A/N: Hello guys and gals and everything in between, sorry I didn't put a note on the first chapter, it was late. But anywho this story is one I put up before, two years ago that I'm redoing. Please feel free to drop me a line and read to your heart's content. (A review or two would be pleasurable as well thank you) Thanksamillion, -Scratch
Little words were exchanged on the short walk to the Brooklyn lodge house but neither Spot nor Lane minded the silence. They were creatures of habit and silence was something they were used to.
They reached the old brick building and skirted around to the back, going down a short flight of stairs to an entryway set into the ground. Spot pulled the heavy oak door open for Lane like a proper gentleman, and she fell into an awkward curtsy with a boyish wink. Teasing Spot about his manners was always a good time. They walked into the little space used as a kitchen and Lane perched herself on the wooden counter as Spot fell into old routine. He busied himself with attempting to get them something warm to drink as Lane looked around at the chipping paint on the old walls.
"Is this place getting smaller or is it just me?" She muttered pulling her knees to her chest and leaning against the cabinets. Spot laughed as he examined two chipped mugs for dirt.
"You grew up Lane, what do you expect? Haven't ya' heard things change with age?" He asked finally serving up two luke warm cups of something that looked like coffee. She took one gratefully as she jumped to the ground.
"When did you become such a philosopher?" She asked under her breath as she took a tentative sip and followed Spot out of the kitchen, up a rickety flight of stairs, past the bunk room and into a tiny private room Spot occupied as leader.
As Spot closed the door behind them Lane climbed into a familiar spot, sitting on the hard bed and leaning against the cool brown paint of the walls. She curled her feet under her and was grateful for the heat that was supplied.
Spot sat across from her on the edge of the bed, grasping the chipped mug with both hands and slouching over himself slightly, one eye still on the door. He looked up at her then and shook his head.
"So where you been Lane?" He started, but continued in a rush before she could answer, "Are you still goin' by Lane these days or should I inform me boys that this isn't really Lane Carter we're dealin' with?" he laughed, a hint of real worry present in his sharp voice. She shook her head, recalling the days Spot had started to figure out she had more than one persona she went by.
"As far as you're boys are concerned, I'm still Lane Carter." She sighed, taking another sip and letting the coffee run through her veins and warm her body. Spot shook his head, a hint of anger rising into his blue eyes as they rose to meet her green ones.
"And what about the rest of the world, huh? Who are you to them?" He asked quietly, holding her gaze until she finally looked away. For as long as Lane could remember her life had been a puzzle to Spot and he never missed an opportunity to try to piece it together.
"I'm nobody and I'm everybody." She said lightly, supplying the answer she'd always given him, hoping routine would hold and his anger would fade. But this was Spot, and anger stuck to him like flies. He looked into his coffee for a brief moment, his eyebrows kitting together, aging his face another five years into adulthood. He finally sighed and looked up.
"Lane, we've known each other forever. We grew up together. How come I still know nothin' about you?" His voice rose in anger, as he gestured to her with his open hand, looking her over once more as if she really were a stranger in his room. She shook her head, strands of black curl falling from her bun and framing her face.
"Maybe I shouldn'ta come back. Isn't Lane Carter enough for you?" She questioned, matching his anger as she met his glare with one of her own. He huffed angrily and stood, putting his coffee down so some splashed out of the mug as he paced the room back and forth once. He finally turned on his heel to face her.
"Don't ever wonder if you should come back Lane!" He shouted, taking his golden-tipped cane out of his suspenders with habit and swung it once harshly. He huffed air out of his lungs stiffly and met her gaze.
"Don't ever wonder if you should come back." He repeated with a certain air of defeat, his voice still guarded. The air rang in the stillness after his outburst and Lane set her coffee on the window sill, rising to meet him. They stood for a moment across from each other as his words and quiet fell around them. She finally smiled softly.
"Damn, Spot, you have to get control of that temper." She muttered, attempting to clear the air of ill-feelings. She knew he cared, and it was true they have spent a good portion of their lives together. She moved to him and hugged him to herself softly, hearing him drop his cane to the floor and embrace her in return.
