Note from Author/ Disclaimer: Yes, I am back again with a sequel. You must read Apple Pie and Broken Shoes before reading this or else you won't know what the hell is going on. I do not own the Newsies, they belong to Disney, and am not making any money off this whatsoever. I am only an obsessed fan infatuated with Spot Conlon/Gabe Damon so don't sue! I only own the same line up of characters from the original, give or take a few, and any new ones that I decide to create. Please read and review and I will love you forever and ever. Scout's honor. Enjoy-



The whole scene resembled that of a delicate, exquisitely gorgeous snow globe crafted by a virtuoso of glass blowing.

The veils of immaculate, spotless snow drifted softly and silently from the gray heavens above, dusting the world in white. It covered the roofs of buildings and fell upon the horses' manes as their hooves clicked down the cobblestone ways. It fell upon the scarce, naked trees covered in only scarred layers of bark and rested upon eyelashes of the pedestrians.

Yet, the glittering snow shied away from area that it dare not touch. It was that of the girl in the grand vermilion overcoat and the boy in the pitiful, gray jacket with their arms wrapped around each other and in such an impassioned kiss that it was enough to banish the snow, a kiss that only true lovers could only begin to comprehend.

They of course were attracting quite a few stares, for it was a stunningly improper gesture for one to be doing on the open streets of society. Alas, neither seemed to give a damn.

Darby Rockwell finally, slowly, opened her eyes. She viewed, with a beating heart and racing pulse, Spot Conlon's closed eyes so close to hers and his hot lips pressed against hers. She experienced in utter rapture, as his grasp around her would shift every so suddenly depending on how much fever he passed on through his kiss, causing the bloated purse to press agreeably into the side of her torso.

The corners of her lips pulled into a subtle smile and she gently broke away. Spot reacted by allowing his eyes to flutter open, strikingly green against the pitch-black sockets.

"You look like all hell," she commented, her fingers lightly dancing over his shattered nose, his spliced lip, and the random contusions, the dried flakes of orange-red blood clinging to her white gloves.

His expression read that of mock hurt, yet it soon transformed into one of gentle adoration as his gaze got lost into hers. "What da hell are we'se doin'?"

Darby simply shrugged. "Does it really matter what occurs now? I mean, we still have our entire lives to figure that out, now don't we?" She gestured to the purse. "Though I reckon that we go to France. It will be absolutely breathtaking there. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre--" Darby halted when she saw a shadow quickly flicker across his face. She arched a brow and stepped back, his grasp loosening upon her. "Spot, is everything all right?"

His head was bowed and his features darkened under the brim of his cap. And then it was though he was breaking from a trance. He raised his eyes to her and forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah, everythin's fine." He quickly altered the subject by motioning his head in the direction of the looming Saint Patrick's Cathedral in the background. "So, what d'ya think happened when ya parent's found out?"

Darby slightly pinched her nose, viewing the cathedral, the subject striking a cord of distaste within her. "I don't know," she said, her arm finding its way to his torso. "How would you react if you had found out your daughter had up and vanished on her wedding day with a newsboy, taking a large sum of your fortune with you?" Her tone dropped. "Of course, they shouldn't have placed all their hopes for future comforts on me. They should have had Olga marry well."

Spot's eyes widened as they fell to Darby. "Olga?"

Darby nodded, still staring blankly at the church through the veils of snow. "Olga, my sister. Six years my senior."

He regarded her incredulously. "I didn't know ya had a sistah. Den why da hell didn't dey make her git married to some rich guy?"

Darby elicited a sigh. "Oh, they would have intended for that scenario to happen, yet fate intervened."

"How so?"

"It was summers ago and Olga had finally convinced my parents to let her stay the holiday at a friend's house. She was very excited, and left in great pomp and procession. Actually, she was to marry into the Rockefeller family when she returned. Anyway, she went and wrote that she was having a dreadfully wonderful time, yet in her letters she always left out Saul."


