Chalk it up to gender, sure, and masucline roles. Chalk it up to two guys never meant to be anything but friends who got each other off, to boys who were killing time until a woman came along and let them in her bed. And then, when those excuses don't hold up, chalk it up to rivalries. Chalk it up to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the two boroughs utterly incompatible, the distance immense when all you can afford to do is walk. Or maybe it's just maturity, growing up, hitting seventeen and knowing that you had to grow up. Knowing that Santa Fe was waiting and he couldn't waste time on anything else, even Conlon.
Maybe it's just that it's too hard to keep going without bringing emotions into it.
So they're not a thing, not at all. And yet tonight (nearly midnight, he thinks, and his body protests, knowing they have to wake in less than six hours, but there's nothing for it), it's towards the Brooklyn docks Jack stumbles. Not home. Not where Race and the others are waiting. They're good guys, great guys, but a leader can't afford to be weak. He can't afford to limp in, all bloody and soaked, his ribs cracked and his face all beaten.
So he goes to Brooklyn. It's a long story as to why he's so fucked up and how he managed to walk all this way, but the point is: he sticks to the alleys and the side streets, and sooner or later he reaches where Spot's boys linger. Even then, he doesn't show himself: just whistles, three rising notes that sound more like a bird's chirp than a signal. They'd invented it years ago.
The others look around, but that's fine. Just so long as it's Spot who recognizes it, and Spot and Spot alone who comes to see what Jacky boy wants at this late hour.]
Spot Conlon doesn't do sentimental. He doesn't do feelings. He does simple pleasures and revels in it - the adrenaline of a good fight, the satisfaction of a job well done, and the thrill of stolen moments, of chemistry boiling over until you're slamming each other into walls and kissing until you can't breathe anymore, warm hands in cold alleys and stifled cries when you know there's people nearby. It was a rush, that was all, a secret excitement that was just for him and nobody else. Feelings didn't come into it.
He knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last, but why should he care about that? Someone new would come along, another body would catch his eye and that would be that. No need for emotion.
So when he practically feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of an achingly familiar signal, he puts it down to nothing more than remembered lust and almost contemplates ignoring it - only he can't. Conveniently, there's no way he can just get on with his evening without finding out what the hell the Manhattan leader is doing here, in his territory, at this time of night. He's not walked up like it's business, he's crept in all secret and used that old signal, so either he's drunk and an idiot (a distinct possibility) or it's something serious enough he doesn't want anybody else to see.
So Spot waves off anybody else going to look and heads after the whistle himself, stepping into the alley with his cane in hand (can't be too careful, even with Jack), mouth open to deliver one of his trademark cocky greetings.
The words die in his throat when he actually sees Jack, and for a second he just stares, until finally he tucks his cane into his braces and comes slowly closer.
[He intends to coo it out, drawling sarcastic; instead, it comes out as a grunt, pained and thick. His head drops the instant he realizes Spot came alone. Good, he thinks vaguely, in whatever part of his mind isn't screaming in white-hot pain. Good, he still trusts you, even now, even after all the mess and fuss and grief.]
Got a hideaway? I need--
[It's hard to ask for help, but at least he doesn't have to spell it out. I'm hurt, I'm frightened, please, I don't know where else to turn-- he glances over at him, his eyes pleading with emotion he can't hide, blood stained on his clothes and his body hunched in on himself.]
[Spot's not gonna argue with him, not when he looks like that - he didn't though, miss him, of course he didn't, at most he misses Jack's touch, and not in any kind of sappy, emotional way, just the way Jack knew his body, knew exactly how to get him off, who wouldn't miss that kind of convenient pleasure.
There's no thinking on that right now, though, not when Jack's looking at him like that, when the words are cut off but his eyes are begging for help. Spot's never going to turn that look away. It'd be bad for Brooklyn.]
Yea I got a place, c'mon.
