Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Jessa belongs to Stress. She is just letting me borrow her because she is super nice.

A/N: So this is the world's longest one-shot. It is an odd pairing that I have always had nestled in the back of my mind as something I'd like to play with. It is a modern fic (guilty pleasure) and told in the present tense. I just couldn't get it to feel right in the past tense. Also it is a little outside of my usual style. Basically what I am trying to say is it is just one huge experiment. I'm not sure how I feel about it over all, but I'd love to get some feedback on it.

Warning: PG-15 (language, non-explicit sex, adult situations)

It's not raining yet, but you can tell it will be soon. The gray clouds are nothing new, but the expression they wear today say they're ready to piss on the world beneath them and she can't blame them. The way the fog hangs heavily in the air doesn't help the grim setting. Walking through the mist gets you wet even if you carry an umbrella. Perfect weather for the worst day of her life.

She had decided to talk a walk now because…? Shit. Foresight has never been her strongpoint. If it was she probably would have been able to avoid all of the motivators that led her to believe that taking a stroll in this weather was a good idea.

Ironic thing is that knowing all of this, she just keeps walking further from her home. If foresight hadn't been her strongpoint up until then, why try to change her track record? What would her friends joke about if they couldn't pick on her inability to make up her mind?

She knows that New York has never liked her. Why else would the weather be so terrible when she needs to take a walk? This belief is preferential to her just having bad luck, or worse, that she just isn't good enough. She can blame it on the city as long as she never leaves and she doesn't have any plans in her immediate future to do so. New York despises her.

Her belief is confirmed for the thirty-millionth time today half way across the East river on the Brooklyn Bridge when she sees him.

Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, former schoolmate and self made millionaire, is leaning back against the railing, one hand in his pocket, and the other smoking a cigarette. He seems to be taking in the cars and cabs as they speed past. No one else was on the bridge. They were all smart enough to stay in and away from this miserable weather. However, of all the people she thought possible that she might see tonight – he wasn't in her top ten. Hell. He wasn't even on the list.

He is close. Only about fifteen feet away. The fog hid him from her earlier, but now she can see him clearly. Does he see her? Maybe it isn't too late to leave unnoticed.

"Nice day for a walk." She jumps a little at the sound of his voice above the traffic.

It is simple, and even without personal acknowledgement, she knows he is talking to her. She knows that he knew she was there before his greeting and he probably knew it was she. How in the hell he knows, she has no clue. She swears he never even so much as flinched in her direction - much less looked at her.

Somehow he always knows. Maybe that is why he is the millionaire.

"I thought you quit smoking." She replies over the sound of the cars rushing by them on either side.

Smug bastards in their closed vehicles. They know better than to walk in, what looks to be momentarily, a torrential downpour. Maybe New York just doesn't hate them as much as it hates her.

"I did." Is all he says as he unfolds from the railing and tosses the smoking butt off of the elevated walkway.

Casually he saunters closer to her and she feels her pulse increase. Instinctively her hand goes for her mace in her coat pocket, but she doesn't pull it out. Though his walk is predatory – he isn't that kind of threat. At least he'd never been in the past. He just always moves like he is going in for the kill.

"Manhattan's the other way." He pulls a flat silver case from his pocket, opens it, and offers her a cigarette.

She'd quit, too.

Nothing quite completes a lonely, pathetic walk in shitty weather like the fresh burn of nicotine. If you are going to be miserable you might as well make a complete picture of it. Right? Quitting is over rated. After all – the person who wants her to quit is the person who started her habit in the first place. Her life is just too fucking ironic.

She doesn't have time to fumble in her purse for a lighter. A flame pushes its way under her nose and the first choking burn of nicotine fills her lungs. The silver lighter that matches the cigarette case disappears as quickly as it appears and he is smoking a fresh cigarette. The expensive kind you can't get in the states. One of those fancy thin imports that he probably bought overseas himself just because he can. He always has had a flair for the dramatic.

"It's been awhile, Spot." Awhile? Try five years. "How do you know I don't live in Brooklyn now?" she lets his old moniker slip from her lips along with a breath of smoke.

They lean against the railing. She looks at him. The trademark smirk is on his face now, full force and fatal.

"I know you don't." He says.

The way he says it tells her he knows exactly where she lives – down to the apartment number and what kind of lock she has on her door. Hell. He probably has a key. He's just that kind of guy. It should make her uneasy, but somehow it is expected. Always calm, always cool, always in control. Probably pretty easy to be in control when you are rich enough to bribe every official in the city.

"It has been awhile." Awhile? Maybe it had been six years. "Haven't had someone call me Spot in years." The smirk is gone, replaced by a far away look. It's too blank to be romanticising the past and too hollow to be vulnerability, but the look is far more human than she is used to seeing him.

In fact - she doesn't remember ever seeing that in him before. Then again she hasn't seen him except for the occasional headline since she and Jack were together and that was a long time ago. She never has understood the multifaceted Brooklyn boy, always the last to come and the first to leave at any gathering – she'd been too enamoured in Jack to really pay close attention. Had that humanity always been there and she had been too busy to notice it?

He almost looks sad.

Maybe New York hates him, too.

It's an awkward silence, and she is bad at small talk. Her mother had tried to teach her how to be a lady, how to carry polite conversation, but it never really worked out. She was always little too clumsy, a little too impulsive, and followed her heart a little too closely. Caught on the coat tails of the feminist movement – she'd shunned her gender role. Occasionally she regrets it. Now is one of those times.

