One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife
Chapter thirteen: The end
By: Ambrlupin
Rated: M
Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)
Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.
A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!
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He twisted his head upward in shock, half-registering that he was pinned on his back, half-registering that the person above him was apparently injured, half-registering that the fatal falling of the wall had landed upon his savior.
Half-registering that it was Spot.
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"Spot." He breathed, voice raspy and hoarse. "Spot..."
Those silver blue eyes were so bright as they looked down and locked on his own, so bright, beautiful, and alive- as opposed to cold and dead as they had so often been lately. He felt Spot pulling on his wrists, slitting the ropes that bound him.
He wiggled his fingers to get feeling to return, but his attention was caught as Spot's lips twisted into a slight smirk.
"Thought id come...to see how you were doin, Race."
Race. Not 'Higgins' but 'Race'.
With a heartfelt cry, the Manhattan boy threw his now freed arms around the other's neck, tears streaming down his face. It was as if everything had swopped down upon him at once. Heartache, pain, loss, joy, love, relief...
But most of all...
"I'm so sorry, Spot! I am so, so, so sorry! I don't know what was wrong with me, I never should have said all that stuff to you!" He was rambling, "I should have explained why I left, I should have noticed how you were feeling sooner, there's absolutely nothing I can do-"
Spot placed a finger on his mouth to cut him off. "There is one thing you can do."
Already there was the sound of digging, people coming to the rescue. Race could hear Shorty, Docks, and the rest of Brooklyn over the sounds of rubble and he visibly relaxed.
"Name it and ill do it!"
The leader of Brooklyn smiled softly, a true smile. "Allow an idiot like me to beg for your forgiveness? I was so wrong, Race. You didn't deserve any of it and im sorry, so sorry it hurts. Please, Race, if it's the last thing I ever ask of you...Please forgive me."
It was a rare day when Spot Conlon stooped low enough to say 'Im sorry', but it was altogether another one when he begged for it. It was altogether NOT like him, that Race...Race...
Race was so shocked all he could do was nod.
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"Well, alls well that ends well, I guess."
Race snorted as he leaned back against the wall, letting Spot wrap up a cut on his leg. "You only say that cause you werent here when the room blew up, Ace."
"Of course not!" He laughed, a large bottle of something alcoholic in his hands. "Spot wouldn't have run to my rescue!"
Spot smirked as he tied off the end of the bandage. "No, I wouldn't have."
"See there!" Ace pointed, making the whole group laugh. It felt good to do so, even if it were only for a little while. "Told you!"
Rolling his eyes, Race looked down at the leader of Brooklyn with a raised eyebrow. "By the way, Spot. What the heck happened back there? Who blew up the room?"
"Who else?" He answered easily. "There is only one kid around Brooklyn who would be stupid enough to get a hold of a bunch of explosives."
"Are you talking 'bout me again, Spot?" Shorty asked as he glided up, smirking. "Now, I know I'm amazing, but people are going to start getting the wrong idea if you keep fawning over me."
Spot opened his mouth to retort, but a hand clapped itself on his shoulder, and he turned his attention upward as Red stepped around them, a hat perched sideways on his head and shirt halfway unbuttoned.
Then back to Race as he made a sort of undignified squawking noise and his jaw dropped open. Spot's eyebrow rose a bit, confused, before he looked to where Race was staring, and saw Red talking to Shorty, who looked a little embarrassed.
Oh...
Chuckling, Spot waved his hand in front of Race's face. "Hello? Earth to Italiano."
"His hair..."
"Yup."
"Its black..."
"Yup."
"...Okay. Can I lay down?"
"Yup."
Race never had the chance to, because at that moment, there was a clattering of hooves, and the entire area around them was filled with police, their mounts snorting in the smoke filled air, and looking none too happy.
"Oh yeah...This is good." Ace muttered as the police surrounded them all, a ring of horses as a deputy came forward, his hat in his hands as a gesture of peace.