[It's nothing special, his own room in the Brooklyn lodging house, but nobody will bother him there if he doesn't want to be bothered, and right now it's the safest place in the world for Jack Kelly outside of Manhattan itself. Getting to it, unfortunately, would involve going up the fire escape if they want to do this quiet like, and Jack looks half dead already]
I gotta take you up the fire escape unless you want everybody to see, you gonna be able to do that right now?
[Swing and a miss once again, as he aimed for humor and came away sounding nothing but pathetic. God.]
Yeah. I got it.
[He'll use one hand or something. It doesn't matter. Bad enough he's come crawling to Spot for help; he's not going to be completely helpless in front of him. A beat, and he adds firmly:]
[It's a mark of how pathetic he both looks and sounds that for a second time Spot doesn't even bother snarking back, he just looks at Jack for a moment, the 'are you sure?' written clear across his face. Still, Jack insists, and as much as Spot might want to he's not about to try and support him when it's the last thing he wants - he knows if their situation were reversed he'd be saying the exact same thing and he knows he'd mean it.
So he nods, turning on his heel and heading out the alley, skirting around the edge of the buildings until he reaches another side street, pausing by the waiting fire escape and nodding for Jack to go first]
Up there, third floor.
[He's sending Jack up first in the slim hope that Spot can catch him if he slips, but he's not saying that out loud.]
[Third floor, and he gets up there. Don't mind how, and definitely don't mind the grunts of pain that he emits as he climbs. Climbing up a fire escape on a fucked up wrist isn't ideal, but on the other hand, better than looking weak, right? Or even weaker than before, Christ, let him keep what tatters of his pride he has left.
Whatever. The point is: they make it, and though his head is swimming, he ducks into the room, immediately going for whatever bed or chair is nearest. The climb opened a few wounds, and for a few seconds he stares at nothing, panting heavily. Blood is dried over his knuckles, his neck; absently he wipes at his nose, trying to stem some of the flow.]
Can I stay the night?
[He has to ask. He can't presume, not with Spot, not in his territory.]
[Spot climbs into the room behind him, about to bark out an order to sit down on the bed when Jack does it anyway, so instead he busies himself getting the lamp lit so he can take a better look at those injuries. Once the room is flooded with a faint golden glow, Spot turns back to Jack and almost sighs at the request.]
Sure Jackie-boy, you think I want to watch you struggle your way back outta here again? You'd probably fall and break your neck and then Manhattan'd have my head.
[Speaking of wanting heads... somebody was going to pay for the state Jack was in, that decision had come to Spot as easy as breathing. Right now he was not too caught up in examining why.
He crosses to his dresser and starts to dig out his meagre stash of first aid supplies.]
Just wait there a second, I'm gonna fetch some water so we can get you cleaned up.
[He isn't about to argue. Jack slumps forward, his head bowing, eyes closing as he lets Spot move around him. There's something comforting about that: knowing someone well enough to visualize what they're doing, just how they're moving, fingers rough and clever both flicking through a drawer just to get to the stuff he needs.]
'M I interrupting anything tonight, hot stuff?
[Drawled out, but he's just making conversation. It's better than silence, that's all; don't read into it.]
[Spot's hand stills momentarily, but he recovers quickly, pulling the last bandage from the drawer and disappearing into the bathroom before he answers. It gives him a moment to remind himself that it'll just be Jack's dumb sense of humour, or the probable blood loss and he doesn't mean anything by it.
He comes back into the room with a bowl of lukewarm water (the best he was going to get, heat wise) and a cloth, setting it down on the bedside table and dragging a chair over so he could sit in front of Jack.]
Nah I got no other plans, Cowboy.
Come on, get ya shirt off, I wanna get a better look at your injuries, get you cleaned up
[His fingers fumble once or twice against his bandanna, but his shirt is worn enough the buttons slip free easily. His undershirt's a little harder, and he scowls as he wrestles it off.
His body's all bruised, and maybe that takes away from some of the allure. Maybe not. It's certainly not escaping Jack's notice he's shirtless here, now, in front of this man, but-- whatever. It doesn't matter.]