Casual conversation never is a problem for him, though. He oozes charisma and charm the way that most people only dream about doing. She remembers all of those dinners she had with Jack, Spot and whoever-the-hell Spot was dating at the time. He'd always been so natural, so at ease, and always knew how to insert just enough uncomfortable dialogue and silences to keep the conversation on edge. Secretly she is sure that he enjoys watching her squirm and she tries to look overly interested in the process of smoking. It just makes her even clumsier.

"What brings you to my side of town?" She doesn't miss how he calls it his side of town. Like he owns it. Like by her being in it – he owns her, too.

Why is she here?

Distraction?

Nostalgia?

Masochism?

"Just taking a walk. I like the view." She looks around and all she sees is a thick wall of fog. Can't even see ten feet in front of them. Great. Nice alibi. He catches her mistake with a flick of his eyebrow and she tries to cover. "It wasn't this bad when I started." Another lie. Another suspicious eyebrow. It's been like this all day. "What are you doing out here?" If she can't cover her own mistakes she might as well try to distract attention from them.

"I thought I'd jump." Talk about changing topics.

He doesn't look like he is joking either.

He looks at her and laughs. It isn't forced, but it is performed with a rehearsed ease. He still went for the reaction. Good to know that something about him hadn't changed. She wants to tell him that it isn't funny and lecture him about the seriousness of the situation, but she can't bring herself to care enough to do so. When had she become so apathetic?

Emotionally detached and aloof during high school – if any of the old crew would be suicidal now it would be Spot Conlon. Add that to now being rich as hell and you have the perfect formula for an eccentric millionaire. He'd shot to the top as an internet mogul while the rest of them, she included, traipsed off to college. She'd followed Jack to an instate university and he dumped her at the end of that first semester of her junior year. In her naive mind she'd expected that they would last forever, but Jack had proved her wrong. Two years her senior and out-of-her-league – it always had been too good to be true.

Five years of being his didn't leave her unmarked by his tutelage. He'd taught her how to drink, smoke, and fuck. Two out of three things she still does on a regular basis even though he has since cleaned up his act.

Nothing worse than a reformed junkie telling you how good it feels to be a changed person. No. She takes that back. Nothing worse than having a reformed junkie, who happens to be your ex, preach to you about how you need to clean up the habits he gave you. So young and eager to please her first serious boyfriend - she'd picked up those habits. Now she refuses to give them up just to piss him off. Probably the same reason she isn't where everyone expected her to be tonight.

"Were you invited?" He asks and she looks at him dumbly. Is he reading her mind?

"To the wedding?" She hates when people answer questions with a question and mentally kicks herself.

"I wasn't." He answers before she can follow through with the normal pattern of conversation and a faint smirk plays across his lips. "Not surprising. Ol' Jacky boy and I didn't part on the best of terms."

She remembers that.

She had to take Jack to the emergency room. Thirteen stitches for a gash on his forehead, two more for his lip, and a broken nose which resulted in two black eyes. Yeah – she could see why Spot wasn't invited though she never did find out what caused the fight. Jack never told her much past the fact that Spot had been the opponent. Instead she accepted the fact that they would no longer be going on double-dates.

"I was." She thinks of the silver and gold invitation stuffed in the back of her coupon drawer.

"Gauging that you are here, I take that you aren't planning on going." He pries.

"I didn't RSVP in time."

Truth to be told - she is expected even if she didn't RSVP. She just doesn't want to go.

It is going to be a beautiful wedding. The bridesmaids' dresses were made in Paris and the bride's dress was hand sewn China silk. Her brother David is the best man and her brother Les is an usher. Her parents are sitting where Jack's would have been if they were alive. She had been offered the job of handing out programs at the door, but there was a bus she'd rather step in front of. She isn't bitter – she just hates the feeling that people felt sorry for her.

The cell phone in her purse is off but once she turned it on she is ensured to have several messages asking where she is, if she is okay, and what she is doing. She will be lucky if they don't have a full-fledged search party out looking for her by the end of the evening. She doesn't want to face them then, now, or ever. Can the world end now? Please?

"You didn't even send a gift, did you?" His voice holds teasing accusation which she doesn't appreciate and she shoots a glare at him. "I'd have thought better of you Sarah Jacobs." The ease with which her name slips off of his lips sends a shiver down her spine.

He turns towards her and takes a long final drag off of his cigarette. She watches him. The way he smokes is like a work of art, practically choreographed. Maybe he practices in front of a mirror before going out in public.

"If you're so great, what did you send?" Indignant.

"A toaster."

"That's all?" Maybe it was dipped in gold and crusted in precious stones.

"That and a business card for the best divorce lawyer in town."

"Oh."

Only he would be so déclassé as to do something like that.

She wishes she'd thought of it first.

The sky is getting darker. She looks up and is greeted with the first sprinkles of rain on her face. Home. She needs to go home.

"Let's walk." He nods his head in the direction of Brooklyn and she follows. They are closer to Brooklyn than Manhattan anyway. She'll take the subway once they got across.

By the time they get off the bridge it is pouring rain. Before she could turn towards the subway terminal he cups her elbow and leads her to the side of the road and hailed a cab. Within an instant of him waving his arm one of the yellow army pulls over and he opens the door for her. Stiffly she climbs in and slides across. If this ends up badly – she'll blame it on New York or her lack of foresight. Hell. Maybe both.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks and he gives him the address. She recognizes it, but it isn't her place. It is his.

She isn't sure if she should be relieved or terrified. Maybe both? Damn her indecisive nature.

She steals a glance in his direction. He still looks put together and expensive even though he is soaking wet. Maybe that is why designer clothes are so pricey – they come equipped for all conditions. Or maybe it is just because he always looks good no matter what he wears. Wait. Where did that thought come from?

