Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

A/N: Okay kids. I made my decision about the endings. At this point I am only going to publish one. Perhaps I will post an alternate ending at some other point, but currently I am not. I've decided to go with the depressing ending (surprise, surprise). Fair warning: This is where it gets heavy. There be no hope here from this point onward. So sit back, put on your big kid pants, and enjoy(?).

Warning: R (profanity, non-explicit sex, nonconsensual sex, adult themes)

Chapter 20: Darkness

I stayed in Manhattan for a few days to blow off steam and spend time with Jack. We managed to keep our relationship a secret to the newsboys in his borough, but I knew the second I went back to Brooklyn – Spot would know. It was like he could smell it on me when a boy had touched me and considering just how much touching Jack had done – it wouldn't be hard for him to pick up the scent. I relished the idea of Spot's rage at his discovery. I knew that things would, most certainly, change the moment he came to the truth. Jack had been right. This would change things.

But not for a few days.

It was the fourth day that I decided to head back to Brooklyn. The anger that I had felt at Spot for his abuses to Ireland had faded to embers: still hot enough to burn, but not raging out of control like the fire inside me had been before. I needed some heat in my veins to just have the guts to go back when it could have been so comfortable to just stay with Jack. I'd be back in Manhattan probably before the day was out, but first I had business to do.

So I left.

I didn't tell Jack. Instead I left a message with that loud mouthed Racetrack. The last thing I needed was Jack's persuasive mouth on mine or his tempting tongue tracing the shell of my ear. I had little doubt that he wouldn't take advantage of all the little tricks he had learned to do to me to get me to stay a few more days.

It didn't take long for me to run into familiar faces once I entered into the Brooklyn territory. Thusly it wouldn't take long for rumors to abound about where I had been for the past three days. There were unspoken implications for an unannounced trip to Manhattan. Especially if you were me. If Spot's little birdies had done their job good and proper Spot would probably be pissed to all hell when I found him.

At one point I would have done my damnedest to keep those whispers from spreading since there was no substance to them. This time, however, I wanted those whispers to turn to shouts. If I figured it would have been beneficial I would have tattooed: "I fucked Jack Kelly every way from Tuesday" on my forehead, but the only thing a newsie loved more than a good headline was juicy gossip. A few well phrased words upon well placed ears worked better than a banner.

There are certain people in the world that you can count on to never keep a secret. Marbles was one of those people. When I came into his selling territory I knew I would come face to face with just who I needed to see.

It didn't take long before I saw him. He was one of the older boys, dark hair, sun darkened skin, and an inability to keep anything to himself. Due to his age, he was also closer to the rings that would reach Spot's ears first. I liked the idea of my scandal going ahead of me like a herald to court. The Spot of old would have sent scouts to Manhattan to see if I was there, but there was a chance he hadn't even noticed I was gone. Our confrontation would be so much sweeter if he had time to consider ever implication.

Marbles eyes met mine through the maze of passing people. Poor kid looked surprised, almost spooked, to see me approaching. It wasn't without good reason. Marbles had been on the wrong end of my bad temper before. We'd been on rough terms ever since. Or really, I hadn't spoken a single word to him since and he'd never come closer than ten feet to me. That was about to change.

"Hey Marbles." I said.

"Hey Snaps." He looked around in the crowd. His face said he expected an ambush.

"Have you seen Spotty around?" I keep it casual like we'd never fought a second in our lives. "I've been in Manhattan the past few days and I need to talk to him." And there it was, just at the mention of Manhattan, Marbles' eyes flashed with interest.

"He's been spending a lot of time at the docks lately." Marbles said. He gave me a strangely calculating glance from head to toe and then up again. I could tell he was weighing his words. "How's Manhattan hanging?" It was the perfect example of asking one thing while implying several more.

"Manhattan's hanging great." My smirk fixed firmly in its place. "Never better. Jack's just a great leader, you know?" I pressed my tongue into my cheek and returned his not-so-subtle glance-over. "I'll see you, Marbles." I turned and sauntered away.

Now I just had to wait.

It was another scorching day. Spot had been selling all day. All of his copies of both editions had moved without any more effort than usual, but the heat had drained him. Even his hair felt hot. The key around his neck felt like it was burning him. His brain felt addled and out of sorts from the sun beating down on him all day. Fog mired his thoughts. Dirt stuck to his clothes and body. His hair lay flat and plastered to his head from sweat and from his hat.

