Disclaimer: Fic is for fun, not for profit.

Warnings: Brief violence. Some heartbreak.

A/N: This chapter may be the most challenging thing I have ever written, mentally and emotionally. Perhaps that will help explain why it's taken me so long to finish it. To everyone who may still be with me after four years, you have my heartfelt thanks. This story is dear to me in a way no other fic has ever quite matched.

Chapter 6 – The Hardest Part

It was one of those sticky last days of July, so hot and wet you think you're boiling in soup. But for Spot Conlon—and, therefore, for Brooklyn—it was also the best goddamn day of year.

He glanced across the room at Dave, who tried not to smile for all of three seconds before busting into a grin. Spot smirked in return. The papes had hit the streets that morning and already, just before noon, the news was everywhere and everybody knew. The election would be a landslide, even though it was still two weeks away. Greene was finished.

And Spot knew exactly who he had to thank for that.

He'd brought David inside right away. Spot hadn't held back and Dave hadn't even flinched. No one questioned it, even if they were nervy at first; David had an education and David was useful. With him around, the job got done and got done better. Before long, the boys thought of him as Brooklyn through and through. Spot knew better than to think Dave thought about it that way, but he also knew David had long since stopped going back to Manhattan at night. He'd started keeping a room on his own dime, a block from the docks. Said he couldn't rely on Brooklyn for everything, and Spot admired that, admired that Dave looked out for himself.

It'd been a hell of a couple months working with David. They worked together like they fucked together, rough and pushing. Dave fought where others backed down, questioned moves without questioning authority. He made Spot think further, dig deeper, and his brains had steered them right more than once. With every deal that went their way, every new inch of ground they gained, Spot thought of them as kings conquering the world. And after every victory or hard-fought argument, they expended their pent-up energy on each other, taking one another apart in the ways they'd learned. What Spot relished most was driving David's voice away. There was so much power in that mouth of his, those words he slung, but it was Spot who knew how to stop it, who could reduce David to speechlessness by sucking him off. He had half a mind to do it right then. To back Dave up against the table, drop to his knees, and make him curse and come. He could do it. For all it was a huge day, it was also a slow one. Nobody was in the pub at this hour. The other fellas were out working their filthy asses off—hauling and building and making the city run in those thousand unseen ways. They wouldn't be back 'til dusk for the beers and celebrating. Right then it was just him and Dave, sweltering and smiling in this too-hot heat.

Spot swung his boots down from the table where he sat and got to his feet, ready to steal that grin off David's face, when the door burst open.

It was Jack.

He stalked two steps inside, a dark slice against the blast of sun. "You did this," he accused, waving a copy of today's World in his hand. "I know you did this. It had to be you. How did you know? How did you find out?" His whole body was shaking with anger as he nailed Spot with a glare.

Spot crossed his arms and smeared on a smile. He'd been expecting to face Jack sooner rather than later. His timing was terrible, but that was just like Jack. "A little bird told me," Spot replied, calm as can be, if only because it would get under Jack's skin.

He purposefully did not look at David, but could see him at the edge of his vision, beyond the glare of light from the open door. He was standing stock-still behind the table he used as a desk, and it occurred to Spot that David had never told him whether Jack knew where he was living and working now, and Spot had never asked.

Jack snorted. "You and your fucking little birds. You're a snake, Conlon. Forked tongue and all."

Spot wagged his head. "You were backin' the wrong horse, Kelly. Nothing personal. It's just business."

And that was the whole truth. Spot wanted to take out Greene because he was capitalist swine that would pocket the people's money even before the election applause died down. That Jack was going down with Greene was his own fault, not part of any kind of vendetta of Spot's.

'Course, he couldn't speak for David on that point. He'd never asked about that, either. But he'd learned that David could speak plenty well for himself when he wanted to. Spot glanced over at him now.

"You should go, Jack," David suggested, as if taking his cue, and stepped out from around the table. "This isn't a place you should be right now."