[It takes a great deal of Spot's self control not to try and help Jack with his undershirt, he doesn't think it'll be welcomed and the last thing he wants is Jack getting pissed off and trying to leave when he's in this state.
He runs a practiced eye over Jack's chest, remembering the days he used to know that expanse of skin intimately - usually only by touch, since undressing was a luxury they rarely had time for, but he's still familiar enough that it's quick work to pick out the injuries (though there's some newer scars he doesn't know, and there's that self control again, stopping him from reaching out to run fingers across them).
He focuses instead on the unpleasant bruising mottling Jack's side, scanning for anything else that may need medical attention. He's pretty sure this is just a clean up and bandage situation, he can get those ribs wrapped up let Jack get some rest, nothing life threatening. He doesn't realise, until he makes that assessment, how tense he was with worry.
He reaches for the cloth, wringing out some of the excess water before bringing it to Jack's face and carefully beginning to wipe away the blood and grime. He works quietly, concentrating on - surprisingly - being gentle]
Not for anything stupid. Definitely not because of any heated thoughts. No, oddly enough, that would be easy to deal with; he's dealt with it for ages now, and can successfully shove any, hm, particularly racy thoughts away if he needs to. It's just--
Softness has never really been part of either of their lives. Sweetness, kindness, tenderness-- ah, that's for girls, ain't it? No need for them to have any of it. David don't get that, but David was raised by Esther, soft and loving (and oh, god, but Jack is jealous of it sometimes, he really is). But Spot does. He and Spot were raised one and the same, brutally and roughly, shaped into leaders by sheer necessity at seventeen.
So it hurts even more, maybe, to feel this tenderness from someone who gets it. Who wouldn't dare show this kind of weakness ordinarily, but who knows it's different when it's them.
So Jack keeps his eyes down, because it hurts too much to keep them raised up. Spot's fingers are clever, careful, sweeping the cloth over his cheek, getting at the dried blood, cleaning his face of the bits of dirt and dust still there. At some point his fingers slide against his jaw-- just to tilt his head, just for a moment-- and it takes everything in him not to recoil.
But he stays quiet. He ignores the droplets of water that slip down his neck, and the way Spot's scent is just the way he remembers it. And when his face is clear, he offers his hands, both of them, because why shouldn't he take advantage while he still can? What he wants, right now, is more of this, more of those clever fingers dragging against bare skin, so why shouldn't he have it?]
[Spot doesn't know why Jack isn't meeting his gaze, but he's grateful for it. He doesn't know how to feel about this, and feelings have never been Spot's forte. He's angry, and he wants to hold on to that, it's familiar and biting and it's been his driving force for as long as he can remember - he's angry at whoever did this, whoever dared to jump a borough leader. But it's not just about that, and deep down he knows it, it's not about the fact that they attacked Jack Kelly, leader of Manhattan - it's the fact that they attacked Jack, it's something personal and visceral that makes him angry about this, and he really doesn't want to examine that too closely. It's the worry that he doesn't like
He rinses the blood and dirt out into the bowl and turns back to start cleaning off Jack's hands. He raises an eyebrow at the comment, not looking up from Jack's hands and instead injecting all his disbelief into his tone]
Yea? A mugging, Kelly? What fuckin' muggers would go after a newsie, they know we ain't got no money
Well, they wasn't going after no newsie, was they?
[Not a newsie. A girl, and maybe it was something more than a mugging, and maybe Jack just can't stand to see such things, no matter how tough the city tries to make him. Five on one, but hey, she'd gotten away, and that's what matters, right?
Ow, and he hisses in pain despite himself, his fingers jerking automatically before he stills them once more.]
They was going after a girl. I said no, they didn't like that so much. And here we are.
[Yea, he gets that. It's less well-realised outside of Brooklyn but a significant chunk of Spot's fierceness was always in defence of somebody he cared about - that was how Spot showed he cared. He understood the need to step in to defend somebody who couldn't defend themselves]
Sorry.