He needed a bath.

He went to the docks. It took him little time to strip down to his barest of necessities and jump into the water. The coly salty water engulfed him. His body screamed at the change in temperatures. He allowed the murky water to wash over him for a moment longer than he normally would before surfacing. He popped his head above the water with a loud gasp and shook his unruly mane with exhilaration.

He needed this.

He could literally feel the grim of the city melting off of his body. He ducked under the water and furiously rubbed his hands through his hair and over his body. He surfaced, body cooling, mind clearing. For a few moments he treaded water, watching the boys jump off the dock and splash each other from a distance, and just enjoyed the cool relief. Then he swam to a rope hanging off the end and climbed out deftly.

The sun warmed the wood of the docks to the point that it nearly burned the bottoms of his feet. He made his way over to his pile of belongings and donned his garments quickly. Some of his boys greeted him as he passed them by, and a few attractive girls as well, but he paid them little attention. He was going to see Mary.

By the time he made it back to the lodging house, he had dried off entirely and begun to sweat anew, and his mind felt fuzzy. Inside the building was just as hot as outside. He felt like the whole heat of the sun was trapped in his body. Immediately he went to the wash room.

There were few other newsies in the building at this time. Most wouldn't come in till after sunset. It would be a few hours. He took advantage of this time to strip down and give himself a proper bath and clean his clothes. The water at the pier had served its purpose, but this was necessary. Besides, he wanted to visit Mary, and he was in no state of cleanliness to do that.

The washroom was empty. He filled a tub from the pump and noted that the normally cool water was lukewarm. After he filled the tub, he filled a second smaller one beside it and stripped. All of his clothes went into the smaller bucket and then he into the tub. He furiously scrubbed his body with lye soap, getting off the thick layers of grit and grim that dirtied his skin.

One by one he pulled the garments out of the soak bucket and into the tub with himself and rubbed the lye soap on them before replacing them in the small bucket. Once they were all properly soaped he twirled the around until he was satisfied that they were clean. He made quick work to rinse them as well as he knew how and hang the tattered garments on pegs where towels hung.

He stood, grabbed a towel, and tied it around his waist. After disposing of the dirty water he went back into the bunk room. He retrieved and shimmied his extra pants up over his slim hips and attached his faded red suspenders before sliding them up over his shoulders. He didn't want to wear his nice shirt, which was his only other option besides his one drying in the washroom, since he supposed that he would only soil it on a day as hot as this one. Besides, clothes on a day like today were a mockery.

He headed back up the stairs, past the washroom, and up the narrow steps to the attic hatch. Barefooted and bare-chested, he pushed at the hatch from below quietly and crept up the remaining stairs. Just as quietly he shut the door to Mary's temporary dwelling place. Mary had been here for one week and he didn't need to mess things up by being in a hurry.

The attic had become her sanctuary. Spot had stolen few things for her in the first few days she had been here and told her he'd bought them. Some ink, a pen and paper, a few books, and a few other essentials to comfort of the girl. Mary had found some spare clothes in one of the chests and made use of them. Spot sneaked a bowl and basin up from the lodging house's kitchen and a towel from the bathroom so she could wash her face. An old forgotten rocking chair had found its way out from under a sheet and over by the window behind her wall.

Quietly, Spot padded through the maze of boxes, old furniture, and other odds and ends to her corner of the attic. He heard her humming a soft melody to herself as he got closer though he could not yet see her. It appeared that she hadn't heard him enter or noticed his approach either. It was possible since he wasn't wearing shoes and he had carefully avoided the squeaking boards to avoid detection from below.

He rounded the corner into her improvised room and found her sitting on her bed with her back facing him. She was wearing, what appeared to be, only her under shift. No doubt it was to avoid the heat that was so oppressive. The cream colored fabric fluttered around her body gently, free from any restrictive corset and other clothing.

The shape of her body came second to Spot's attentions however because Mary was brushing her hair.

Her exposed form intrigued him, but the illicit sight of her tresses triggered something warm in his belly. Her brown locks glistened and waved in the sunlight. Streaks of auburn flashed fire in its dark color. It slipped and shifted along her back when she moved, pooling around her where she sat. It was stunning. She gathered a handful over one shoulder and stroked it with the brush Spot had stolen. She was completely lost in her own little world, humming to herself, and Spot wanted nothing more than to get lost in that world with her.