"Yes, you see, her friend's name was Maryanne Marthiar and Maryanne happened to have a strapping older brother who was rumored to be quite a handful, indeed. Saul, Saul Marthiar was his name. Anyway, Saul fell in lust with Olga and continuously tried failed attempts at wooing her, yet Olga was the good little Rockwell and knew her position in life that she was to marry a Rockefeller and was bound to keep pure and chaste. Well, this whole notion of keeping one's self clean infuriated Saul so that one night after the girls were returning from some type of carnival or fair of the sorts and Saul came riding up beside them, causing them all to be a fluster, and said he was returning to the estate and offered Olga a ride back. She refused at first, but was then broken down by his pleads. He of course wandered about aimlessly, getting them lost and getting Olga quite scared. So, he halted and said he would look about for markers that would inform him where they would be. Lo, he did and when he returned back to his stallion, he found Olga had drifted into slumber and I fancy that the lust was too great to bridle. So he--"

Darby fell silent, and she soon felt Spot's heavy arms about her. "Of course when she returned home, she was in grave despair. Ava and John tried to keep it a secret, yet it seeped out into the circles and our name was slightly tarnished. All the blame of course was put onto Olga and the Rockefellers did not want her as kin any longer. And so, my father went to the Marthiar estate with a revolver in hand, sought out Saul, and found him in the stables. He placed the barrel to Saul's head and said that if he didn't marry his daughter his blasted brains would be over the stable walls. Saul of course agreed and nine months later they had a daughter. Chastity."

Spot released a snort, as his gaze fell upon the cathedral. "Sounds like a story dat happened to someone I'se know."

Darby arched a brow. "Or a hybrid of a story about someone you knew. It was such a pity though. For Olga I mean. She used to be, used to be not like them. And now, now, she is. She kept congratulating me profusely on how lucky I was to have a catch like David."

A shutter wrought is way down Spot's spine, causing him to bury his hands in his measly pockets more. "But dat's ya sistah and dis is you. I mean, I jist want you to be sure. Ab'slutely sure before you do dis---I mean, ya still can go back and say dat ya was possessed by some demon or sumptin' and den go confess ya sins and git married. I jist want ya to be sure--"

His words were halted as he felt Darby press her index and middle finger to his lips, silencing him, her cerulean eyes gleaming like shards of glass. "Of course I am sure. I mean, I have you and a sack full of money, how could I not be sure?"

Spot's eyes fell as she watched him, and he murmured under his breath, "Yeah, but carryin' money's not da same thing as bein' surrounded by it everyday--"

Yet, Darby did not hear his whispery utterance, for her marvelously wide eyes were fixated on the figures that adorned the cold steps in front of Saint Patrick's cathedral. Her throat seemed suddenly to constrict as her breathing became labored to induce the polar air into her lungs.

"Dahby, what izit?"

Spot's voice sounded distant and epochs away and her voice came out broken and laced with fear, "Uncle Nat and Aunt Rosanna and Gracie. Uncle Nat and Aunt Rosanna and Gracie." Her eyes turned to interlock with his. "Spot, it's my aunt, uncle and, cousin. What in the hell are they doing there? Do the not know that the wedding was cancelled since I'm of course not at the cathedral but standing across the way with a newsboy?"

Spot regarded her, and ignored the itching angry heat that the reference to the social statuses caused him. He simply remained cool. "What da hell d'ya wanna do?"

Darby allowed her gaze to flicker violently back and forth between he and her kin. "Seen, we can't be seen!" she exclaimed heatedly. "The boat. France. I have the money. We can buy the tickets. We can purchase them just a few yards ahead. Oh, we just can't be caught."

Spot was relatively cool and calculating in his well-though response. "But, Dahby, I think it would be too dang'ris to buy da tickets to France."

"What?" she cried.

"Yeah," he continued. "It would be too risky, right. Why don't we go back to da lodgin' house--"

"The lodging house?" Darby spat, her lips curling into a disgusted sneer.

"Dahby, we can stand her till sundown bickerin' all ya want, I don't give a damn. But I really don't want to be caught and sent to da House of Refuge again and I know sure as hell dat you don't want to walk down that aisle with Van Wyck."

The remark stunned Darby, silencing her for a moment. She retorted, her voice like a child coerced into an act it does not wish to do. "But the lodging house?"

Spot's eyes shown with a green fire. "Ya can stand here all day and disagree wit me or else--"

Spot's words were cut short as Darby released a sign and clasped his frostbitten hand within her gloved one. "Well, then let's go!" she said, her glittering eyes stark against her red cheeks.