He looks her way and catches her staring. She had been staring? The smirk is there and now she is embarrassed because he's staring back. The problem with this is her clothes are cheap and they look even cheaper now that they are soaked through. The thin material on her jacket and long sleeve t-shirt does little to hide anything and she self-consciously crosses her arms across her chest.

She knows about Spot and his habits with women. Those headline with pictures often featured him with his flavor of the week. One of the most eligible bachelors in New York, millionaire by twenty, and with a propensity to attract paparazzi with his assorted choice of arm candy – it wasn't hard to watch him from afar. Now he is in a cab with an English major and struggling waitress who hadn't spoken to him in years. Was this all because he felt sorry for her, too? The idea that he pitied her would have sparked an indignant burn a year ago, but tonight it does little more than create a dull ache. Better a dull ache than nothing at all, right? Who is she trying to kid?

She looks away but is painfully aware that he doesn't take his eyes off of her the entire taxi ride.

When they finally arrive – she can't get out of that taxi fast enough. It is hard to be nonchalant when you are the focus of so much attention. She's not used to it, and it is intoxicating. When he touches the small of her back – she jumps slightly from the intensity of it. Nothing to make you aware of your body quite like having someone stare at it for twenty minutes.

It is the same doorman that was there when she used to come here with Jack. He doesn't seem to recognize her as he acknowledges Spot with a nod and greeting. Spot returns the greeting by name. Frank, the doorman's name is Frank. Had she known that? She wonders how many times Frank has seen Spot bring different women back to this place. The she also wonders just exactly what Frank is now thinking of her accompanying Spot to his home. What exactly is she doing accompanying him? She feels sick.

"You don't have to come upstairs if you don't want to." It's low, soft, and sincere – in front of open elevator doors. Is she so pathetically easy to read? Furthermore – since when did he care?

Everything else aside though, it is one of the better ideas she has heard today. Go home to a cat, Ben and Jerry Chunky Monkey, and a marathon of chick flicks. Maybe a box of tissues, too, but she already had bruised her nose and cried so much her eyes had swollen shut when Jack had dumped her the first time. And when she found out he was seeing Jessa. And when she got their wedding invitation. Yeah. She is done with crying over him, even though he still breaks her heart every time she thinks about him

Fuck Jack Kelly.

She has had years to get over him and she is done feeling guilty about having a life outside of him. Yeah right. How many times has she said that in the past?

They're inside the elevator now. She'd been the first to step inside. After all, she's cold, miserable and so damn tired of being alone – why not? Take that indecision. Take that safe, stagnant, boring life. Take that Jack Kelly.

He has to use a special key and everything to get to his floor. She'd forgotten that or had she always been too focused on Jack to notice. What a trip down memory lane. She doesn't remember signing up for that, either.

The elevator ride is fast and smooth; quick and quiet. She is dripping on the hardwood floor. The real hardwood floor. Not that cheap laminate stuff that they use on the budget design programs. She's should know. She's spent too many Saturday nights with her television watching bad design programs getting ideas for the house she will never have at the rate she's going.

Not going back to her apartment was a good decision. For now.

The elevator doors open directly into his flat. Ah top tax bracket living. Again his hand is on the small of her back, touch burning through three layers of clothing, leading her feet in the direction he wants her to go. Her soiled sneakers squeak on the expensive floor of his front entry hall.

It's eerily familiar. She has been here several times before, but never alone with Spot. She knows her way around in the sparsely decorated modern flat. Just from her vantage point it looks like nothing much has changed since the last time she'd been there. It's strangely reassuring. At least some things, besides her stagnant existence, in this crazy life stay the same.

She doesn't want to be something that stays the same anymore.

"Wait here." He instructs.

He's already toed off his designer shoes and socks before padding onto unreasonably plush white carpet, around the corner, and out of sight. For a minute she rocks back and forth onto her toes, enjoying the way the squishing noise broke the uncomfortable silence, and entertains the idea of taking off those shoes the way he already had. The longer she stands there alone the more uneasy she becomes.

What in the hell is she doing?

She is just a poor English major from upper-east Manhattan with no prospective future and no real accomplishments to her name. She is a good Jewish girl with a good Jewish grandmother who still thinks she's a virgin. He is a successful business man who lives in more money than she can imagine. A successful business man who she hasn't seen in years and is known for his philandering reputation. A reputation that looks like she is going to become a part of very soon. The elevator doors are still open behind her. She could go down and grab a cab before he got back and write this whole thing off as a bizarre cosmic mistake; or she could stay here and just see where the evening leads and be far away from where anyone would think to look for her. But she's cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone. She'd made up her mind back sixty floors down.

Any self-congratulating on her decision making skills is quickly replaced with a gigantic lump in her throat when he returns. Her gaze starts at his bare feet and travelled up equally bare calves. The dark curls on his legs don't hide the athletic curve of his form. The hem of a bathrobe that practically blends into the carpet, plush and impeccably white, starts just below the knee. There isn't anything scandalous about it, she's sure, but she is having trouble processing the reality of it all as he tosses something at her. She attempts to catch it, but fails. Clumsily, she picks up what seems to be a garment matching his.

"Go in the bathroom and change. Bring out your wet clothes." It isn't an offer.

She toes off her shoes as he had and goes automatically to the guest bathroom nearby – passing close enough by him to smell his cologne. Entirely unintentional but enough to send a shiver down her spine. Maybe she's paranoid, but she swears he she feels him watching her the whole way she walks to the bathroom. Thank goodness it is a short walk.

She dreads what she looks like in any decent mirror.

It is worse than she expected.