She was the most breathtaking thing he'd ever seen. Spot couldn't think. He couldn't move. Heat unrelated to the weather rose in his body and he did nothing to stop it. Instead he stood, watched, and simmered.

Oh how he wanted to touch her hair.

He wanted to sink his fingers deep into those waves and see if they were as soft as they looked. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and get tangled in it. He wanted to see what it looked like against her skin.

Hunger grew inside of him with every passing second. It was a familiar pain ravenously clawing at his insides. He'd felt it before with others, but not like this, never like this. Not this blinding, all-consuming heat. The kind of heat that buried in your skin and boiled your blood until you could scream. The kind of heat that branded you from the inside out. The kind of heat that men killed for. It crept up through his stomach, to his chest, neck, face and he hadn't even touched her. Yet.

Mary tossed her hair back over her shoulder, finished with her task, so that it cascaded down her back to her hips. She sighed and stood.

Then she turned.

Their eyes made contact instantly and she froze at the sight of him. For one stuttered heartbeat they simply looked at each other, wide brown eye staring into cool blue ones. Then she was a blur of motion. She grabbed at the sheet on her bed to cover herself with one hand and pulled her hair back with the other, embarrassment turning her bright red.

Spot moved just as quickly. He hurried over to where she now stood in search of some sort of modesty and grabbed her biceps. Easily, he turned her to face him, and like that first time in the alley behind the rectory, he bent and kissed her with no preamble or warning.

She froze at his touch. He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her as close to his body as he could. The softness of her curves crushed and filled in every angle and edge on his lean body and it still wasn't close enough. His other hand came behind her head and tangled in as much hair as he possibly could. The fine tresses caught and tugged on the rough patches and calluses of his hand. He drowned in the feel of her hair, in her.

His hungry lips took what he wanted. The girl turned her face away with a gasp. His lips branded her cheek in hot pursuit. The heel of his hand pressed against the side of her throat. He could feel her pulse racing there. He could see the flush of her skin and hear her shallow breathing. She wanted this as much as he did even if she didn't understand what it was.

"This isn't appropriate." She breathed in a moment of rational thought.

"Doesn't matter. You're so beautiful, Mary." He kissed the shell of her ear and felt her shudder against him.

Again he kissed her mouth. He gave her no time to protest, to think, to breathe. He kissed her like he'd die if he didn't, and the ever tightening spiral in his chest told him he might. He'd held women before, kissed them, wanted them, but it never felt like this. It never felt so absolutely necessary. Her small hands came up to his bare chest and pushed futilely. All he felt was the pressure of her touch and it knocked him senseless.

She struggled against him, but he was too strong. He held her to him like a vice. Every muscle in his body strained to be closer to her. He was blind to everything but his desire for her. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His skin felt so hot that it seemed like it should peel off. Everything within him was burning. He was a man on fire and he burned and burned and burned.

He knew she loved him and dammit he loved her. He loved her so much it ate him alive from the inside out. He hated how much he loved her. He hated how much he wanted this. All he was doing now was loving her. Why was she so difficult when all he wanted to do was show her how he loved her? To hold her? To touch her? He had to show her. He had to make her understand. This was love. This was his love for her. There were no thoughts about the bet. Nothing entered his mind about how this could be the defining moment of victory. He just felt. He just wanted. He just was.

He wasn't gentle. He couldn't be. Every part of his existence depended on this. Blood thrummed through his veins. His pulse pounded maddeningly in his ears. Any words that she might have said went unheard as he was deafened by the sound of his own heart beating.

She stopped struggling and simply lay there trembling. His face buried itself in her neck and he breathed in the scent of her. It was intoxicating. His head was swimming, absolutely drowning in her. When it was done, he rolled off of her.

Her cream colored shift was bunched up above her belly. The hair that occupied so many of his thoughts in the last two months lay tangled and rumpled on the rough wool blanket beneath her. Tears streaked her face and there was a tangy smell of blood in the air. Shaking hands moved to pull down her garment to protect any last vestige of modesty that she might have possessed.

She didn't look at him. She rolled over and sat on the edge of her bed, her back facing him. Her shoulder shook silently. He wanted to touch her, but he froze. She was crying. She was crying because of him. Nausea overwhelmed him. What had he done?