Jack startled, turning to see David in the shadow by the bar for the first time, and that answered that—David had never told Jack where he'd gone.

He pushed off his cowboy hat and let it drop down his back, like he was trying to make sure it was really David. It took him a second to respond. "I'm not gonna ask what you're doing here, Dave, but you stay outta this." Jack pointed the paper at him, sidelining him with a swipe through the air. "This ain't got nothing to do with you." He moved to turn back to Spot then, but David took a step closer, demanding to keep Jack's attention.

"Yeah, Jack, actually it does."

Spot watched the truth break over Jack. It crashed in from behind him like a wave. "You've been helping him?" Jack asked, voice washed out in disbelief. He held up the paper. "You been part of this?"

Everything wavered in the second of silence before David's answer, like a shore horizon in heat. Spot realized he was holding his breath, but he didn't let it out.

David held his chin up. "It was my idea," he said, gaze steady on Jack.

Jack stood straighter, eyes widening. "No," he said firmly. "No, couldn't've been."

Something about that set Spot's teeth. David had listened to the stories of Greene's back dealing, his grabs for influence and territory through lining silk pockets instead of greasing the working wheels of city. It was David who'd pointed out that meant Jack's crew and all the others like it were a sham, just no-good promises dressed up in official badges for parades and pretty speeches. And it was David who'd given the story to the World. For all Spot knew, he'd gone direct to Pulitzer.

And Spot hadn't thought about that before, about why David chose the iWorld/i instead of the other papers. Could've been that the iJournal/i was in Greene's pocket, but Denton would've run the story in the iSun/i. And yet David gave the scoop to the iWorld/i. The paper whose presses he and Jack had ground to a halt just over a year ago.

Jesus. It was brutal. It was brilliant. Spot had never wanted to fuck Dave as badly as he did right then.

And here was Jack, denying David was capable of any of it. He hadn't said it wasn't David, but that it couldn't be, and that just wasn't true. But Jack never could see what was right in front of him.

Spot slid up next to David, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Dave's a real good second, you know? I don't do much without him these days, as a matter of fact." Spot watched irritation and outrage gather on Jack's face and didn't care one whit. Jack was a fool for overlooking David. It was a mistake—one Spot was never going to make—and Spot wanted Jack to know it. "It's like I told you, Jacky-boy," he said, wistfully, "I got a brain, and more than just half of one. So I listen to what he's got to say." He thumped David in the chest with his free hand then let go, smiling at the sight of Jack's glower.

As he moved away, David's head turned, following the motion. He kept his eyes down, but Spot knew what he was thinking all the same; he was wondering if all that was true or if Spot had he said it just to taunt Jack. Spot found himself hoping Dave would come up with the right answer—the truth was always Spot's favorite taunt.

"Fuck you, Conlon," Jack spat. "You coulda done good with Greene. He was willing to help you, you know, and you snaked us."

David crossed his arms at his chest, turning his attention back to Jack. He shook his head. "Please just go, Jack. It's over."

"Yeah, over for you, maybe. What am I supposed to do now, David, huh? You think about that as you plotted with this bastard? Or didn't it matter? Goddammit you knew, Dave! You knew I put everything into this."

So this was it. This was the standoff Spot had known was coming since the first time David hadn't jumped to Jack's defense, the standoff he'd wanted to see since the first time David showed up alone and Spot had knocked him in the sand, marked him, and made him come.

Spot slipped away from them. At this point he didn't have to say a word.

David stood stiff as Jack stormed at him, spouting self-righteous piss and vinegar and indignation. He winced when Jack cut too deep or came too close, but he held his ground and let Jack spin himself out.

"After all we did together, after all this time, and you do this?" Jack threw the paper on the floor and ground it under his foot. "You could do anything, Davey! Anything!"

Anger sparked in David's eyes. For the first time he lashed out in his own defense. "Yeah, I could. And here I am."

