down and made his way to the side walk. "Now that you two hotheads have cooled off, I can tell ya I may come up with somethin' to help."
The silliness stopped and they both looked up at him, eager to hear what he'd come up with. It was Jean Pierre though, and he took his sweet time as he pulled out a match to relight his cigar.
"You two look like drowned gutta rats," he commented, "Get off da ground and straighten yourselves out. At least try to act your age."
Spot hauled himself to his feet, reaching out a hand to help her when she groaned at the protest her body was giving her. It was clear who was the winner of their scuffle.
A flask was stuck in her face and she took it from Jean Pierre's outstretched hand without argument. The liquid burned it's way down her throat as she tried to hand it back to him.
"Keep it," he said, "You're gonna need it."
She didn't argue. Already her head was starting to pound furiously again, the adrenaline wearing off and being replace with fatigue.
"So what's your idea," Spot asked.
"Later. Right now we'se are going for a walk."
She frowned, capping the flask and sticking it in her back pocket. The only thing that she felt like doing was crawling into her bed. But Jean Pierre gave her a look that left no room for argument.
"Where we going?"
He smiled, exposing a row of slightly uneven but white teeth. "To dah Bronx."
As he started down the street she and Spot glanced at each other before following. Whatever he was cooking up, they both knew it was going to be interesting. Maybe even dangerous. She took another swig from the flask, clearing her mind of ache and apprehension and set a steady pace. She was floating now, the most she could focus on at one time was keeping one foot in front of the other. Everything else could wait for when they reached their destination.