The door to Spot's room burst open, hitting the wall with a loud crack and invoking a gasp from Lace as she quickly pulled away from Spot's embrace to face the door.
"What the Hell?!" Spot cried and turned quickly, a new fire in his eyes, upset at being interrupted. The boy who entered was the short Italian looking one from the bridge yesterday. He held his cap twisted in his hand and was covered head to toe in a fine black powder, a wild look in his eyes.
"What is it Racetrack?" He asked impatiently, but the boy barely gave him time to finish his question.
"It's the lodge house." He said, shaking his head, almost in tears. Suddenly the black powder made sense, it was soot, and the lodge house was burning. Spot said no more but grabbed Lane's hand and made for the door, running down the steps with Racetrack trailing closely behind them. As soon as they got out the doors and into the cold air, Spot dropped Lane's hand and broke into a run, both her and Race matching his pace easily as he ran past the docks and onto the Brooklyn bridge. As soon as they reached the other side, Spot slowed, catching his breath.
"What happened?" Spot asked, his eyes focused on the horizon. Racetrack shook his head.
"I wish I knew, Spot. This morning we were getting ready for work and we smelled smoke…" He breathed deeply and looked around.
"The fire started in the back alley, by the cellar. Nobody knows how yet." He muttered, catching his breath. Spot shook his head and took off his cap, his blond hair flopping onto his forehead as he once again took off into a run. His eyes looked for something unseen and his feet ran the familiar path to The Manhattan lodge house without needing directing from his mind.
A faint worry began to form in the back of Lane's mind. She had spent time at the Manhattan lodge house, almost at the very beginning of her twisted story. She still remembered waking up and seeing the faint light come in from the frosted washroom windows, and the way it lit up the entire bunk room, casting long shadows from the bunk posts. She looked to the boy called Racetrack and wondered if he remembered her as she secretly did him. They slowed again once the lodge house was only a few blocks away.
"Was anyone hurt?" She asked him after a minute. Racetrack was about to answer but a strange look overtook his face. His eyebrows nit as he finally answered.
"A few scrapes, but nothing serious, A lot of the boys were outside already." He said, his eyes never straying from Lane's.
"Have we met?" Racetrack finally asked. Lane rolled her eyes, deciding to keep her mouth shut for now.
"If you count yesterday on the bridge then yes." She replied as the lodge house finally came into sight. Lane stopped short as the she saw the scarred brick, a deep ugly black, and the smoke hit her nose. She shook her head as Racetrack too slowed down and Spot let out an angry breath, crossing his arms defensively. The burned shell of a building had been considered home to all three of them in some way.
Lane walked forward slowly, leaving the other two behind as she moved through the space where the door used to be. She coughed roughly, the smell of the burning wood still very present. Lane moved further into the front hall, watching where she stepped, though it didn't seem like the front room was too badly damaged, the brick still stood but most of the wood was burned away. Her eyes began to water as she looked around and she couldn't tell if it was from emotion or the smoke.
She looked to the front desk and saw an old, leather bound, red faded book. It was the ledger the keeper Kloppman kept all the records in. She opened the cover carefully, fingering the gold lettering that read Journal. She flipped through the pages to find the latest entry:
Scotty McRowland- Tumbler-7- -6-11-99
Seven years old. Her eyes burned again and she wiped at them with her sleeve. Seven. That's younger then Lane was when she left home. She turned farther back in the book until she found a smudged old entry she recognized.
Lane Carter- Willow-9- -8-2-91
Lane ran her dirty fingers over the dark ink. Willow. A name she'd never forget. She had only stayed here a little over two years, but she still remembered answering to the familiar name. Lane was still deep in thought and didn't hear the soft footsteps that approached her then.
"Hello Miss Willow." A tired voice rang out into the stillness. Without missing a beat, Lane smiled slyly and replied:
"Mr. Kloppman." Lane lifted her head to look at the tired man. He still wore old brass glasses that probably no longer helped much with his sight and his bowtie was slightly crooked like always. She would swear Kloppman was always old…but today, he looked even older. His wrinkled hands came to rest near the top of the old journal, on the other side of the desk.