[He mutters the apology without thinking when Jack flinches away, and when he resumes he's even more careful than before]
You're an idiot, Kelly. You shoulda had backup.
[But he's not judging, not really. He's just mad Jack got himself hurt. There's something else, too, something he knows he shouldn't ask but it's just there hovering over him and he can't help himself]
[Ah. One of the harder questions, then, and he doesn't answer right away. Just watches as Spot cleans him, over and over, his hands so terribly careful.]
The hell do you want me to say?
[It's rough, but not angry. Just tired.]
Why the hell do you think? I'm--
[Why didn't he go to David? David doesn't give a shit about power, he would have taken him in . . . but ah, Davey doesn't get it. He might, someday, but for now, no. And the boys at home would fuss, and he'd lose power, but that's not a reason either. He's charismatic enough to get it back. It's just--]
[The explanation hits him like a punch in his gut and he stills, one hand still wrapped around Jack's, holding it still, the other clutching its cloth stopping just millimetres away from the broken skin of Jack's knuckles. He shouldn't have asked, doesn't know why he did, he already knows that answer, he feels it in his soul - but he has no reply, nothing he can say, not out loud.
Nothing that won't shatter the fragility of this moment, that won't ruin... won't ruin what? It's a long enough time since they've gone to one another that you couldn't say there was anything between them, anymore, not really. Only it still hovered there, making Spot's chest ache in ways he refused to acknowledge. There's nothing to ruin but his own reputation, and Spot clings to that like a shield, even if he did trust that Jack would never repeat anything Spot said to him in private.
So he finishes cleaning up Jack's knuckles and drops the soiled cloth aside, reaching for the bandages. When he finally does speak, he doesn't acknowledge Jack's words]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
finally!!
Date: 2020-05-01 04:40 am (UTC)Chalk it up to gender, sure, and masucline roles. Chalk it up to two guys never meant to be anything but friends who got each other off, to boys who were killing time until a woman came along and let them in her bed. And then, when those excuses don't hold up, chalk it up to rivalries. Chalk it up to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the two boroughs utterly incompatible, the distance immense when all you can afford to do is walk. Or maybe it's just maturity, growing up, hitting seventeen and knowing that you had to grow up. Knowing that Santa Fe was waiting and he couldn't waste time on anything else, even Conlon.
Maybe it's just that it's too hard to keep going without bringing emotions into it.
So they're not a thing, not at all. And yet tonight (nearly midnight, he thinks, and his body protests, knowing they have to wake in less than six hours, but there's nothing for it), it's towards the Brooklyn docks Jack stumbles. Not home. Not where Race and the others are waiting. They're good guys, great guys, but a leader can't afford to be weak. He can't afford to limp in, all bloody and soaked, his ribs cracked and his face all beaten.
So he goes to Brooklyn. It's a long story as to why he's so fucked up and how he managed to walk all this way, but the point is: he sticks to the alleys and the side streets, and sooner or later he reaches where Spot's boys linger. Even then, he doesn't show himself: just whistles, three rising notes that sound more like a bird's chirp than a signal. They'd invented it years ago.
The others look around, but that's fine. Just so long as it's Spot who recognizes it, and Spot and Spot alone who comes to see what Jacky boy wants at this late hour.]
Worth the wait it's perfect!
Date: 2020-05-01 06:46 am (UTC)Spot Conlon doesn't do sentimental. He doesn't do feelings. He does simple pleasures and revels in it - the adrenaline of a good fight, the satisfaction of a job well done, and the thrill of stolen moments, of chemistry boiling over until you're slamming each other into walls and kissing until you can't breathe anymore, warm hands in cold alleys and stifled cries when you know there's people nearby. It was a rush, that was all, a secret excitement that was just for him and nobody else. Feelings didn't come into it.
He knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last, but why should he care about that? Someone new would come along, another body would catch his eye and that would be that. No need for emotion.
