And Everything In Between

Chapter One.

"Hey. Hey, you hearin' me?"

His vision flashes as he blinks. The world is spinning around him, and his head is pounding an inconsistent, irritating beat.

"Yeah," he mutters. He takes a moment to clamp his eyes shut, counting to three before opening them again. It's clearer this time; he can make out a pair of hard, blue eyes staring down at him.

"You got hit pretty hard there. Everyone's gone now."

Groaning, he starts to sit up. His knees burn from sliding against the floor, his head is still throbbing, and he can't quite figure out where he is. It's nice to know he's somewhat comprehensible if he can hear another human being speak.

"Take it easy, there. Race, right?"

He nods. That's his name. Race, Racetrack. He find his hands and rubs his eyes, hoping to get a better look at the guy in front of him. When he can focus his gaze, Race finds Spot Conlon crouching in front of him, his cane hanging from loose fingers.

"S-Spot." He can't hide his surprise; what's Spot Conlon, leader of the big, bad Brooklyn Newsies doing down here talking to him? "Uh. What's goin' on?"

Spot eases onto the floor, settling his weight onto one hand. From the looks of it, they are outside the Irving Hall, the lights from nearby signs glinting off Spot's hair and eyes.

"Jack got taken away." Spot digs a hand into his pocket and produces a cigarette. He puts it in his mouth before going back in to find a match. "Somethin' 'bout bein' an escaped prisoner, I dunno. Didn't catch alla it." He pauses to light up, taking a few shorts puffs before taking a long drag. "Went back inside to see if anythin' valuable was left behind and found you."

It's hard not to stare at the cigarette in Spot's lips. It's hard not to stare as it moves as he talks and entices him with it's orange light and wispy, grey smoke. It's hard not to stare because Spot goddamn Conlon basically rescued him. At best, they've exchanged a few lines since the Brooklyn Newsie arrived and here he is, downright staring.

"Got a problem?" Race's eyes return to Spot's, suppressing a shiver of nervousness when he sees the crystal clear irritation. "My smokes. Get your own."

Race complies with no hesitation, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small cigar. He holds it in his mouth as he searches for a match or a lighter. He almost panics when he comes up empty.

Sighing loudly, and blowing smoke into Race's face in the process, Spot takes the cigar out of Race's mouth and puts the end of it to his cigarette. Once it's lit, Spot takes a drag of the thicker roll, watching Race carefully, before handing it back.

All Race can do once the cigar is in his hands once more is stare. Again. Man, he must have been hit hard, his mind can barely process the fact that Spot Conlon just lit his cigar and smoked it, too.

"You's always been this stupid, or is you just a weaklin' who can't take a hit?" Spot lifts an eyebrow at him. "'Cause if you ain't smokin' that thing, I'd be glad t' take it off your hands."

Race opens his mouth to protest, but breath falls out of his mouth instead of words. He's quick to turn the lapse into a low sigh before he finally says, "I don't remember gettin' any smarter, so's I guess I's always been this stupid."

That got a tiny smirk out of Spot. "Didn't think so."

They smoke for a while in silence. Spot's cigarette runs out first, and when the Brooklyn Newsie stamps it out, Race offers his dying cigar.

"Nah, don't need it." Race just nods and replaces it in his mouth, watching with tired eyes as Spot stands. "Gonna walk. You goin' t' bed now?"

Spot levels a challenging look at him. Does he want to retreat to the lodging house and nurse his waning headache, or does he want to chance a night with Spot Conlon?

Race stands. It's a good question, but with an easy answer; of course he wants to spend time with Spot, this guy is... Well, he's Brooklyn for god's sake. He has to be the toughest guy Race knows.

"Nah. Night's still young, 'specially 'cause I missed halfa it 'cause I let meself get soaked," Race replies, smiling wryly. The movement in standing up caused his head to pound with a little more vigor, but a deep drag helped battle it away.

Starting down the steps, Spot doesn't even look over his shoulder as he continues speaking, "You always this self-deprecatin'?"

"You know that that word means?" Race retorts, allowing himself a smirk of his own, "Hey, I put down everyone. 'S just what I do."

When Race joins Spot at the bottom of the steps, Spot shoots him a sideways glance. There's a glint of amusement in his eyes when their gazes meet. "So you's admittin' that you's just took a jab at me?" He shakes his head, clicking his tongue under his breath as he walks down the street at a leisurely pace.

"Well, 'less you's got a problem with that, then yeah, that's what I's be doin'." Race is grinning back, feeling proud that he's managed to entertain the stony leader of Brooklyn.

He can't quite get over that yet.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Race spits out the stub of his cigar and steps on it as he walks alongside Spot. It's dark, almost so dark that Race can't quite tell apart the blacks from the browns and the dark blues, but his vision has adjusted now. Besides, all he's really focusing on is Spot and how he reacts to the Manhattan atmosphere. It's definitely different than Brooklyn; there's no lingering feeling of being watched, no strong hunches of paranoia as they walk through the streets.

Well. At least not as much as usual. But that might be the cane in Spot's possession talking.

"Y'know, I can't help but think that you's be a little familiar, somehow." Spot has stopped walking now, leaning against a street lamp. He stares at Race's face, studying him, examining him. "I knows you knows me, but... I dunno."

Race shrugs. "I mighta passed by ya on me way t' Sheepshead. 'S my usual spot, y've probably seen me at least once or twice."

Realization dawns on Spot's face as his eyebrows fly up. "You're Racetrack?" He ducks his head, snorting. "I thought you Manhattan boys knew t' stay outta me territory."

"C'mon, 's just one measly racetrack." But Race can tell that Spot's just joking around. He smirks. "'Sides, I lose halfa what I sell bettin'. At least, when I's be down in Brooklyn."

"Well, maybe you needs a good luck charm," Spot replies, returning the smirk, "Somethin' homegrown." He twirls his cane a few times before pushing off the street lamp. His steps are heading towards the lodging house now, and Race is tempted to step ahead of him to lead the way. Race knows the path better, but he doesn't want overstep Spot's place as leader.

"Yeah," Race agrees, his smirk becoming something closer to an actual smile, "I'll see t' that. But if you finds anythin' that might fit the bill, I's always willin' t' take somethin' offa the hands of the leader of Brooklyn."

That earns Race a wide smirk. "I'll see t' it, as well."

Almost grinning now, Race opens the door for Spot with an exaggerated bow. They break out into chuckles as they file in, clapping hands on each other's shoulders, chasing away the last pangs of Race's headache.