Gritty's was packed and rowdy, but Spot had yet to venture down for something to eat. He sat in his bedroom, just barely on the edge of his bed, bent forward with his elbows on his knees. The sun had set and moon was blocked by the heavy cloud cover that had drifted in during the day. The cold had returned, keeping any more snow from falling, and the city was grim again, huddled and waiting for the weather to finally break.

He felt as though he had nothing at all to do. Tweed was dead, his killer still at large. The newspapers had been plastered with pictures of Spot reverently comforting Tweed through his last moments of life. The Brooklyn leader was being called a "loyal friend", although his name was never mentioned. He was glad of that. Spot had never wanted to make it into the papers.

The Boss's death had been a fleeting satisfaction and the hollowness remained in Spot's chest. When he stepped outside, he felt as though the wind whistled straight through him, like it did through the bare branches on the trees.

The door to his apartment opened and he turned his head to look out into the main room. He hadn't lit any lamps, but through the darkness he could see Jack Kelly edging around the table and chairs. Spot hadn't seen anyone but James since coming back from the court house, although it wasn't from lack of people trying.

Jack and Spot locked eyes, holding the other's gaze for a long, arduous moment, before Spot turned to look back out the window.

"It was stupid, what you did. Really fucking stupid." Jack's voice wasn't scolding. He spoke as though he were commenting on the weather.

"I know."

"Anyone could have seen you. You still don't know that no one did."

"Jack." Spot stopped him before he could continue. "Kill is dead."

This time it was Jack who could not keep Spot's empty grey gaze. His shoulders slumped and he sighed, nodding. "He is."

Spot nodded once, turning away again. Jack frowned and took a step forward so that he stood just inside the bedroom. "He's dead Spot. Do you understand that? There's nothing you can do anymore."

Jack thought he saw a tremor go through Spot's frame, but he didn't move otherwise. Jack's stomach hurt, he realized. A horrible sort of ache that he hadn't felt for Spot before. He had respected Spot, he'd hated him and feared him, but he had never hurt for him before.

"Rome moved into Tammany." Jack could sense Spot's discomfort and he changed the subject to avoid it. "He says you have a job with him when…" He paused; searching for the right word for what Spot was going through. "Well, when you want it."

"And us?" Spot straightened, taking a deep breath before looking at Jack again. "Where do we stand?"

"On even ground, Spot." Jack shrugged, "as far as I'm concerned, Manhattan is still ready to help you."

Spot just stared at him for a long time before nodding graciously. "Thanks."

Jack stepped forward again and set a steady hand on the grieving boy's shoulder. "Yeah. Any time."

--

The next morning had dawned on Spot to find him awake and exhausted, wandering the streets like he didn't have a warm bed to fall into to. Sleep had escaped him for the past few days, his mind unwilling to witness Kill's death endlessly through the night.

He rubbed his chilled fingers together, not quite so cold warmed as they were by the gloves Elise had given him three days before. Spot stared up at Mary's apartment building, watching the first rays of sun glint off the windows of the tenement. He'd been told the news the day before, when he'd been on his way to the court house. Billy Jennings had broken into Mary's home, quite publicly, and had been about to slit her throat when the three eldest sons of Mary's neighbor had rushed in to throw him off the terrified woman.

Spot hadn't planned on doing anything else for Mary beside check up on her occasionally, but he found himself at the train yards earlier that morning, buying a one way ticket upstate. He knew she couldn't stay here any longer, and Spot guessed she knew that as well.

He made his way up the stairs, his muscles slowly loosening up after being in the cold for so long. He dragged his feet on the way to Mary's door, unsure of what to say to her. After Kill's death he had found himself quite unable to be angry with the girl. He stared at the plain wood before knocking.

There was no sound for a long moment, but he heard footsteps cross the floor and then stop just short of the doorway. He sighed and dropped his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes. He was so tired.

"Mary," he whispered, only loud enough to be heard through the door. "I heard about Jennings." He thought he heard her give a little gasp, but he wasn't sure.