So when he practically feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of an achingly familiar signal, he puts it down to nothing more than remembered lust and almost contemplates ignoring it - only he can't. Conveniently, there's no way he can just get on with his evening without finding out what the hell the Manhattan leader is doing here, in his territory, at this time of night. He's not walked up like it's business, he's crept in all secret and used that old signal, so either he's drunk and an idiot (a distinct possibility) or it's something serious enough he doesn't want anybody else to see.
So Spot waves off anybody else going to look and heads after the whistle himself, stepping into the alley with his cane in hand (can't be too careful, even with Jack), mouth open to deliver one of his trademark cocky greetings.
The words die in his throat when he actually sees Jack, and for a second he just stares, until finally he tucks his cane into his braces and comes slowly closer.
"Geez, Jacky-boy, you look like hell."
no subject
Date: 2020-05-01 06:54 am (UTC)[He intends to coo it out, drawling sarcastic; instead, it comes out as a grunt, pained and thick. His head drops the instant he realizes Spot came alone. Good, he thinks vaguely, in whatever part of his mind isn't screaming in white-hot pain. Good, he still trusts you, even now, even after all the mess and fuss and grief.]
Got a hideaway? I need--
[It's hard to ask for help, but at least he doesn't have to spell it out. I'm hurt, I'm frightened, please, I don't know where else to turn-- he glances over at him, his eyes pleading with emotion he can't hide, blood stained on his clothes and his body hunched in on himself.]
Yes or no.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-01 07:06 am (UTC)[Spot's not gonna argue with him, not when he looks like that - he didn't though, miss him, of course he didn't, at most he misses Jack's touch, and not in any kind of sappy, emotional way, just the way Jack knew his body, knew exactly how to get him off, who wouldn't miss that kind of convenient pleasure.
There's no thinking on that right now, though, not when Jack's looking at him like that, when the words are cut off but his eyes are begging for help. Spot's never going to turn that look away. It'd be bad for Brooklyn.]
Yea I got a place, c'mon.
[It's nothing special, his own room in the Brooklyn lodging house, but nobody will bother him there if he doesn't want to be bothered, and right now it's the safest place in the world for Jack Kelly outside of Manhattan itself. Getting to it, unfortunately, would involve going up the fire escape if they want to do this quiet like, and Jack looks half dead already]
I gotta take you up the fire escape unless you want everybody to see, you gonna be able to do that right now?
no subject
Date: 2020-05-01 07:23 am (UTC)[Swing and a miss once again, as he aimed for humor and came away sounding nothing but pathetic. God.]
Yeah. I got it.
[He'll use one hand or something. It doesn't matter. Bad enough he's come crawling to Spot for help; he's not going to be completely helpless in front of him. A beat, and he adds firmly:]
Come on. I promise I got it.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-01 07:42 am (UTC)[It's a mark of how pathetic he both looks and sounds that for a second time Spot doesn't even bother snarking back, he just looks at Jack for a moment, the 'are you sure?' written clear across his face. Still, Jack insists, and as much as Spot might want to he's not about to try and support him when it's the last thing he wants - he knows if their situation were reversed he'd be saying the exact same thing and he knows he'd mean it.
So he nods, turning on his heel and heading out the alley, skirting around the edge of the buildings until he reaches another side street, pausing by the waiting fire escape and nodding for Jack to go first]
Up there, third floor.
[He's sending Jack up first in the slim hope that Spot can catch him if he slips, but he's not saying that out loud.]
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 02:58 am (UTC)Whatever. The point is: they make it, and though his head is swimming, he ducks into the room, immediately going for whatever bed or chair is nearest. The climb opened a few wounds, and for a few seconds he stares at nothing, panting heavily. Blood is dried over his knuckles, his neck; absently he wipes at his nose, trying to stem some of the flow.]
Can I stay the night?
[He has to ask. He can't presume, not with Spot, not in his territory.]
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 04:02 am (UTC)[Spot climbs into the room behind him, about to bark out an order to sit down on the bed when Jack does it anyway, so instead he busies himself getting the lamp lit so he can take a better look at those injuries. Once the room is flooded with a faint golden glow, Spot turns back to Jack and almost sighs at the request.]