Peace or not, Spot had already pulled Race behind him. He inclined his head slightly and the man began to speak. "Do any of you children go by the name Racetrack?"
Race stiffened and his mouth slammed shut. He wasn't going to give himself up- no he was not. That was stupid, that was suicide, that was...
"But never...never lose your name, Racetrack. Never lose your name."
Exactly what he was going to do.
Stepping around Spot, he smiled gently, hand held out for the other to shake. "Yes sir. My name is Race." His eyes flickered with a newfound life, "Racetrack Higgins."
A murmur ran through the police. There weren't many people who had such a last name, in face there had only been one, at least in Brooklyn. "Higgins?" One asked again, to clarify.
"Yes sir, Higgins." Race grinned as the deputy shook his hand. "The only son of Arthur Higgins."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." One of the men crossed himself in a breathless whisper. "This kid owns Sheepshead? This...this...KID?!"
"Owns?" The newsie blinked, "But I thought Owens..."
"He's dead, son. Burned in the fire." The deputy ran a hand through his hair, flustered. "Usually that would mean the track is up for grabs, but your claim...if it is indeed truth...would be undeniable. You'd be a millionaire, kid."
A millionaire...?
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In the end it was Race, Spot, and several officers alone in a large room. The table in front of them was covered in paperwork, and neither of the newsies were quite...relaxed to say the least, being where they were.
For near enough to an hour, Race hadn't stopped talking. For once, he told the whole story, without stopping, and without...improving the truth. Spot was struck speechless in his seat. Sure, Race didn't say everything, especially what had gone on between the two of them, but it wasn't hard for him to read between the lines.
He had really been wrong.
Officer Richard, the head deputy at the moment, sighed, shaking his head. Sure, it was a good story, but this wasn't a story contest. The million-dollar racetrack was up for grabs, and this was no joking matter.
"Its not good enough, we need proof."
Race gripped his watch so hard his knuckles were white.
"Spot..." He turned in his seat a bit, eyes flickering down to the other's leg.
Following his gaze, the leader of Brooklyn reached down and pulled out a small knife, slowly handing it over while the officers looked on in curiosity. Gripping the knife, Race brought it to the back of the gold, wedging it into the small groove between back and side, letting the tip slide against the nick that had already been there.
Ignoring the sharp exclamation that came from Spot, he pulled the knife sharply, eyes squeezing shut in emotional agony as the back popped off, landing on the table with a soft pang. He took a deep breath, and then another before he got it together.
His watch...
Spot just stared at him, stunned, even as the gambler's fingers dug a small slip of paper from between the gears and handed it to the officers without a word. Race picked up the watch, gazing at it mournfully.
"Did you...?"
Race just nodded to the unfinished question. Yes, he had broken it.
"Can you...?"
This time it was a shake of his head. Negative. No, It couldn't be fixed, and it was all for that letter the officer's were reading, eyes widening with every line they crossed. It was a letter no one knew was there, a letter he had slid into the watch a minute before the only father he had ever known had died, halting the watch at that exact moment.
The letter from Mr. Higgins himself.
Officer Richard drew in a sharp breath, nodding as he folded the paper up carefully. "We'll... have to look over this. We'll send someone..." In a daze, he just wandered to the door and left, motioning to his men.
Race watched as the officers left, stunned and talking softly amongst themselves, with Richard clutching the letter like it was the last thing that mattered, his eyes glowing. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and motioned at the door.
"Let's go. Everyone's waitin for us."
Spot nodded, looking back at the watch with a raised eyebrow, as it lay on the top of the table, springs sort of sticking out of it at odd angles, but the gambler just shook his head, shutting the door behind them with a solid sense of finality.
In the silence of the room, no one heard it.
...Tick...
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And that's it, folks! The final chapter of One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife. However, there is an epilogue, so make sure you come back for that, yes? -smile- see you then! -waves-
( And leave a review? Hehe. Thanks. Love ya!)