"I brought you this." He bent and slid the train ticket under the door. The paper scraped the floor as it was picked up. "I asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, downstairs. She said you had an aunt up in Albany. You should go stay with her. Jennings is leaving the city…" That fact struck a chord of satisfaction in Spot's gut. Jennings had no allies anymore. He had fled like a scalded cat, tail between his legs. "He's leaving," he continued, "but you should still go."

The silence of early morning hung heavy all through out the building and Mary didn't break it. Spot sighed again. "Goodbye, Mary." He turned to go. He made it half way down the hall before he heard a door open behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a pale faced Mary, ticket clutched in both her hands.

"Spot." Her voice floated down the hall to him. He faced her completely, hoping his concern for her wasn't too obvious in his expression.

"I heard…a-about Kill," she stammered. She seemed a different person, Spot thought with a pang in his heart. He hoped the fear hadn't ruined her. He ducked his head, dropping his eyes to her feet at the mention of Kill.

"I'm sorry."

The words made him wince. He swallowed hard as he shook his head. "You don't have to apologize, Mary. Not for anything."

He twisted on his heel, resolving not to look back at her as he advanced down the hall. Part of Spot was wishing Mary would stay; stay with him, but he knew that would be impossible for her. Spot dragged a hand over his eyes, trying to dispel the burning of exhaustion and sorrow that dwelled there. Even with Jennings gone, Mary would not be able to sleep as soundly as she used to; not in New York. He wondered if he would be able to either.

--

The Brooklyn Bridge towered over Spot, the grey stone set against grey sky and grey water. Spot wondered, with his back pressed to one of the arches in the center of the bridge, if the color had been bled from the world, or if it was just his eyes that couldn't see the different shades.

The first week after Kill's death had been spent in a daze, the second in a hot rage he had believed would burn him from the inside out. After that came the deep, penetrating sadness, although it was not just because his friend was gone. Spot had found himself doubting his ability to live in New York any longer. It was his home; it always would be, but now every thud of his foot on the cobblestone felt wrong. His city had betrayed him.

Spot shook his head free of the thought and turned his head up to look at the very top of the arch. There was a door, tucked near the top. He'd seen it before, but did not know what it was for, or how it had gotten there. The building of the bridge had been immense and impressive, a legend that Brooklyn prided itself on, but there was that door, inexplicable and intriguing.

"A doorway out of here," he mumbled to himself. It was appropriate. Kill had had his cathedral, Spot had the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd mentioned that to his friend before and Kill had agreed. The bridge was like a temple to them both, sheltering and immobile.

The feel of granite against his back calmed him some. Spot stretched out both arms to press his palms flat against the tower. He was steadied, held up by the stone and the boardwalk.

"Not betrayal," the wind whispered through the suspension cables. "We didn't mean for it to happen."

Spot felt hot, infuriating tears rush up behind his eyes, but he swallowed them back down again. The moment of weakness passed and he took a deep breath. He could not hate the city. He turned his head to the side so his cheek was pressed to the stone as well. The salt sting off the water filled his nose.

"Not betrayal," he said to a passing seagull as he opened his eyes, "but not protection either."

Spot thought briefly that he had lost his mind, but the idea didn't sound too unappealing. Most people he knew, older people, who had lived in New York their whole lives, had lost their minds long ago. He had figured it was just a matter of time.

He had changed, he decided. The city had not, it was still dirty, still corrupt, still beautiful in its grit and grime, but he had changed. That was enough for now.

--

Thank you's to all my reviewers, for being faithful and enthusiastic. Thanks to Keza for actually making me write the god damn thing (wait...I finished it? Seriously?). Thanks to Regina Spektor for the song "December" because it pretty much drove this whole thing (Download it). Thanks to Trevor Jones for scoring "Last of the Mohicans" the way he did, because it is the soundtrack of this story (Seriously kids. Listen to "The Kiss" if you ever re-read this.) Thanks to Kenny Ortega for directing one of the hands down easiest movies to fanfic and thanks to The Dead Rabbits for existing. And uh...thanks to the Academy? Wait...no.