Quickly he dressed. His lack of shirt embarrassed him now. She stood, arms wrapped firmly around her stomach, and walk painfully away from him. He wanted her to look at him, to say this was fine, to say that she loved him, but he knew that wouldn't happen.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go. He couldn't stay. Every second that ticked by was another second that the weight of this decision began to sink in. It pounded into his system with every beat of his heart like a hammer to a nail.

He took everything from her. He used her, and why? To make her understand his love? To make himself understand his love? She spoke of her God and that He was love. Her God that didn't allow consummation until after marriage and he hadn't understood that.

He thought he knew what love was. Now he knew he didn't. He thought he could show her. He thought he could make her understand his love and it all it could be. He thought he could fill this aching hole in his chest he felt all of the time. He thought he loved her enough for this to be okay.

Love made him a monster. Love made him everything that he hated.

"Mary…" Her head dropped at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry." He took a step and saw her tremble at the sound of his footstep but he still approached.

She was afraid of him.

She had every right to be. Her slim shoulder shook with silent tears. She was crying because of him. It was a slap to the face with a sledgehammer. He reached out to touch her shoulder. She flinched away sharply with a strangled sound in the back of her throat that tore at him worse than any knife. She wouldn't even look at him.

The blood pounded in his ears again but for an entirely different reason.

She swayed, rocking herself like a child. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and console her, but he knew his touch would only make things worse. He couldn't touch her but he couldn't keep himself from wanting to touch her. She was right in front of him but she was lifetimes away. Every second brought a new thought, a new plan, and a new revelation. Every second brought a new curse, a new damnation, and a new sense of loathing.

Then, so softly he almost missed it, she spoke: "Please leave - go."

She didn't lift her head or meet his gaze. She simply said the words on a choked breath.

"Mary…" He was cut off by her shaking her head roughly.

"Go."

"Don't…"

"Go."

"I'm sorry."

All she gave him was a ragged breath.

"I love you." He said. It is a final attempt, a desperate plea, and he couldn't mean it more.

At his words she lets out a heart wrenching sob. Her tiny body shook so hard it looked like she could come apart at the seams and it was entirely his fault. Every word he said, every touch he tried just hurt her more.

Nausea seized him. The room swam. His need for her crystalized to a sharp piercing pain right in the middle of his chest, crushing is lungs, taking his breath. He needed to get out of there. He couldn't watch her crumble to pieces and do nothing. He couldn't smell what he had done to her lingering around him sticking to his skin and sinking into his bones. He couldn't any of it back any more than he could stop loving her.

He turned and ran from the attic, down the stairs, and out the door. He ran and ran and ran. The hot cobblestones and dirt cut at his feet. The hot sun and wind beat against his skin. People yelled, women giggled and shrieked at his state of undress, men bellowed after him to watch where he was going, but he didn't care. He couldn't care, so he kept on. He ran until he didn't know the streets anymore. He ran until his feet came to a sudden and unceremonious halt on a deserted back street.

Vertigo overtook him and he staggered under the weight of it. Bile rose in his throat and he didn't stop it. The King of Brooklyn bent over, hands on knees, and wretched violently. Every last ounce of contents in his stomach blazed up his throat, and out of his mouth and nose. His eyes burned, his abdominals aches, and his throat was raw by the time he was done. Every fiber of his being shook. He took a few stumbling steps backwards before his legs gave out. He fell to his knees with a sickening crack.

Everything hurt. Nothing made sense. The world spun around him making him sick once again, but there was nothing left to give. Dry heave after dry heave, he felt his body trying to purge itself of the disgust he felt seeping through him like a poison. He crawled over to the brick edifice of the building he was nearest to and leant his back against it. It was warm in the heat of the day, but he didn't notice. All he was aware of was the horrible memory playing again and again in his mind like an endless cycle of the most cruel torture.

All he knew was questions.

Was this who he truly was – a man who took women without care for their wellbeing? Was this how he treated those whom he loved – with blind selfishness? Was he truly someone who would play against any odds to win a bet? Was he any different than those men who had come to his mother and used her blindly? How different was he than those predators that stalked upon innocents on the streets? How could he ever enter those church walls again knowing what he had done? How could he ever face her again? How could he face her father, or Henry or Martha? How could he go back to the lodging house and see her now?

