you know we've got your back from way back (Spot and Dodger)

[brooklynishere]

It was rare, very rare, when Brooklyn was outmatched. It was a point of pride for Spot Conlon that there wasn't nobody who could soak Brooklyn, or anybody from Brooklyn, and get away with it.
He didn't intend to break that track record. This upstart gang from Queens is gonna get their asses handed to them.

...just maybe not today.

His eye is stinging and he can already tell he's going to have one hell of a shiner in a couple of hours, it's going to make a nice accompaniment to his split lip and the bruises blossoming up and down his ribs. Half his boys have already scarpered and honestly, Spot doesn't blame them, they're cornered and even Racetrack wouldn't bet on them winning right now, not without reinforcements.

He smacks one of them across the face with his cane and sees a break in the scuffle, Dodger already darting away down an alley. Spot dives after him.

Queens will give chase, he knows they will, but if he can lure them deep enough into Brooklyn then revenge will be swift and merciless. If they decide to fall back, he'll get them another day, when he's healed up and has the satisfaction of soaking them himself.

He makes it down two more side streets, hot on Dodger's heels, when there's a sudden yank on his braces and he's pulled off his feet with a yelp that (thankfully) gets lost in the yelling and pounding of feet.

He swings out wildly with his cane, but it's not long before he's reduced to curling into a protective ball as boots and fist rain down on him - there's four of them and only one of him, and he still ain't that big.

He's starting to feel pretty dazed by the time there's another, more familiar shout, and suddenly his attackers are falling back under a volley of stones. The cavalry's coming.

Most of the newly arrived Brooklyn boys give chase, but a couple haul Spot to his feet and start checking him over. He waves away their fussing.

"Jus' get me back home," he mumbles, jaw stiff and swollen, and they blessedly don't need telling twice. He refuses to be carried, instead slinging his arms around their shoulders for support as he hobbles back to the lodging house - or more accurately, hops; one of his legs refuses to take any of his weight without trying to buckle underneath him.

They get him back to the house, carrying him up to the bunk room and getting him sat down on the edge of his bed. A hoard of newsies crowds around him, conflicting medical advice flying in all directions.

Comments

[artfuldawkins]

He hadn't realised that Spot wasn't right behind him.

It's not an excuse, it could never be an excuse, but even after a few years deep in Brooklyn territory, the Dodger still wasn't the greatest fighter. He could think better than he could throw a punch and with how the odds were set against them, the best choice was running for now till they could win the numbers game.

Of course he ran, taking all the back alleys and side streets he could back to the house. Spot was hot on his heels, and he didn't know when that changed. But when he got to the house and Spot wasn't right behind him, he went looking. With no real sign of him, he had to call it quits and make his way back to the house again, hoping that Spot had just taken his own little detour.

The crowd around Spot's bed put him on edge. That was not a good sign. He got into the middle of things, making his way to the front of the crowd and looking at the sight on the bed. There's that clenched dread in his stomach as he waits to see and the actual result isn't lessening it. He gives a slow nod, and speaks to the crowd.

"Leave the bloke alone," it's a command, plain and simple. "Ain't yer fussin' he's needin'." He turns to look at the gathered newsies. "You want to help? Then get back to sellin' papes. Might need the coin."

It's a dismissial as well, and he stands till they leave.

[brooklynishere]

Spot's head is pounding and his jaw aches too much to put the effort into yelling, as much as he wants to tell them all to shut up and get out of here. He's dizzy and woozy and he really wants to lie down, but instead he has to sit up and try to look less injured than he feels, waving away any of them who're trying to get a good look at him.

He looks up and sees Dodger coming and for a moment he freezes. He doesn't want anybody to see him like this, and he wants Dodger to see it least of all. He could claim it's about respect and reputation and.. and whatever else he could make up on the spot as an excuse, but he knows that's not it. The real reason is one he refuses to think about.

Still, he's more grateful than he can say when Dodger starts trying to clear the rest of them out of there. Those that look to him for confirmation get a firm (and painful) nod and a vague wave of his hand, and they all slowly start to disperse. Eventually, it's just him and Dodger in the room.

"You can get out of here too." he says quietly.

[artfuldawkins]

"Don't be daft," was the soft reply, sittng down on the edge of the bed once the room is cleared. He twisted himself to be looking directly at Spot and then cursed. "I thought you were right behind me," he said. "Shoulda kept watchin'." There was a sigh, and he shook his head. He knew better than to assume that just because they were behind you at one point, it made them safe.

Trying to push the thoughts of guilt back - he didn't do guilt - he reached out to touch Spot's face, trying to examine the extent of the injuries.

"They did a number on you," he mutters, trying not to wince at it all. "Gonna need to clean it up."