"Never thought I'd see your crafty face in this lodge house again." He said with a weathered sigh, his green eyes concerned.
"Neither did I sir, but things change. The heart attaches itself to memories, even when you don't want it to." She whispered to him, nodding her head and closing the book. Kloppman moved slowly around the desk and pulled Lane into his arms.
"It's good to see you." He started, "I don't have to worry for a while." He then whispered to himself. Lane pulled away and shook her head.
"I wouldn't let myself get hurt, sir, you know that better than anyone." She said, their eyes meeting in a mutual agreement to always secretly worry about the other. Kloppman pulled back and smiled, looking around.
"Will you be in town then for a while?" He asked, attempting to come off as nonchalant. Lane grinned and laughed lightly.
"Don't worry; I haven't forgotten where your house is. Considering you have quarters here. I'll stop by if I need a bed." She reassured, trying to brush off the offer she knew was coming. Kloppman sighed and shook his head, giving a small grin before turning and heading back towards the office.
"Excuse me for being a grandfather." He murmured to himself before shutting the door behind him. She smiled and turned as well, making her way from the main room, then upstairs. Over the course of the next 15 minutes she explored the place that used to be her home. She met Racetrack a couple times again and the way he looked at her when he thought she couldn't see was proof enough he remembered her from her stay so long ago.
A while later she met with Spot in the back alley, where the fire supposedly started. She bent to the ground, running her hand over the warm brick at the base of the building.
"How did it possibly start down here? There's no way." Lane whispered, wiping a bit of soot of the brick. Spot didn't respond and Lane turned to see his eyes troubled and downcast.
"You don't think it was an accident do you?" She asked standing and walking towards him. He shook his head softly, once.
"I can smell a rat, Lane. And I know you can too. How does a natural fire start from bricks? I know you can tell, you could always tell." He muttered, crossing his arms and leaning against the alley wall, looking at what used to be the kitchen door. Lane nodded, still facing him. She smelled the rat, this was planted.
Spots eyes suddenly turned to her, cold and sharp and accusing.
"You know don't you? You have to know." He yelled, pushing off the wall and crossing to her quickly. Lane gasped and stared at him questioningly.
"You suddenly show up being all mysterious and the lodge house gets set on fire! You know Lane! You have a part!" Spot shouted cornering her against the stone. Lane glared down Spot's gaze, her stare as mean as his. Spot drilled his eyes into hers searching for a confession that wasn't there.
"Tell me Lane!" He commanded pushing at her shoulders. Lane didn't let people push her around, she was mad and she did what Spot didn't expect and shoved him right back.
"Tell me why I'd hurt the newsies! Why would I hurt my family?!" She yelled. Spot's eyes became stone and he turned, sparing one more accusing look before pushing the door open and going inside with a huff.
Lane walked to the other side of the alley, leaned against the wall then fell slowly to the cold, wet ground gazing at the rooftops above. She hadn't started it, she had no reason to start it and she knew well that Spot wasn't really blaming her, he was just angry someone would do this.
And it was someone, this fire was no mistake. Suddenly, Lane knew it was true. Over the kitchen door, marked in deep black coal, was a symbol. A symbol Lane would never forget.
It was a circle, a sun. A deep black sun, that struck a fear into Lane she hadn't ever really forgotten. The symbol was everything a sun shouldn't be. It was rigid and dark, when you looked at it, your blood ran cold. She sat frozen until she realized why it was there. From the brick it was drawn upon hung a black string and a familiar little silver key was attached.
Lane stared at the key in disbelief, unable to think, or move.
A key. The key! Why that key!?
That sun had destroyed everything she had ever known, and now they're back, and they want the key. It made no sense, but it did at the same time.
Lane jumped up and scrambled towards the mark, reaching, and grabbing the cold little key in her grasp, pushing through the remnants of the door and running as hard as she could into the lobby where she found Spot quietly talking with Racetrack. She stopped in the doorway, breathing hard, staring at Spot's chest, hoping to see the glint of his key. But there was none. Spot's key was clutched tight in her hand.