Long brown hair, wet and stringy, promising to become a massive frizzy pouf once it dries. Lipstick smears everywhere except her mouth and mascara under her eyes and down her cheeks. She looks like a washed out rock star in cheap clothes with a bad stylist. She'd keep this get-up in mind for next Halloween – Courtney Love maybe? Regardless - she's way too off-the-rack to be in this bathroom with its black marble and streamlined fixtures. Rooms in magazines don't look as nice as this.

Everything about this should be uncomfortable, but she is cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone that it really doesn't matter. Maybe, just maybe, he feels half as terrible as she does; and maybe, just maybe, he's as tired of that scene as she is of hers.

Even in the warm air of the apartment a chill creeps up her spine. Its flits through her mind that maybe she shouldn't take off her underwear. Virgin or not she's a good Jewish girl and this man has a reputation. But she's cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone. If she can at least not be cold – that would be an improvement.

Quickly she wraps herself in the fluffy robe before she has a chance to see herself naked in the mirror. She needs to join a gym. Thankfully the robe is very thick and covers her nicely. It doesn't escape her attention that it is cut for a woman. How many girls had worn this before she had?

It takes her nearly fifteen minutes to find the courage to venture out into the open. That is after she has scrubbed her face clean and pulled her mascara wand out of her purse (a little vanity isn't a crime) and pinched some color into her cheeks. She leaves her purse in the bathroom and peeks out the door. In the back of her mind she half-expects Spot to be waiting right outside the door just to scare her, but he isn't. It is a relief and a worry at the same time. If he isn't there – where is he? Down the narrow hallway towards the entry hall she creeps to where the hallway stops and opens into a spacious sunken living room. That's where she sees him.

He's lounging on a black oversized couch, apparently watching an oversized plasma screen television, in his oversized sunken living room. His dark hair is slicked back and his feet propped up the black coffee table in front of him. Totally comfortable and completely aloof. The picture sends a chill down her spine reminiscent of the one she received earlier at the smell of him.

"Give your clothes to Jerry." No greeting (had he even looked at her?), just a command with a nod of the head in the direction she should go. As if this is simple routine to him. Perhaps it is.

Dumbly – she looks in the direction he indicated. There in the entry way, with his arms already full of Spot's clothes, stands a middle-aged man in a uniform that matches Frank's from the front door. Robotically she goes to him and gives him her clothes – though he can't meet his eyes. In the handoff she is particularly careful that her unmentionables stay unseen. She is completely naked except for her robe, but she is embarrassed that someone might see her underwear. Maybe she should have just shoved it in her purse.

As soon as she is no longer holding her clothes she turns back towards Spot. He is looking at her, but the smirk she expected to be there wasn't. His expression is predatory and approving. Like she's passed a test. His test. Her knees get a little shaky and she's tempted to grab her clothes back from Jerry and escape down the elevator, but she hears the elevator doors shut. She swallows heavily at the sound. Would it be too dramatic to jump out through the window?

"Where's he taking our clothes?"

"He's going to have them dried and pressed."

"When will they be done?"

"When I tell Jerry I want them." Like just his command will dry their clothes instantly.

She wants to give a witty retort. She wants to tell him that his command alone can't make the impossible happen. She wants to rebuke him for being so smug. She wants to kiss him. Wait. Where did that come from? This is way too surreal. She's half waiting to wake up and have had it all be a dream.

"It's not polite to linger in entryways." The smirk is there now, and it is as close to an invitation to move as she is going to get from him.

And it was all she needed.

The uncertainty in the situation made her feel like she was in seventh grade all over again. Braces, bad hair, oily skin, glasses – the works. It didn't hurt that it helped to quell the uneasiness that hinted that he had time to think it over and he wanted her gone. After all – his iPhone must have the contacts of gaggles of women scores more comely than she. This all has to be a fluke, right?

Well – fluke or not – she is going to ride it for all its worth. Or at least as long as she doesn't over think it any more than she already has. Tonight – she is going to enjoy herself. Tonight – she is going to be irresponsible. Tonight – she is going to be anything but the good Jewish girl she is supposed to be. Tonight – she is going to just roll with the punches.

That is until she gets sucker punched the second she looks at the TV screen.

It's the local news and the main anchor has just handed off the baton to an on-the-scene reporter who is standing outside of a large stone cathedral. It takes her a moment to put the pieces together, but then she hears their names. Simultaneously her heart jumps into her throat and falls to her feet. How that is physiologically possible – she doesn't know and doesn't care, but at least her heart is keeping the bile in her throat from creeping into her mouth.

Of course there would be a reporter there. This is one of the biggest social events of this year. The daughter of the former New York mayor, now governor of the state, marrying the youngest representative in the state's history – it was a political match made in heaven. The ex that she never really got over and her college roommate – it was her personal emotional match made in hell.

She can't imagine anything hurting more.

But Jessa is the perfect wife for him. She'd grown up with her father's political soirees and events. She knows exactly how to behave standing by the side of her new husband with his blossoming political career already on the fast track. Not like her – the awkward Jewish girl from the upper-east side. She has no idea how to talk to all of the interesting people (most of whom Jessa already knows intimately), say interesting things and sip cocktails till the wee hours of the morning.

She can't be charming in the same way Jessa can be charming. She can't look perfect every day – even with only three hours of sleep – like Jessa can. She can't schmooze and make all the right connections like Jessa can. She can't even apply eyeliner straight like Jessa can. She's tried. After spending two years in the same room with the girl – she knew exactly how she couldn't measure up.

How can you compete with perfect?

It's like watching a car crash.

She can't take her eyes off the screen. The announcer is saying that they should be coming out any moment and she is holding her breath. Why hasn't Spot changed the channel? Maybe he is going to, but she can't look away from the screen even for an instant to see if he is. She can't talk, can't move, can't think, can't breath in anticipation for the most painful blow of them all.