[brooklynishere]

Spot didn't know why he bothered, he should have known Dodger wouldn't leave. He did let himself relax, a little, not lying down just yet but he stopped holding himself quite so stiff, allowed the pain to show.

"Nah, I shoulda run quicker," he brushed off Dodger's attempt to take any of the blame matter-of-factly. The only person he blamed for this was himself. Well, himself and those assholes from Queens who were going to pay for this.

He let Dodger touch him, wincing slightly at the press of fingers against bruised skin, even gently, and actually tilted his head so Dodger could get a proper look.

"They'll pay for it," he muttered back, "Just leave it, Dodge, I'm fine."

[artfuldawkins]

Dodger rolled his eyes a little at Spot's attempt to shift blame but didn't open his mouth. He was too concerned with the injuries, making sure they were just skin deep. No, not true, making sure they weren't somthing that people were going to have to cough up serious coin for because they were that bad.

"Ain't no one gettin' any pay back till these are healed," he said, ignoring the command to leave it. "Goin' to need to clean 'em up," he added, touching near a cut that was covered with dried blood now. He frowned.

"They worked you right over."

[artfuldawkins]

It was a few days later before Dodger and Spot were out of the lodging house, trying to test Spot's ankle. Dodger had slipped out for a few hours over those few days, managing to get some coin gathered to cover for the days lost. Even managed to get a couple of right nice mutton chops lifted and sent to Manhattan as a gift for Davey. He may not like Jack Soddin' Kelly, but the Mouth was alright. Dodger had also made sure to lift something to eat that actually had a chance to giving Spot energy back.

Even if they did end up splitting it with a lot of the younger kids in the house.

Still, it was a nice enough day, and they weren't doing much. Out walking to the circulation gate with the others in the morning. It was quieter then, meant that Spot could take his time.

"Want to grab a coffee off the nuns?"

[brooklynishere]

It itched at Spot not to be selling with the others, but he'd begrudgingly agreed that his ankle - while a hell of a lot better than it had been - was not quite up for traipsing all across Brooklyn all day, not if he wanted it to actually get better, so an easy going stroll to test it was about the most he was going to get today.

For once his cane was in use for its intended purpose, which he not-so-privately kind of hated.

His face screwed up a little at the suggestion. Spot generally avoided the nuns, he claimed it was because he'd leave their charity to those that needed it more, but truthfully... well, he had been raised Catholic (as far as he'd actually been raised) and nuns still made him feel a little.. guilty.

But actually a coffee sounded really good right about now, and it was as good a destination as any, so he nodded.

"Sure."

[artfuldawkins]

Dodger could see the irritation in the way Spot walked - hating to be using that cane for what it was actually meant to be used for. They were lucky, though, the second hand managed to calm down a lot of the riotous mob and sofar no action had been taken against Queens. Dodger had managed to narrow down who he thought the punks that soaked Spot were, and he was plotting something.

Well, unless Spot just wanted to soak them in return, which was fair enough with him.

They walked over to the nuns, joining the crowd gathering to get coffee and bread to try to start off the day. It was proving to be a day like any other, really. They'd probably walk back to the lodging house after this, since Dodger reckoned they'd been out long enough.

"Patrick?"

[brooklynishere]

Things with Queens were tense, no doubt about it, but Spot for once was actually trusting his second - and Dodger - to keep things going until he was better, and then he'd deal with it. All out war had been avoided, for now, so he was content to let it be - which is to say he was biding his time and privately plotting all the terrible things he could do to the guys that had come after him. Never let it be said that Spot Conlon wasn't at least a little bit of a sadist.

He was just contemplating using his reputation (and invalid status) to make the other kids give way to him, and whether or not the nuns would disapprove, when he heard something that made his blood run cold.

See, there were maybe a handful of people he was acquainted with who knew his name, his real name, and even those people all thought it was Sean. It was, technically, but his mother had never liked that, his father had made that his name and one of her tiny, petty defiances against him had always been calling him by his middle name. That name, he had never told anybody.

He reached out, fingers closing roughly around Dodger's arm and pulling him away - fruitless, he knew and yet he suddenly had a desperate need to escape. Again.

"Let's just go back home."

He refused to look at the woman staring at him, though he could almost see her out the corner of his eye.

[artfuldawkins]

It was her anniversary.

Nancy's anniversary. The day what she was killed. The date had been burned into his mind like someone had used a branding iron to do it, just to make sure he could never forget. Not like he could anyway. How could you forget the sight of the man who you'd been told you'd follow in the footsteps of turning up raging beyond all belief, hands soaked red with blood. No, the Dodger had never forgotten. Not anything.