With an inlayed challenge within his smirk, his clutch grew tighter around her hand and he was picking up his legs. But he had not gotten all but a few feet before it was though a heavy weight was pulling him back and Darby elicited a cry as they both fell to the snow-laded walk.

He met her wide eyes as she motioned to her leg as it was twisted in an impossible position. "My stiletto heel! It broke before--"

Yet, Darby had no time to finish before she felt Spot's arms falling around her waist and the air being purloined from her lungs as he rose quickly to his feet. She was positioned uncomfortably over his right shoulder, his lithe blade pushing into her abdomen. She released a wild laugh as her breathing came out erratic due to the slight bounce his stride produced. An insane sort of high was passing through her, causing her to feel giddy and light-headed. "I must declare, but don't you fancy this will just make us more conspicuous in their eyes?"

"Don't know what conspicuous means," he grunted, his breathing short.

Darby released a sigh as she held her head higher, regarding the cathedral as it became smaller and smaller. "Conspicuous means--" Her words were stifled as she felt herself being taken off his shoulder and as her feet touched the cold ground.

Spot fell to his haunches, his hands picking up either of her feet as he quickly slid off her broken and unbroken shoes. "Dahby, I'se can't carry ya. Maybe its da money--"

Darby quickly connected the purse with the side of his head, as he released a cry and rose to his feet. "The purse indeed," she sniffed, her eyes passionate blue fire.

"Richies," he murmured under his breath as he once again found Darby's hand, incrementing his pace and ushering her forward.

The entire sojourn was that of a remarkable, feverish blur for Darby. It was as though she were inside a snow globe during a wild winter storm. Perhaps it was just clutching his hand and running behind him in bare feet, the frigidness seeping into her soles and combining with the heat that pulsated through her. Or perhaps it was just the untamed gusts of wind blowing towards them, dashing her bonnet from her head and causing her cascades of bright hair to blow behind her and running to the promise of a lifetime with the one she loved that caused it all to seen like a hazy, luminous dream.

They only halted when they were standing in front of the broken yet warm structure, the peeling letters of Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House blaring down at them with true blackness through the white snow.

Darby felt Spot's grasp slowly fall out of hers as he only regarded the sign with a vivid smile upon his lips and a puffed chest until be broke into a running gait and dashed up the creaking stairs, slamming open the door. Darby was left bent over on the walk outside, her hands upon her thighs as she regained her breath and composure. Brushing fallen strands out of her face, she straightened and it was only a few moments wait before the audible shouts filled with incredulity filled her ears, the shouts of the newsboys in utter disbelief to find that their leader had returned to them safely from certain death.

Darby remained outside for a few more moments, just listening to the commotion inside, as though the newsies had caught the infection of the holiday spirit and the receiving of their leader again was a grand, advanced Christmas parcel. Inhaling in the cold December air, she placed her hands deeply inside her muffler and casually ascended the splintered steps, releasing a hand to pry open the door to lodging house. She entered the threshold, and took a few cautious steps, halting and surveying the scene. Spot was in the middle of them all and they were all around him, shouting and yelling and congratulating him on some feat unknown to Darby. He wore a proud smile on his spliced lips as the newsies swarmed about him and pounded his back or mussed his hair.

And then, in a very quick chain reaction, one newsie caught her presence and halted in the celebration and regarded her, silent and with cold, stony features. Suddenly, the noise level was that as one could hear a pin drop as all of Brooklyn's eyes fell upon Darby, sharing in the same harsh, unmerciful glares.

Darby stood, her face heating up fantastically to match the shade of her overcoat, as she took in their oppressing, menacing expressions. A bad habit she had never been trained of, her naked toes began to curl and uncurl on the cold, warped floor. Her eyes locked on Spot's and he only regarded her with semi-warm eyes and a slight nod of the head.

Darby stupidly averted her eyes to the floor and then turned her body, striding to the stairs and slowly ascending them to the second floor, not knowing where the hell she was going and feeling their gazes burn into her back. It was only when her bare foot had touched the landing, that the noise level below rapidly rose and the yells and cheers drowned out the creaking of the boards as Darby made her way down the dreary hallway, and as she mechanically entered Spot Conlon's one private quarters, being she knew of nowhere else she could go.

The small room was drafty and had a stinging cold about it. Darby elicited a sigh as she crossed the room and approached the vanity, dropping the purse on the top ledge, her gaze catching her reflection in the cracked mirror and she doing a double take. Her fair, creamy skin still retained the treacherous masque of crimson she had attained from the parlor below.