Oh no. The lodging house. She was still there. He had to go to her. No. He had to stay where he was. No – he had to go. He had to go. He had to take care of her. He had to make this right. He had to make her see how sorry he was. He had to make her forgive him.

He stood. Every fiber of him trembled. It took him a moment to find his feet, but once he did, he ran.

The sun was lower in the sky. It didn't even cross his mind that he missed his chance at the evening edition. He didn't care. He just needed to get back. He needed to get her back. He ignored the pain in his legs and lungs. He pushed against the darkness he saw creeping in on the sides of his eyes. He wouldn't stop.

He entered the lodging house like a tsunami. The irrepressible heat and the evening edition had kept the lodging house scarcely populated which was fortunate considering he had no time for stealth.

The stairs were a daunting task, but he scaled them with feet made of lead. Up to the second floor bunk room, and then further on to the washroom. His body revolted. He swayed. His breaths came in hard gasps. In front of him the final set of stairs loomed like a taunting mountain.

He reached out to lean on the doorjamb for support, but missed. He staggered off the landing into the empty washroom. His body felt too heavy for his legs. His head felt too large for his neck and he stumbled over to a wash pedestal. He leaned against it for support and looked around the dizzy room. His eyes caught sight of a damning article. His shirt still hung to dry from earlier, exactly where he'd left it just moments before – it. Naming it hurt too much.

He tried to move again. The world spun, his knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground in a heap. The heat and physical exertion had him ruined. His head swam and he felt the need to vomit again, but he choked it down as well as he could.

He wanted to see Mary.

He wanted to die.

Not necessarily in that order, but his body ignored his command to get up off the floor, so the later may come first.

The floorboards were relatively cool. His heat rattled brain phased through thought as he lay face down upon the dirty floor. Two repeated ideas circulated in his brain in a deadly course. One thought said that he was in love with Mary. This in and of itself was a frightening proposition. The second thought was that he forced himself upon Mary and taken something that hadn't been his to take, regardless of his feelings and the bet. He'd become absolutely everything he'd ever despised in men, who like his unknown father, had taken his pleasure from his mother and left.

He didn't have the strength make reason from the thoughts or to keep them from washing over upon him again and again like waves upon the shore. So he didn't fight. He simply drowned.

There he lay on the washroom floor, immobile and miserable, for uncountable seconds. His whole body felt like an oven. Why was he still so hot? He heard a pair of footsteps mount the stairs to the washroom and knew that he had to get up. He knew that he had to move. He knew how bad it would look if he were found prone and helpless, but he just couldn't move. He absolutely could not move and he didn't care. He wanted to die. He just wanted to die.

Voices accompanied the footsteps. They were quiet, not for the sake of secrecy for they had no knowledge of his presence, but because they were female. He couldn't make out who it was, but he didn't try too hard.

On the edge of discovery a faint flicker of pride ignited deep within. It was barely anything, but it was enough. He wouldn't be able to go far, but he could try. Valiantly – Spot forced himself up to kneel. His arms shook as he pushed himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut against the irrepressible vertigo in attempts to keep himself from being sick again.

I didn't work.

He dry heave and gagged on the nothingness. His head throbbed, his body shook, and darkness closed in around the edges of his eyes as he teetered forward to his hands and knees. He'd never been sun sick like this. He had learned long ago to be mindful of the sun's powers, but the day's events stripped him of pre-learned preservation. It was his own damn fault. He knew better. He knew better than to run for miles without water in hundred degree weather, but he did it anyway. So now between the physical weakness and the emotional burden, he couldn't present himself as the indomitable Brooklyn leader.

He wished himself invisible.

It didn't work.

Spot breathed in deeply. There was no avoiding it now. He had never felt so violently miserable in his whole life and that was how they found him.

Ireland and Snaps stopped dead in their tracks in the door to the washroom. There, on his hands and knees like an animal, was Spot Conlon. He was shirtless, the bottom of his bare feet inexplicably cut and bloodied, and his whole frame shaking like a leaf in the wind. Dark head bowed, sucking air in with rattling gulps, and apparently absolutely no strength to pull himself fully upright – there was Spot Conlon.

"Holy shit." Snaps said like a prayer.

"Spot?" Ireland asked.