Not Fagin's secret little stash of goods, not how Jem White would look at any of the girl's around with lust in his eyes and half-baked plans about how he'd be top sawyer any day not. Not what steps to miss in the Cripples. Not the colour of her eyes, or the smell of her favourite scent, or the way she laughed when they were playing their games.

Dodger remembered it all and it was too much.

He'd gotten hold of gin, cheaper than usual, stronger too. He took to the roof, and just sat himself at the edge, drinking.

Remembering.

[brooklynishere]

Spot had been out later than usual, after he finished selling for the day he went looking for a place that he and Dodger might be able to get, trying to get an idea of what they'd be paying for rent and if they could actually afford to do it, to move out together and have a place of their own.

He came back feeling pretty good, he'd found a couple of promising looking places and the whole idea of it wasn't feeling quite as far in the future as it had before, even with his injuries - which had also mostly healed by this point - so he was in a good mood when he arrived back at the lodging house.

The kids tell him Dodger's on the roof, he was seen going up there with a foul expression and a bottle in hand. Spot frowns, telling them to stay off the roof - and tell the others to as well - and heads up there.

"Hey Dodge," he comments as he climbs up, his frown deepening at the look on Dodger's face.

[artfuldawkins]

Dodger hadn't done any of the things that he was supposed to have done. Nothing that would have gotten him and Spot that step closer to their own place, and that sense of being able to actually do this without the worry of what would happen.

No, instead it's been a day of being lost in memories, and drink, and that self-loathing that was kept buried brimming nearer the surface. He glances Spot's way, giving a brief nod, and taking a drink from the bottle.

"Alright?"

[brooklynishere]

"Should be asking you that." Spot replies, tone softer than it might normally be. Given that last time Dodger expressed a desire to drink it was after the encounter with his mother, Spot couldn't help but suspect something had driven him to this - especially considering he seemed to have been here a while, judging by the amount of gin no longer in the bottle.

He crosses to where Dodger sits and drops onto the roof beside him, staring out over the golden wash of the sunset-lit East river.

"What's going on, Jack?"

[artfuldawkins]

The Artful Dodger was not the only English ex-pat who had made their way to the city infamously known as the Big Apple. Though he would be rather horrified to find out that the man in question who had their made way there was none other than the old crook who had taught him his trade. The old crook who he had run from all those months ago. Fagin.

Fagin being Fagin, he had been quick to zero in on the children who lived on the streets. It didn't take him long to work his way to Brooklyn, and with his ears to his ground, it didn't take too much longer to hear the name Dodger being flung around. Discreet enquires made him very sure he was the one and the same Dodger as Fagin had known.

Now he stood in front of the lodging house. Just waiting.

[brooklynishere]

Spot was done selling for the day and headed back to the lodging house when he saw the man standing outside it. He frowned curiously, because there was an expectant air to him, as though he were waiting for someone. There was something about the man that just didn't sit right with Spot, and he was always going to be suspicious about an old man loitering around his boys.

"Can I help you?"

[artfuldawkins]

Fagin turned and gave a smile to the young boy.

"As a matter a fact, you may be able to," he said. "I'm looking for a dear friend of mine, and I have reason to believe he is taking his lodgings here."

[brooklynishere]

Spot's eyes narrowed suspiciously - that kind of talk from an adult? That put him immediately on guard, and the accent was just a little too much like Dodger's for his liking. Anybody after his... his Dodger? They were going to have to go through him.

"Is that so? Who are you and who you looking for and I'll tell you if they's here."

[artfuldawkins]

Meeting Fagin.

This was a nightmare. Beyond a nightmare. It was the kind of nightmare that you couldn't wake up from because it had you in so deep. Dodger felt like he couldn't breathe, that moment he saw the Old Devil. He had thought - hoped - that he had escaped it all. That the minute he jumped ship, he was free.

He loved London. But what he loved most had been killed by a bastard whose blood stained him. He didn't need the other one showing up and starting up his game here. But then, there it was. The Old Devil might have information about that bastard. It was the only reason he had agreed to meet him.

They were in the cafe. Spot wasn't going to let him go alone, he had made that clear. Frankly... Dodger weren't against it. He glanced over at the King of Brooklyn.

"He'll be late. Make a show of it."

[brooklynishere]

"Like we ain't got our own lives to be getting on with?" Spot rolled his eyes at the petty disrespect, the theatrics of it. The more he learned about this man, the more he didn't like him. Makes him wonder if maybe, maybe he might want to arrange for him to meet a sticky end before he had the chance to get his hooks into any kid here. He figures he could probably pull it off, if he really wanted to.