With a weary exhalation, Darby nixed the notion and instead placed the purse full of capital in the bottom drawer of the vanity, safely harbored under sheets of yellowed, crinkled newspaper and forgotten cigars.

She then turned and allowed her gaze to pan the quarters a few more times, taking in the surroundings, before she slowly shucked off her opulent overcoat neatly placing it on the top bunk. She undressed herself down to her flimsy slip cream-colored slip before she released another sigh and twisted her tangles of flaxen hair within her hands, and fell to the bottom bunk. She settled herself under the threadbare covers, pulling them to her chin, as she rested her fair cheek on the flat pillow. The smells of alcohol, and nicotine, and the smell of sex-Spot's and the countless other girl's he had bedded alike-seeped through her nose. Her eyes were soon shut, and her mind was bombarded with innumerable, troubling thoughts.


Darby was awakened quickly by hot flesh pressing against hers. Her eyes opened quickly and she learned that night had since washed across the land for shadows fell across the room. She propped herself up on her elbow and raised her head, her hair falling carelessly about. The mattress was fluctuating under weight as Spot slithered into the bottom bunk, his skin surprisingly warm against her cold skin. She deemed he had stripped down to all but his underwear.

His hot lips were soon pressing against her bare shoulders and neck in intoxicating kisses as one hand found its way around her torso as the other moved her hair out of the path of his mouth.

"Spot, where were you?" she asked.

Spot raised his lips from her soft shoulders and repositioned them behind her neck, as he pressed her head down. "Does it mattah?" he asked in a low, somewhat guttural voice.

His strands of hair were pressed near Darby's nose and the pungent scent of whisky and cigarettes filled her nostrils. "Yes."

He released an exasperated sigh as he moved closer to her lips. "If it mattah's dat much-me and da guys were playin' pokah."

She broke away from him and regarded him through the darkness. "All day?"

He shrugged and found her skin once again. "Yeah, so?"

Darby irritably rolled her eyes as she broke out of his clutches and allowed her head to fall against the pillow once more, as she regarded the bunk above, the smell of the sex saturated into the bedding becoming more and more unbearable. He released a sigh and did the same, his fingers finding his hair as he positioned one of his legs over hers.

"Nothing, it's just that I never knew of a game of poker that lasted from sun-up till sun-down."

Spot released a laugh. "Well, den you should see Racetrack. Damn, he once played--" His words soon died when he felt the coldness between them. His tone became more sincere, with bridled passion. "What did ya want me to do, Dahby? Dey'se me boys and dere leadah was locked up in the House of Refuge and he retoins and ya 'spect me not to celebrate?"

"Well, you sure as hell did some grand celebrating with your boys. I guess celebration in your term's means getting drunk and getting laid. You had the alcohol but pity you did not have Adelle down there. Oh, wait, you had me upstairs."

Her words were bitter, and Spot, being as bull-headed and stubborn as Darby, uttered the first thing that came to mind. "Christ, Dahby, what da hell did ya want me to do? If newsies were religious, den den getting a one way ticket to da House of Refuge would be like getting a one way ticket to hell. Only Jack knows how to git us out-and all the time it don't always woik for him. They were glad to see me, and I was glad to see them. And besides, I had to tell them about you because they hated you cause they thought that if was your fault I was in the House of Refuge--"

A bright fury suddenly surged through Darby as she picked her head off the pillow and regarded Spot incredulously. "MY fault? Why don't you tell those little bastards that--"

"Hey, Dahby, watch it. Dey may be bastards, but dey me bastards," Spot said, his voice full of seriousness.

Darby released a great sigh and fell back against the pillow. "Spot, when are we going to France?"

"I, I'se don't know, Dahby," he replied, his voice full of insincerity. "I have to clean up a few things here and there--"

Darby waited for him to finish, yet he never did.

With a minute exhalation and controlling the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes, Darby turned on her side, the side that faced away from Spot and waited until a stagnant, dreamless slumber overtook her.

The whole scene resembled that of a delicate, exquisitely gorgeous snow globe crafted by a virtuoso of glass blowing. Yet, a snow globe that was showing the slightest cracks on its glittering glass surface. A snow globe that would soon shatter, and shatter it would.