When Jack broke up with her she felt like she was going to be sick. When she found out that he was seeing Jessa she was sick. When she got the invitation to their wedding in the mail she felt like she was dying. She thought that by avoiding their wedding today, by not actually seeing them get married, she could avoid that fatal blow. Now she watches the screen in morbid fascination.

Maybe she is masochistic.

Then it happens. The huge oak doors of the church swing open and there is a flash of light and white. At first it is a blur as the camera man tries to get both the couple and the newscaster in the shot, but then sacrifices the announcer for a clear shot of the happy couple. The very happy couple. Holy Moses – their smiles could span the Brooklyn Bridge.

And Jessa is stunning.

Absolutely immaculate.

Not that she expected anything different, but she even made the shitty weather look bright. Now she was all for a glowing bride, but that is just ridiculous.

And of course there is Jack. He always cleaned up nicely, but today he is exceptional. The white tux is perfectly tailored. His hair is combed back neatly. His dark eyes sparkling brightly. He is beautiful, and he can't keep his hands off of Jessa. He loops an arm around her waist, pulls her closer, and plants of big kiss on her lips as they scurry off to the limo that is going to whisk them to the reception sight.

He used to kiss her like that on the way to class.

Her throat clenches. Sweet memories pulse.

Why hasn't Spot changed the damn channel?

The newscaster is talking about meaningless details that she already knows through the grapevine. As the couple disappears into their limo, the camera pans over the crowd and she see so many people she knows. Her family, old friends from high school and college that she is still in touch with, politicians and dignitaries she met when she spent time with Jessa's family… but she isn't there.

She is here.

She is here, standing in the middle of Patrick Conlon's living room in a bathrobe, unsure if her legs are going to be able to hold her. All she can do is try to breathe and try to not collapse. There are no tears though. This hurts too much for tears. This hurts too much to feel. Numbness is a never ending state in her existence now.

The live action newscaster hands the focus back to the main anchor now that the happy couple had been featured. She doesn't hear a word he says. There is a faint click and the screen goes blank. Sure. Now he turns it off. Now that she feels like someone has taken a sledge hammer to her heart.

But finally, for once, he seems like Spot has absolutely no idea what to say.

It's a hollow victory.

"I didn't know that was going to be on."

Neither did she.

"I just wanted to see the weather."

Why? So he could call up God and tell Him to change it to better suit his needs? Patrick Conlon would be so bold.

"I wouldn't have turned it on if I knew that would happen."

Then why didn't he turn it off once it was on? Bastard. No. Wait. Is he – apologizing? Or at least trying to?

She shakes herself out of her self-imposed paralysis and looks over at him. He's still staring at the screen.

"It's okay." Her voice is unreasonably calm. Especially since she is everything except okay.

It's a long silence. Neither of them daring to say a word. Both lost in intense retrospection and self inspection.

"Who do you miss more – her or him?" It isn't a fair question. He's making up for the near apology.

"Him." The question might not have been fair, but the answer was easy.

Jack, her first crush. Jack, her first love. Jack, her first fuck. Jessa had been her roommate for two years. She knows that the feminist thing to do would be to choose Jessa over Jack, but she is done with that bullshit. She is still miserable and so damn tired of the superficiality. At least she isn't cold anymore. But that is because she took off all of her wet clothes and is now wrapped in a lush robe probably more expensive than anything in her actual wardrobe.

"I'm hungry. You want something?" What? Hospitality?

"Sure." It is response without thought even though her stomach feels like it is full of cement.

"Preference?"

"I'm flexible." She doesn't care. Something. Anything. Just not Hamburger Helper or Kraft Dinner.

She expects him to reach down and pick up his fancy iPhone and call down to someone like Frank or Jerry and order them to make or order them some food, but he doesn't. Instead he stands and stretches like a great cat, back arching, arms reaching. His robe gaps over his chest just enough for her to see a flash of gold tinted skin, the cleavage between his defined pectorals lightly sprinkled with dark hair, but then it is gone as he drops his arms. When he passes by her, there is no contact, but there is connection. Dumbly – she follows.

They're in the kitchen and he gets several ingredients from his stainless steel refrigerator and cupboards. She sits on a bar stool at the counter and watches. He cooks? She's surprised, but she knows she shouldn't be. She had grown up with him, but that doesn't mean she knows anything about him.

She watches in fascination as he begins to beat together some flour, baking powder, olive oil, sugar, and water. He adds some sort of spices to it and before scraping the dough onto a flat pan and spreading it thinly over its surface. He's moving like he has no question about what he is doing.

Back to the refrigerator again, this time come out with an armful of produce, a few large blocks of cheese, and links of meat. He dumped the veggies into the sink, turned on the tap, set the cheese on the counter and fetched assorted utensils from the drawers and cabinets. A knife and cutting board appeared in front of her along with an onion, three tomatoes, a green and red pepper, and a handful of mushrooms.

"Cut these into thin strips."

She didn't even have time to ask, but does as she's told. She should be offended that he ordered her around like that, forcing her into doing undignified woman's work, but she doesn't want to. A simple, repetitive task like slicing vegetables was the perfect distraction away from everything. No thoughts of the vision on the television. No thoughts of how she should be the one in the white dress next to Jack. No thoughts of how she is going to justify this to her family and friends. No thoughts of where she is now or the company she is keeping. Just a delicious focus of steel sliding through and slicing its target – it isn't complicated. For once today something isn't complicated.