The words fell from the thick air like a signal and they moved quickly to his sides. Spot felt strong, work rough hands grip his arms and try to bring him to sit back on his knees. He didn't resist, but he didn't help either and he swayed in their grip. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyelids shut to fight against the nausea.

"What the hell, Spot?" He recognized Snaps' voice, but it wasn't angry. She was distressed.

"Do you think he got in a fight?" Ireland asked.

"Spot. What are you doing?" Snaps again, ignoring Ireland's question entirely.

Spot opened his eyes to try to see the two girls, but the world blurred in front of his eyes and he heaved heavily to one side.

"Dammit!" Snap swore. "Let's get him up against a wall."

They unceremonious and somewhat clumsily hoisted and dragged the Brooklyn leader from the center of the washroom to the far wall. Snaps swore steadily under her breath through the whole process.

"Look at his stomach." Ireland said once they finally got him leaning with his back against the brick wall.

Spot cracked open his eyes to try to see his stomach. He had a hard time focusing, but even in the blurred haze in front of his eyes he could see of what she meant. His entire torso was splotched with patches of a creeping red rash. Again he closed his eyes and groaned.

This caught the girls' attention.

"Spot!" Snaps said."What the hell happened to you?"

"He got too hot." Ireland said. Her hand reached out to touch his forehead. "He's burning up." This wasn't the first time any of them had seen a case of sun poisoning.

"We need ice." Snaps said. "Go to Cooper's. He'll cut you off a chunk for a nickel."

Spot heard Ireland's footsteps hurry from the room and down the stairs. Snaps heaved a heavy sigh.

"Dammit Spot. Why'd you go and do something so stupid?" She sat back against the wall next to him and he turned his head to the side and peered through kaleidoscope eyes at her.

"Snaps." He said, but he hardly recognized his own voice. "Mary is upstairs."

Somewhere, somehow he hoped she would understand absolutely everything that had transpired from those three words although that was impossible.

"Mary doesn't live here." Snaps said. She thought it was the heat talking.

"Mary is upstairs." Spot repeated. He needed her to understand. "The attic. Go get her." Each word demanded more effort than he ever remembered words taking.

He expected her to argue again, but she didn't. She looked at his skeptically, her cat eyes squinted into slits. Then he watched the two of her stand and saunter over to the washroom door. He heard her climb the stairs and swear as she tried to open the hatch. Mary must have put someone on top of it after he left to keep him out. The thought tore at him, but he couldn't blame her. Who would? He deserved to be kept out.

He hoped Mary would come down and see how sorry he was. She had to know. She had to forgive him. Wasn't that something that her God commanded along with all of his other impossible demands like abstinence until marriage? She had to forgive him. She had to. She had to. She had to tell him in her plain way that things would be fine and that they could just go back to the way things were. If she didn't he didn't know what he would do. Losing his mind was on the top of the list of possibilities.

What was taking so long? Why wasn't Snaps back yet? Desperation welled within him at the thought of not seeing her. He had to see her. Nothing had been more vital in his life. If she wasn't going to come to him then he would go to her.

The earth spun one thousand times a minute as he tried to slide himself up the wall to stand. Splinters of light and dark exploded in his vision and all of his muscles were alight with a cruel, tightening fire. He felt weaker than he'd ever felt in his life. With a deep breath, he pushed off of the wall with what little strength he could muster.

He made it three steps before he crashed into a wash pedestal. The force of his weight stumbling knocked the cheap glass wash pitcher to the ground with a thunderous crash. The impact successfully knocked the wind out of the staggering Brooklyn leader. He crumpled to his knees. The terrible sinking feeling in his gut outweighed the shards of glass cutting into his tender flesh. This was what it was like to fail.

He heard steps descending from the attic, but only one pair of feet, and heavily shod ones at that. The sinking feeling plummeted to rock bottom as he watched only one girl appear in his swimming vision. Snaps alone rejoined him in the washroom.

"There's no one up there, Spot." Snaps said from the doorway. "If Mary was up there – she's gone."

Those words were all it took. He started to cry.

He wasn't at the docks, or his normal selling territory, or the Lodging House. By the time I'd circled through those locations three times I was out of patience. My thoughts went towards The Scrape. If he had gone there to drink – he would be worthless to me until he sobered up. He wouldn't give a shit if I'd slept with every newsie big enough to get a hard on in that Manhattan borough if that were the case.