That shut Jack up.

"What was my other option, Jack?" David said, wheeling on him. "Work for you and your precious politician? Schlep through the streets as Jack Kelly's messenger boy? But I wasn't even worth that to you, was I?"

"Work for me? . . . I never meant . . ." Jack floundered. "You had to finish school! That's what you wanted. And then, yeah, I thought maybe you would work with me. Not for me. Never for me, Davey," he said hoarsely, voice washed out with betrayal. "Never like that, never like this," he stabbed a finger at Spot. "We're partners, Dave."

David swallowed. His whole body was held tensed and tight. "We were partners, Jack. You stopped holding up your end of the bargain, and sixty-forty was never a fair split. Especially when I ended up doing ninety percent of the work."

Jack reeled back.

Spot stopped himself from letting out the low whistle that was ripe on his lips. For a kid who'd grown up soft, Dave had always had mettle, but the last few months had hammered his spine into absolute steel. Spot couldn't take credit for that; that handiwork was all Jack's, whether he knew it or not.

"So this is what you want," Jack squared his shoulders. "This a good thing you got going on here, then?" He ticked a finger between David and Spot. His tone had turned caustic, and he took a few steps around, as though evaluating the pub.

David's eyes followed him with a glare. "It's better than nothing, and nothing is what you had to offer."

Spot smirked. Jack shot an angry glance his way.

"So what does your family think about all this?"

David held up his hands to ward away Jack's words. "That's really not your concern. It's my family, after all, not yours."

Jack stopped, stricken. His back was to David, but Spot saw the pain twist through him. Spot had never met Dave's folks and he hadn't seen Sarah or Les since the strike, but he knew Dave was proud of them all, knew he missed them, even though he never said so. And he knew David's father had taken a job as a shop clerk, and that David was glad he was safe from the factories.

"Yeah, okay," Jack said, schooling his expression and turning around, "You got me there. So I guess I never shoulda mentioned to Greene that your pop was out of work, huh?"

David's posture crumpled, his jaw falling open. "You," he began, but he shook off the question, regaining some of his composure. "No. Don't bring them into this, Jack."

"I guess I didn't need to make sure he got a job so you got back to school, or to bring your ma extra flour sometimes. Good thing I haven't asked Sarah to marry me. Guess I can stop saving up, because you're right—your folks would definitely have said no if I'd asked, since I'm a Mick goy and all."

David flinched hard, shaking his head frantically. "Stop, Jack. Just stop."

"I was never good enough for 'em, was I, Davey? Not good enough for you, neither. I wasn't, Greene wasn't."

Spot had stopped smiling a while ago, but he knew for sure they'd turned a corner now. Jack's spite churned his stomach. This was gonna get bad fast. He gripped the edge of the table he'd been leaning against, holding himself back. There were fights that were yours, fights you could make yours, and fights that were never yours. For better or worse, this fight was David's.

"It wasn't like that!" David protested. "It wasn't— You were— God, Jack, I— " He choked on his words.

"You what? I what, Dave?" Jack rounded on him.

David shook his head again, lips pinched in a thin line. He took steps back and Jack pressed forward. "You should go," he rasped.

"Tell me."

"It doesn't matter anymore!" David burst out, smothering a dry sob and turning away. He reached down to shuffle papers on his desk, but it only served to show how hard his hands were shaking. "Things changed. It's different now. I don't . . . It doesn't matter what I— "

David didn't see it coming, couldn't see it coming, but Spot did. He knew what Jack was going to do before he did it—it was in his lean, in the way his stare fixed on David. But Jack was fast, Spot was too far away, and then it was too late. Jack grabbed David by the shoulder, spun him, and swooped in, pushing his mouth against David's.

Spot was on his feet and charging forward. He was a step away, ready to pull Jack off, when he saw David give over to it, saw his shoulders go slack and his mouth open under the force of Jack's kiss.