Sure Jackie-boy, you think I want to watch you struggle your way back outta here again? You'd probably fall and break your neck and then Manhattan'd have my head.
[Speaking of wanting heads... somebody was going to pay for the state Jack was in, that decision had come to Spot as easy as breathing. Right now he was not too caught up in examining why.
He crosses to his dresser and starts to dig out his meagre stash of first aid supplies.]
Just wait there a second, I'm gonna fetch some water so we can get you cleaned up.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 04:38 am (UTC)[He isn't about to argue. Jack slumps forward, his head bowing, eyes closing as he lets Spot move around him. There's something comforting about that: knowing someone well enough to visualize what they're doing, just how they're moving, fingers rough and clever both flicking through a drawer just to get to the stuff he needs.]
'M I interrupting anything tonight, hot stuff?
[Drawled out, but he's just making conversation. It's better than silence, that's all; don't read into it.]
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 05:51 am (UTC)[Spot's hand stills momentarily, but he recovers quickly, pulling the last bandage from the drawer and disappearing into the bathroom before he answers. It gives him a moment to remind himself that it'll just be Jack's dumb sense of humour, or the probable blood loss and he doesn't mean anything by it.
He comes back into the room with a bowl of lukewarm water (the best he was going to get, heat wise) and a cloth, setting it down on the bedside table and dragging a chair over so he could sit in front of Jack.]
Nah I got no other plans, Cowboy.
Come on, get ya shirt off, I wanna get a better look at your injuries, get you cleaned up
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 06:20 am (UTC)[His fingers fumble once or twice against his bandanna, but his shirt is worn enough the buttons slip free easily. His undershirt's a little harder, and he scowls as he wrestles it off.
His body's all bruised, and maybe that takes away from some of the allure. Maybe not. It's certainly not escaping Jack's notice he's shirtless here, now, in front of this man, but-- whatever. It doesn't matter.]
No stitches. Messed up me ribs, though.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 07:03 am (UTC)[It takes a great deal of Spot's self control not to try and help Jack with his undershirt, he doesn't think it'll be welcomed and the last thing he wants is Jack getting pissed off and trying to leave when he's in this state.
He runs a practiced eye over Jack's chest, remembering the days he used to know that expanse of skin intimately - usually only by touch, since undressing was a luxury they rarely had time for, but he's still familiar enough that it's quick work to pick out the injuries (though there's some newer scars he doesn't know, and there's that self control again, stopping him from reaching out to run fingers across them).
He focuses instead on the unpleasant bruising mottling Jack's side, scanning for anything else that may need medical attention. He's pretty sure this is just a clean up and bandage situation, he can get those ribs wrapped up let Jack get some rest, nothing life threatening. He doesn't realise, until he makes that assessment, how tense he was with worry.
He reaches for the cloth, wringing out some of the excess water before bringing it to Jack's face and carefully beginning to wipe away the blood and grime. He works quietly, concentrating on - surprisingly - being gentle]
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 09:47 pm (UTC)Not for anything stupid. Definitely not because of any heated thoughts. No, oddly enough, that would be easy to deal with; he's dealt with it for ages now, and can successfully shove any, hm, particularly racy thoughts away if he needs to. It's just--
Softness has never really been part of either of their lives. Sweetness, kindness, tenderness-- ah, that's for girls, ain't it? No need for them to have any of it. David don't get that, but David was raised by Esther, soft and loving (and oh, god, but Jack is jealous of it sometimes, he really is). But Spot does. He and Spot were raised one and the same, brutally and roughly, shaped into leaders by sheer necessity at seventeen.
So it hurts even more, maybe, to feel this tenderness from someone who gets it. Who wouldn't dare show this kind of weakness ordinarily, but who knows it's different when it's them.
So Jack keeps his eyes down, because it hurts too much to keep them raised up. Spot's fingers are clever, careful, sweeping the cloth over his cheek, getting at the dried blood, cleaning his face of the bits of dirt and dust still there. At some point his fingers slide against his jaw-- just to tilt his head, just for a moment-- and it takes everything in him not to recoil.