It feels good to cut roughly through the vegetables. The onion burns her eyes but no tears come. It is a disappointment and a relief. Her mascara isn't waterproof. By the time she is done – he is waiting for her. She is no gourmet and it shows in how uneven her slices are, but he makes no comment. He drizzles some olive oil and herbs over the dough before he blankets it with her tomato slices. The rest of the vegetables follow, then cheese he has grated and meat he has sliced. He pops it into the oven without a word as she watches.

"I didn't know you could cook." She observes casually as he takes the cutting board in front of her to the sink.

"You haven't tasted it yet. I might not be able to." He points out with a smirk. Even in self-deprecation he has to be right. That is something about him she hasn't forgotten.

On the other side of the counter he opens a door underneath and she hears clinking of glass. He pulls out a bottle of wine and sets it on the counter before retrieving two goblets. With his thumbs he pops the cork, pours the wine, and hands her a cup. Carefully she takes a sip. Without any food in her system it won't take much to get her tipsy.

He watches her with darkness in his eyes as he drinks from his own cup across the counter. He's folded against the opposite side, a few hairs drying and falling down over his forehead rakishly. Her body tingles at the attention. Some of her hungers can't be slaked with food. It has been a long time. She takes a swallow of wine to wet her suddenly dry mouth. It doesn't help.

"Do you miss him?" She blurted out into the silence.

She looks at him. A far away look replaces the darkness. He swirls his wine in his cup and breathes deeply of it before taking another swallow.

"Yes." He replied finally. "He was my best friend." Bitter past tense.

"What happened?" She pries. Why is she suddenly so comfortable asking Spot, a relative stranger, the question she couldn't even ask Jack?

"People change." It's short and she doesn't expect a lot more. They aren't to the drunken confession part of the evening. Yet.

Her glass is almost empty by the time he pulls their creation out of the oven – the cheese bubbling and gooey.

"This is my mom's take on New York style pizza." He offers an explanation as he cuts the piping hot entrée with a large circular blade.

His mom?

"Your mom?" She doesn't remember his mom in either him mentioning her or actually coming in contact with her. Ever.

"Yeah. She's second generation American-Italian."

Italian? She guesses she can see that in his face and features, but it still surprises her. Then again – he could be completely shitting her. How many times had he seduced women up here and fed them lines just like he was feeding her lines right now? But then again, how many of those women had gone to high school with him and "known him back when"? How many of them had been involved with his former best friend only to be dumped for no apparent reason? She doesn't want to know the answer to that question.

"I always thought you were Irish." She replies as he hands her a plate with a large gooey square on it.

"I am." Well that clears up everything. "On my dad's side."

"Oh." She picks up her pizza and blows on it. "I'm just Jewish. My mom's Jewish. My dad's Jewish. My grandparents are Jewish. Dave's wife is Jewish." She could have continued the list but she was starting to bore herself. Everyone in her family is Jewish. In fact she believes that her mother and father had been relieved when Jack had left her so that she could find herself a nice Jewish boy. That hasn't happened.

"That Walking Mouth is married." Spot doesn't sound surprised (probably because he already knew). "Finally found someone who loves the sound of his voice as much as he does." He chuckles and Sarah knew that she should bristle at the insult to her brother, but she smiles in spite of herself.

It is true. Dave always had a way with words and now he is the speech writer for one Jack Kelly. The traitorous bastard. How could he do that to her? All those words Jack says on the podium to the crowd of adoring supporters are written by her brother. Briefly she wonders if she was listening to rehearsed lines for the entire course of their relationship. Jack always sounded better when he'd had time to think about it.

"I wonder how long it will take Jack to replace Dave with another writer." She muses out loud. "He's pretty good at getting rid of people when they aren't useful to him anymore." It is hard. It is bitter. It is cruel. She means every damn syllable.

He pours her more wine.

She drinks, but he's not far behind. Somehow she doubts that it affects him the same way it affects her. She wonders if he has really ever been drunk.

The pizza is delicious. The flavors dance in her mouth in a most pleasing way, but it feels like a rock in her stomach. The same way her stomach felt when she introduced Jessa to Jack that first time so long ago. Then she had been able to push the feelings of uneasiness aside at the instant connection the two seemed to have, but now she is resigned to live with them. They're a tangled mess of anger, hate, and apathy wadded into a tight coil ready to explode in her abdomen.

Nothing has ever hurt this much.

"Do you believe in God?" she asks. She'd grown up hearing about a God that looked out for her and her people, but she wonders where he is now.

His face remains the same at her inquiry. Not even "the God" question seems to phase him. The incident with the TV is the only time she's seen him off kilter. Ever. Hoping for two such moments in a night is foolhardy.

"Sure." He shrugs and takes a bite of his pizza. "Who wants to believe that this is all there is?" It isn't the best logic, but she agrees with him.

"I'm Jewish." She points out. "People always assume I believe in God just because I'm Jewish." She doesn't know where she's going with this. "People don't do that when they find out you're Italian or Irish."

That isn't entirely true.

A silver crucifix glistens on the wall above the kitchen sink. It doesn't seem out of place next to his stainless steel fixtures and black granite counter tops, but it does seem out of place for his personality. She has a hard time believing that he goes to mass and confessional, because that would require him admitting that he isn't perfect. With and Italian mother and an Irish father – chances are he was raised Catholic, but that doesn't mean he stayed Catholic. Maybe the crucifix is a reminder of who he has been more than who he is today. He never said what god he believed in.

It strikes her as strange that she didn't even know what religion Spot claims. Jack had practiced Christianity (which made her grandmother faint with anger) and it was appropriate for his career choice, but what benefit would Spot have with keeping religious items in his kitchen? There are other ways to decorate.

"Everyone wants something to believe in." he waxes philosophical for a moment. "You just got lucky. You were born with something to believe in. The rest of us have to figure it out on our own."