Some urgent emotion surged through Spot—panic, dread, anger, something. Something powerful enough to stop him midstride. In split seconds he imagined the next months without David—imagined running this crew without him, late nights without him, victories without him—and he knew exactly how he felt about that. He hated it.

As he watched Jack kiss David and David let him, the heat of the room threatened to choke him. Spot had never kissed David. After everything else, it was absurd that he'd never done just this, just put his mouth to David's and held it there. Spot didn't kiss other men. But he also hadn't gotten off with anyone else since before Dave came to Brooklyn. And right at that moment, he had no idea what to do.

But then David planted his palms on Jack's chest, elbows bent outward, and shoved.

Jack stumbled away. "What's the problem, Davey?" he sneered, half a hurt question, half a vengeful jibe. "That's what you wanted, right?"

Color washed from David's face.

Spot's throat tightened.

Screw the rest of it, Spot thought, eyes fixed on David. This was the hardest part—having to acknowledge what you want, to say it out loud. Admit to the world you have a weakness, that it can take something away from you. Spot had never done it. He'd never let himself get in a place where he had to, never had a weakness that involved something he could lose and not get back. But he had one now, and in that moment he was closer to admitting it than he'd ever been.

David wiped the back of his wrist over his mouth. He looked like he was going to throw up until the very second he hauled back and slugged Jack.

His fist collided with Jack's jaw, smashing his face to the side and knocking him off balance. Jack staggered backward, toppling over a chair and hitting the wall just in time to keep on his feet.

"You're a bastard. You're a selfish fucking bastard," David told him. He stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands balled in fists at his sides. His whole body trembled; Spot could almost feel it from a foot away.

They both watched as Jack peeled himself from the wall and straightened up. He fingered his jaw and checked for a bloodied lip, hand coming away clean. Not once did he look at David. As he reached back for his hat and moved toward the door, his focus was on Spot instead.

"You did this. Don't think I don't know that," he said, pointing the brim of his hat in Spot's direction.

"He didn't use me, Jack," David scoffed. "It was my decision."

David was wrong there, Spot thought, but he wasn't about to correct him.

"Don't be so sure about that, Dave," Jack warned, eyes never leaving Spot. "Don't be so sure about that."

"No, Jack, that's true," David nodded, considering his point. "Some of it was you."

Jack flashed him a look, then put his hat on with a shallow bow and stepped backward out the door, not turning until he was fully outside.

For all the times Spot had watched Jack Kelly walk away, he'd never seen him do so in defeat. It tugged at his conscience—he'd counted Jack among his friends, after all. But not anymore, not after what he'd just witnessed. Maybe it hadn't started out as personal, but it had ended that way.

Still, this was a victory. Both he and David had won here; David had won his fight with Jack and in the process Spot had won David. But he understood it wasn't a victory they'd be celebrating. He glanced over.

David was staring, unseeingly, at the empty doorway, his hands no longer in fists. Spot wondered how long it would take for David to understand that he didn't ruin Jack's life, that Jack ruined Jack's life. He gave a short sigh and moved toward the door, closing it and leaning back against the jamb.

The change in light snapped David out of his trance. He blinked as though just realizing Spot was there.

"You with me there, Jacobs?"

David shook himself back into concentration. "Yeah," he said, distracted. Then he looked up and said it again, "Yeah. I'm with you." He shook his head once more, this time with a humorless laugh. He took a few steps, rubbing at his eyes and running a hand into his hair. "God. Yeah. I'm here." He turned back to Spot, hands on his hips. "You can quit worrying. I'm not leaving. I've got no place else to go."

Spot pretended not to hear the shaky despair behind David's words. Instead, he put on a defensive frown and raised his chin in a bluff. "Who says I was worried?"

David laughed again, a little hysterical this time, but a little charmed too, and moved to pick up the overturned chair. Spot grinned and kicked away from the door. That was exactly what he wanted.

– end –