The only other place I could think to look was Alice's apartment.

If I found him there I knew the chances of him being happy about my presence there would be slim to none. That was exactly what I wanted. I needed something, anything, to jump him out of his apathetic state. Interrupting him in the middle of seduction on top of the revelation of my own encounters should do the trick nicely. So with that in mind and the sun sinking low in the afternoon sky I set my path towards Alice's apartments.

My mind played over possible reactions Spot might have if he was at Alice's upon my arrival. Each of them ending with us having it out, most of them ending with me winning, all of them involved a fist-fight. Just the proposition of it in my mind got my body humming with the possibility. My stride quickened with my pulse as my brain sorted through all of the contingencies. Nothing my mind's eye had seen, however, could have prepared me for what actually would happen.

I was on the street where Alice lived, moving quickly, when out of an alleyway about fifty feet ahead of me, stepped Alice with another girl. Alice was easy enough to recognize. The girl that accompanied her was plainly dressed, her young profile uncreased, her hair covered with a simple white cap. The only thing this other woman meant to me was that Alice was not with my stupid ass half-brother.

"Alice!" I called across the space and two sets of eyes were on me instantly.

I walked over to them, watching Alice's reaction to my approach. Upon recognition, she appeared frightened. Quickly she looked around as if searching for someone. Spot? I hoped.

"Snaps." She said. "Snaps. It isn't safe for you to be seen with me. I've been looking for you to tell you and Spot to not see me again."

This girl had no idea what it meant to not be safe. I wasn't worried at her warning.

"I'm looking for my brother. The bastard disappeared again and I was wondering if you had seen him." I said and turned a glance to her smaller, quiet companion.

Our eyes met.

In that instant I was transported to the streets over a year ago, watching a street preacher surrounded by followers with my Spot by my side. I remembered a challenge and acceptance. I remembered the months that followed of merciless jabs and condescension towards Spot and his apparently hopeless endeavor. I remembered going to the attic of the Lodging House while my heat sickened half-brother was unable to stand on his own and finding this girl, wide-eyed and terrified, standing by an open window.

I remembered Mary.

Snaps sprung up the stairs with a catlike stealth – her feet propelled by curiosity. Spot said Mary was up here. Right. Like she believed that. But if it would just get him to calm down she would go check. It had been awhile since she'd been in the attic anyway.

She reached the top of the stars quickly. Her hands automatically reached to push open the hatch that kept her from entering. It was stuck. She swore and tried again. This time she felt it give and heard something slide to the side. Someone had put something on top of the hatch. In order for that to happen someone had to be in the attic. Could it…?

The hatch opened with one more solid push and Snaps climbed up. It was hot and dusty in the space. She walked stealthily around the miscellaneous crates and sheet covered furniture. Snaps moved cautiously without the intention of doing so. She had nothing to fear up here, especially if it was inhabited only by a church mouse, but her steps were still surreptitious

There was a whole sense of uneasiness in regards to the situation. Snaps felt in her gut that there was more to this than she wanted to accept. She knew Spot. Spot would have to have a reason to hide Mary in the attic. It was a risky move and would have required a premiere level of stealth on both their parts. Beyond that he wouldn't have simply given her access to Mary because he was a little worse from the sun.

This was a bet. Up until now Snaps had played nice and left Mary and Spot to play out their dance without any interference. This, as Spot was probably well aware, could change at any instant; especially if the circumstances of the wager changed substantially. A change such as Mary practically cohabitating with her brother would certainly count as substantial and give Snaps every reason to begin a more aggressive tactic.

Why would he give her that chance? Something didn't add up. Something had Spot frantic enough to give himself heatstroke. Something made him desperate and Spot was rarely desperate. It set Snaps on edge.

She came around strange mound of boxes and she saw her.

There by the window leading to the fire escape stood a girl whose wide brown eyes looked older than the rest of her young face. In small hands she had clenched a small sack with what Snaps assumed to be personal belongings. She looked like she was about to faint, but maybe not from the heat. Snaps froze where she stood, about twenty feet from the girl, hoping that the wide berth would ease her fear.

"Spot sent me." Snaps broke the ice because it looked like the girl was about to throw herself out the window.

"Who are you? Where's Spot?" Mary spoke.