She never can tell if he is joking or not. How is it that she knows so little about him, but still feels closer to him right now more than anyone else? The wine and her loneliness must be working against her.

"What if I don't want to be told what to believe? What if I was to figure it all out on my own, too?" She sounds more defensive than she means to be.

"Then do it. No one is stopping you." He puts down his plate in the sink and then leans on the bar across from her. "That's the great thing about New York. If you want something you just have to take it."

"It doesn't work that way all the time." She had wanted Jack and look where that had gotten her.

If someone had wagered a million dollars to her this morning that this is where she would be tonight, she would have spat in their eye, but here she is. Talking about God and dreams in the kitchen of a poor boy turned rich man. It sounded like something out of a bad screen play. But it isn't awkward like she anticipated it to be. The conversation flows naturally, comfortably, intimately. It is like they've been good friends for years.

She slides out of her bar chair, goes around the bar to the side Spot is on and deposits her plate into the sink along with his. Instinctively she turns on the tap to hot and starts to rinse her plate and his. Her apartment doesn't have a dishwasher so if you let the food set on the plate it turned as hard as a rock. It doesn't cross her mind until a few moments later that he has a dishwasher, or even if he didn't he would be able to hire someone to wash his dishes for him.

When she shuts off the tap and looks at him he is smirking. It sends chills down her spine. She doesn't think she can ever get used to that look. He knows exactly how attractive he is.

With a slouchy, from-the-hip fashion – Spot saunters to where his dishwasher is tucked oh-so-carefully directly behind her and opens it casually. The door nearly brushes her bare calves on its decent. He watches her as she takes the plates from the sink and automatically puts them in their appropriate places in the machine then shuts it.

He pours more wine and hands her a glass as she straightens. With a lips curled in his familiar amusedly arrogant grin – he lifts his goblet in a sort of toast to her before taking a swallow. She, not sure what else to do, imitates his gesture. It is much more awkward than his smooth gesticulation but he rewards her effort with a smile. With that he turns and walks out of the room with her following closely behind.

It is easy. It is natural. It is comfortable. It is like they've done this before. They haven't. Have they?

They're back in his sunken living room, but this time he doesn't turn on the television. He knows better than that now. Still she feels the pizza creeping up her throat at the memory of the visions that had played out on the screen. Will it ever get easier with which to cope?

She walks over to the panoramic window which looks out over the darkened city-scape. The darkness and the weather limit the view down to blurred lines and lights through the haze. Probably better that way. She wasn't really interested in the view anyway, just the distraction. A chill creeps down her back and she wraps one arm around her waist – the other holding her wine glass close to her mouth. The rich fruity smell wafts into her nostrils. She takes a sip and the odor becomes a flavor exploding in her mouth. The flavor becomes warmth sliding down her throat to her belly and the warmth spreads outward through her system.

She takes another drink – again focusing on the sensation of it all.

Music is playing. It is low, mellow, and she thinks she recognizes the band. He joins her at the window. He is watching her again and that familiar chill creeps up and down her spine. She takes a sip of wine, but it does little to ward off cool sensations. Damn.

"Do you keep up with anyone from high school anymore?" she introduces the subject quickly. He's in Jack's graduating class, two years ahead of her, but they still had a fairly similar circle of friends.

"No. Not particularly." He turns so he is facing her instead of the window.

"Oh." She automatically cheats her body towards his as well.

It wasn't surprising that he didn't. Her ten year reunion had been seven months ago. She hadn't gone. If she didn't keep in touch with anyone, how could she expect him to as well? She'd done all right up through her break up with Jack, but after that she'd lost touch in attempts to avoid contact with Jack. Funny how removing one little piece of her life required the complete amputation.

She notices that he doesn't return the question and assumes that he probably already knows exactly who keeps company with who in his old circle. It could be creepy if she let it – but then again she is the one who always reads the tabloid articles involving him.

"If you could go back – would you change anything?" Again she is the one asking the question. Something about how her mouth never checks with her brain before it spoke – especially with even the slightest bit of alcohol in her system. Perhaps this tied into her lack of foresight.

"Possibly." Another short answer – she's disappointed only momentarily. "There are certain perks to being a millionaire though that make up for anything I might want to change." He smirks and takes a drink. She follows suit. "Would you?" This time he returns the question.

A question with a shorter answer would be: what wouldn't she change? However the only thing pulsing in her mind is Jack. It is the same thing that has been pulsing in her mind for the past fifteen seconds, minutes, hours, years. Jack and the whole motley bunch of mixed up feelings and late nights wondering if he cared about her the same way she cared for him. Jack and the first kiss with butterflies as big as dinosaurs in her stomach. Jack and the way he tried to let her down gently in the end – but failed miserably. Jack and the way he still says he cares, the way he calls once a month to make sure she is okay, and the one who probably noticed that she wasn't there today. Jack and the way she still loves him.

"I would have never signed up for the cookbook of the month club." And takes a mouthful of wine to avoid looking in his eyes. It is a truth, but a veiled one at that.

They both know her real answer.

"Your best friend and your high school boyfriend. That must sting." It isn't a question.

"She was my roommate, not my best friend." The correction came quickly. Jack was also much more than just her high school boyfriend, but she lets that slide. A bitter edge laces the tone and the look that accompanies her response. He notes it duly.

It is a festering wound that sends poisonous feelings of anger, bitterness, regret, and hate through her system. Those feelings already have done their terrible dance throughout her body and now instead of an intense pain – all she feels is a dull ache. That's all she feels now and all she has felt for a long time. The familiar numbness frightens her. Is this how she is going to feel, or rather not feel, for the rest of her life?