The kids this morning had grumbled about the new rules he'd enforced, but he didn't want to take any chances. That wasn't the only reason - it wasn't as though New York didn't have its fair share of creepily charismatic criminals with deals too good to be true, there were plenty of children drawn into that kind of life here, and in a lot of ways Fagin didn't deserve extra precautions, didn't deserve to be made into an all-powerful boogeyman who would succeed where others had failed. If Spot had heard about him any other way, he'd never have taken the extra steps.

But he didn't hear about him any other way, he heard about him through Dodger, and it's clear that Dodger feels that way about him, and whether he's right or not Spot's going to do everything he can to make Dodger feel safe, and if that means making sure the kids are extra safe, that's what he'll do.

It also means sitting beside him in the cafe looking every inch the king of Brooklyn that his reputation suggested.

"We only give him as much time as you want, okay?" He says quietly to Dodger while they wait "We leave the second you say we leave."

[artfuldawkins]

"He don't care," Dodger says flatly. "He likes to be in control, an' part of that is arrivin' when it suits him." Oh, he knew all of Fagin's tricks, could recite them without thinking at this point. He fidgeted with a coin, flicking it around his fingers, trying to distract himself from what he knew to be coming.

He knew the kids didn't like the new rules, an' he knew it wasn't like this place didn't have people like Fagin, but that was the point. They were like Fagin, but they weren't Fagin himself. The old crook had a way of gettin' under people's skin, of makin' his company, his work seem like the best option to anyone who was listenin'. He had Sikes on hooks, even if it was clear that Sikes could have got better elsewhere.

Fagin was dangerous, least as far as Dodger saw it.

"Just wanna know if the bastard got caught," that was it. If Fagin couldn't give him that, he was leaving.

[brooklynishere]

Spot nods, understanding. As long as Dodger got what he wanted, they could get out of there - and if he knew Dodger wanted to leave but he seemed to be struggling with it, well, Spot could take control of the situation.

It's not much longer before the old man sweeps in without a care in the world, apologising for keeping them waiting with all the sincerity of a scorpion promising not to sting you, and offering to order them whatever they wanted from the menu.

There was a clear flicker of irritation in his gaze when he arrived and saw Dodger wasn't alone, but by the time he's sitting across from them with the pleasantries flowing, he's covered it up again.

"We're good." Is Spot's blunt response to the offer, and the old man turns his focus onto Dodger instead - he'll still be assessing Spot as they talk, trying to find his weaknesses, the little cracks that allow him to charm his way in, but for now he'll focus on the cracks he already knows very well indeed.

"Is that so? Dodger, my dear, are you sure I can't tempt you, for old time's sake?"

[artfuldawkins]

Life after dealing with Fagin was quiet. Well, as quiet as being in Brooklyn ever got. The rules hadn't lessened, not when the old crook was still around, but none of the kids round here seemed to trust him. Well, he looked like something out of a kid's nightmare, so that helped Dodger's insistence he wasn't to be trusted.

Still trying to work out who soaked Spot all that time ago. Actually, he'd worked that out. It was working out what to do about it that was taking time. He needed a quiet moment to give the evidence to Spot, to let him decide. Today... probably wasn't one of those quiet moments, given the kids all seemed to be more jumpy than usual.

Dodger wondered if they'd get another free moment to themselves. He'd very much like that. The idea of it was preoccupying his mind as he made his way back to the lodgings. He paused in his stride as he turned the corner.

There, in front of the house... That bloke. He looked like Spot. An older Spot.

Oh, that ain't good.

[brooklynishere]

"Dodge." A hushed whisper hissed at him from an alleyway across the street. Spot stood, back pressed against the wall so he couldn't be seen from the lodging house - or by somebody standing in front of it.

"Over here." He hissed again, so quiet it could barely be heard from where Dodger was standing.

Spot is pale, tension radiating from his entire body and his grip on his cane is so tight his knuckles are white. His expression is angry, but Dodger would know him well enough to see it's just a mask, hiding the emotion underneath. Fear.

[artfuldawkins]

Might have only barely been able to be heard, but Dodger's become very good at tuning into Spot's voice. He turns, casually, as though he just thought of something else he needed to do, and makes his way into the alleyway. He looks him over, seeing the tension there. This... is very much not the norm for Spot, and it makes him wonder.

He can't help it, he reaches out to touch the Brooklyn leader's hand.

"I'm here," he says softly. "...That bloke ain't good news, is he?"

He's a quicker thinker than he is anything else.

"Who is he?"

[brooklynishere]

Spot actually flinches when Dodger touches his hand. He doesn't quite jerk away, but he twitches.

He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

"It's my da." He says, fighting to keep his voice calm "I don't know how he found me or why he's here, but I need to- I have to get rid of him."

He's just struggling to move right now, and some part of him hopes that maybe he can just hide until he goes away.