"Name's Snaps. He's downstairs. In the wash room. He sent me up here." Snaps spoke slowly, in fragments, as if speaking to the immigrants on the wharf. "What the hell are you doing up here anyway?"

"I'm sorry." There was a catch in her voice and an apology that Snaps didn't understand. Apologies were not answers. "I'm not staying. I just –," Her hesitation is paired with an inexplicable shockwave of emotion across her face. "I thought he may come up here again before I left."

"The heat got ta Spot." Snaps slacked her hip. "He ain't going anywhere for awhile. That still don't tell me why you are up here." Calculating eyes had already noted the neatly made bed, the pitcher and bowl and curious arrangement of boxes around it as well as the canvas clutch Mary clung to desperately. It was clear she had been up here for a time, but the question of why hadn't been answered.

"My brother and sister have the measles. Spot allowed me to stay until it was no longer necessary." This girl couldn't lie if she wanted to.

"He wants to see you." Snaps said and watched as fear crept onto the shadows of her face "Come on and I'll show you where he is."

"No. I can't go. I'm sorry." Mary said and the answer caught Snaps off guard.

"I didn't ask you. I told you." Snaps did nothing to keep the irritation out of her voice. No one said 'no' to Brooklyn – especially some freeloading church mouse.

"I cannot. Please understand. I'm not attempting to be difficult." She remained resolute even under Snaps insistence. This was something that Snaps rarely encountered.

"Look girlie, the guy ain't asking you to marry him. He just wants to see you." Snaps' voice was razor sharp. "Now play nice and come on." She made a sharp gesture towards the hatch with her chin and took a step forward.

Mary's face went to ash at Snaps' advance, but she straightened purposefully in spite of it. Even pulled up to her full height she was no where near Snaps gawky frame.

"I'm sorry, but I won't." Her resolve didn't shake but her voice did.

It wasn't a challenge. Despite Mary's blatant defiance it was clear she wasn't looking for a fight. Still Snaps set her jaw in determination. She hadn't known what to expect when she came up to this attic, but this definitely not even on the list of possibilities. The idea of dragging Mary down the stairs by that bun on the back of her head more than just crossed Snaps' mind. Just as she took another step forward there was a crash from below, a thud, and a low cry.

What in the hell?

Had someone just attacked Spot in the washroom? Snaps knew he had enemies, but none so violent, or so stupid, within the borough to pull a stunt like this. Did he? For a moment she turned back towards the hatch and then turned back again to see Mary climbing out the open window onto the fire escape. Snaps instantly felt torn by the immediate duty to her brother but also his blurred request to bring Mary to him. Snaps' eyes met Mary's across the space. A disquieting depth lay behind the church girl's brown orbs as she spoke.

"Go to him." It wasn't an order even though it sounded like a command. It was a permission, a blessing, a pardon. "I'm truly sorry I can't stay." Her tone was sincerely apologetic.

"Just stay here." Snaps already moved back from whence she came. The girl wasn't worth the trouble. Spot could go visit her later.

"There's a letter on the bed for Spot. Could you see that he gets it?" Mary said. Snaps looked back in time to see her gesture to the neatly made bed hidden by the odd box wall.

"I'll give it to him if you stay here." Snaps said as she snatched the paper and stuffed it in her pocket on her way towards the hatch. There was no response, and when she looked back to the window she saw Mary was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit." She swore under her breath. She shook her head to clear it of the strangeness that she had just encountered in the attic and hurried down the stairs to see what the noise had been about.

When she made it to the washroom, there was Spot, on his knees clutching to the edge of a wooden washstand. Cheap glass was scattered on the ground around him. It didn't take a detective to deduce what had happened. He looked up at her from his pathetic position, eyes heavy lidded but expectant.

"There's no one up there, Spot." Snaps said. "Mary is gone."

Then she saw something happen that she hadn't seen since their mother had died.

Spot started crying.

It was like time stopped for a moment and I was back in that attic. The whole conversation played in my head like it had just happened. She looked at me now with that some bottomless depth that had struck me over a year ago.

"Holy shit." I felt like I'd been punched in the gut as I watched her cheeks redden. "You're Mary."

Spot was never going to believe me.

Holy shit

A/N: This is the way the world ends. About two more chapters left. All of our paths are converging. We'll just have to see how it goes. Brace yourselves.