But he stays quiet. He ignores the droplets of water that slip down his neck, and the way Spot's scent is just the way he remembers it. And when his face is clear, he offers his hands, both of them, because why shouldn't he take advantage while he still can? What he wants, right now, is more of this, more of those clever fingers dragging against bare skin, so why shouldn't he have it?]
It was a mugging, Conlon. Nothing more'n that.
[Mmmmmm is that the whole story no it is not.]
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 10:03 pm (UTC)[Spot doesn't know why Jack isn't meeting his gaze, but he's grateful for it. He doesn't know how to feel about this, and feelings have never been Spot's forte. He's angry, and he wants to hold on to that, it's familiar and biting and it's been his driving force for as long as he can remember - he's angry at whoever did this, whoever dared to jump a borough leader. But it's not just about that, and deep down he knows it, it's not about the fact that they attacked Jack Kelly, leader of Manhattan - it's the fact that they attacked Jack, it's something personal and visceral that makes him angry about this, and he really doesn't want to examine that too closely. It's the worry that he doesn't like
He rinses the blood and dirt out into the bowl and turns back to start cleaning off Jack's hands. He raises an eyebrow at the comment, not looking up from Jack's hands and instead injecting all his disbelief into his tone]
Yea? A mugging, Kelly? What fuckin' muggers would go after a newsie, they know we ain't got no money
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 10:13 pm (UTC)[Not a newsie. A girl, and maybe it was something more than a mugging, and maybe Jack just can't stand to see such things, no matter how tough the city tries to make him. Five on one, but hey, she'd gotten away, and that's what matters, right?
Ow, and he hisses in pain despite himself, his fingers jerking automatically before he stills them once more.]
They was going after a girl. I said no, they didn't like that so much. And here we are.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-02 10:51 pm (UTC)Ah
[Yea, he gets that. It's less well-realised outside of Brooklyn but a significant chunk of Spot's fierceness was always in defence of somebody he cared about - that was how Spot showed he cared. He understood the need to step in to defend somebody who couldn't defend themselves]
Sorry.
[He mutters the apology without thinking when Jack flinches away, and when he resumes he's even more careful than before]
You're an idiot, Kelly. You shoulda had backup.
[But he's not judging, not really. He's just mad Jack got himself hurt. There's something else, too, something he knows he shouldn't ask but it's just there hovering over him and he can't help himself]
Why'd you come here, Jack?
no subject
Date: 2020-05-03 05:38 am (UTC)The hell do you want me to say?
[It's rough, but not angry. Just tired.]
Why the hell do you think? I'm--
[Why didn't he go to David? David doesn't give a shit about power, he would have taken him in . . . but ah, Davey doesn't get it. He might, someday, but for now, no. And the boys at home would fuss, and he'd lose power, but that's not a reason either. He's charismatic enough to get it back. It's just--]
Who else can I go to, Spot?
You're the only one.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-03 08:02 am (UTC)[The explanation hits him like a punch in his gut and he stills, one hand still wrapped around Jack's, holding it still, the other clutching its cloth stopping just millimetres away from the broken skin of Jack's knuckles. He shouldn't have asked, doesn't know why he did, he already knows that answer, he feels it in his soul - but he has no reply, nothing he can say, not out loud.
Nothing that won't shatter the fragility of this moment, that won't ruin... won't ruin what? It's a long enough time since they've gone to one another that you couldn't say there was anything between them, anymore, not really. Only it still hovered there, making Spot's chest ache in ways he refused to acknowledge. There's nothing to ruin but his own reputation, and Spot clings to that like a shield, even if he did trust that Jack would never repeat anything Spot said to him in private.
So he finishes cleaning up Jack's knuckles and drops the soiled cloth aside, reaching for the bandages. When he finally does speak, he doesn't acknowledge Jack's words]
I gotta wrap your ribs up now.