She tries to take a drink from her glass but finds it empty. When had she finished it?

"Yes. Yes it does sting." She stares at the bottom of her empty glass and doesn't recognize her own voice when she speaks.

"Did you vote for him?" He probes deeper and she wonders why she hasn't just walked away. Is she so starved for human companionship?

"I'm registered Democrat. He's on the Republican ticket." A Republican representative from New York was almost unheard of, but if anyone could win it – it would have been Jack. "Did you?" she can turn around his cheap shot just as quickly as he can spring it on her.

"Hell no. If you elect Jack you elect whoever is the moving force behind him. That would be his new father-in-law." Spot takes her empty glass from her hand, walks over to his pure black coffee table, and puts it down. No coaster. Does he not care or does he not notice? "That was the great thing about Jacky-boy. If you got him to listen to you he'd do whatever you say." It was true. How many times had she seen Jack be fed lines only to spit them back out in his own charismatic fashion?

He is the perfect politician. Just a puppet on a string.

A pleasant buzz has settled in over her now. Nothing dramatic – just enough for her to realize that she has had a few drinks. She's still very much aware of where she is, what she is wearing, and who she is with. No amount of alcohol could dull that in her mind. She watches him down the last of the red wine and set his goblet next to hers on the coffee table from her place at the window. She watches the muscles in his throat work to swallow down the last drops and the way his robe gapes when he bends over to set down his glass. No. She can't very well forget who she is with.

"Do you hate him?" She asks the question – her very own cheap shot.

He meets her eyes with a look no less than frightening, but she isn't afraid. Earlier tonight she would have been, but now she isn't. Blame the alcohol. Blame her lack of foresight. Blame the fact that she just doesn't fucking care anymore and she wants, more than anything, someone to understand that.

It takes him a few moments to answer.

"Sometimes." And it is the way he says it that lets her know he understands what she is asking. It that painful shadow flickering on his face. How many times has she looked into a mirror and seem that same shadow on her own face?

But he understands.

She knows he understands and something inside of her snaps at the realization.

For years she hasn't talked to anyone about anything having to do with Jack Kelly. For various reasons but mainly that people were uncomfortable with the topic around her. Understandably so. But there is something here tonight, it has been here the whole night, and she recognizes it now. There is a connection that she had never made until this point.

They'd both lost Jack Kelly but neither of them had let him go.

She hurts. He hurts. They hurt.

And it is clear that they are both so damn tired of being alone.

Before she can second guess herself – she strides over to him, stands on her tip toes, and presses a kiss to his lips. It is fast and dry, and she pulls back before there is any chance for it to become more. This is where the night is going, they both know it, so why postpone it any longer? The expression on his face when she pulls back is one of pleasant surprise and in a moment she is embarrassed. He doesn't give her time to rethink herself.

His fingers twine in her semi-dry mess of hair and kisses her like he means it. It's all firm pressure and languid heat. There's nothing chaste about it as his tongue slicks out to claim her mouth. She can taste the remnants of wine on his tongue mixed with the distinct flavor of him. Her hands grip the plush fabric of his robe and the hand in her hair twists. Then he kisses her like that. Hell yes. It is hard, real, and wet. Nothing is held back and she never wants him to stop.

He doesn't.

Voices in the back of her mind tell her that she should be horrified when his hand unties the belt of her robe and slips inside. They tell her that she should stop this before it goes any further as he leads her to his bedroom and onto his bed. They tell her that good Jewish girls don't behave this way when she reaches between them to feel him. They tell her that she is going to be just another notch on his bed post when she hears the rustle of a condom wrapper.

Tomorrow she might regret this, but tonight she has decided she won't.

This is sex for all it is. This is fucking. This is what happens between a man and woman for all too many reasons, but never enough. She's going to have bruises with his fingerprints, but she wouldn't want it any other way.

"You're beautiful." He's writing poetry on her skin with his words. "So perfect…" She bows her body into his voice.

She has work tomorrow. He does too. But the morning after is the last thing on their minds right now.

Oh it has been a long time. He fills her full stretch. She isn't a virgin, but it feels like it. This time it feels different.

"Fuck…" he murmurs and she digs her fingernails into his backside.

They both expected to end up here tonight but neither of them expected it to be like this.

"Don't close your eyes. Look at me." He orders and her brown eyes open to find his blue eyes near black with passion.

He holds her gaze until he kisses hard her while she finishes.

He isn't far behind.

Five minutes later and they're touching again. Her tongue sweeps down and she tastes them. He makes a noise in the back of his throat that she wants to make him make again. He takes her from behind, impossibly steady, impossibly hard, she doesn't know where he starts or where she stops anymore.

"Dammit." He is straining. "Sarah." A curse. A prayer.

It is fair to say they expected this, but they never expected it to be like this.

"Anything. Anything. Anything." It's a promise she isn't sure he will keep, but doesn't care right now. She is so close.

A few minutes later and they collapse – exhausted.

His weight pressed against her back is more pleasant than painful. She can feel his chest heave with heavy breathing and feels the way their skin peels apart when he rolls off to the side. Strong arms pull her back into the curve of his body. It is more about the need for contact than the need for comfort.

"If you could go back – would you change anything?" He asks the question this time. The words whisper through her hair and tickle the skin behind her ear.

She knows that he is talking about tonight.

"No." She doesn't hesitate. She's never been so sure.

She can't see it, but she feels his smirk on the back of her neck. It doesn't bother her. In a few moments they are both sleeping.

She calls in sick the next morning.

So does he.

A/N: So if you managed to read all of that – you are my hero. I'd love feedback. Like I said – this is a kind of experimental piece. Currently I don't plan on continuing it – but who knows? Stranger things have happened.