Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Ours is Not (to Reason Why)
It was raining out, but that didn't stop Spot Conlon.
It was a cool spring rain, refreshing and welcome as winter finally bowed out graciously, leaving drizzle and dampness in its wake. A steady drop, enough to darken Spot's fair hair under his trusted grey cap, enough to dampen his pink suspenders so that they were red, enough to make his bare skin pimple and pucker like goose flesh. He barely noticed it. Pulling his cap down low so that the rainwater didn't sting his eyes, he kept his chin tucked into his chest, watching the drip-drop drops hit the water far below. The East River was a torrent of waves and ripples and, for some reason, that made him smile.
He knew what that felt like.
The docks were empty. Nothing like a bum headline and an afternoon storm to turn Brooklyn into a ghost town, empty docks, empty streets, no one out—
No one but Spot.
A lone man. A lonely man.
It had to be her. Sarah Jacobs. Of all the girls, in Brooklyn, in Manhattan, in all of New York, it had to be her. Well, no one ever said that Spot Conlon wasn't difficult, or that he didn't go after what he wanted. But that was the thing. It wasn't that he went after Sarah to begin with—he couldn't. There were so many reasons why he shouldn't…
But it happened anyway. It happened, he didn't understand how or maybe he didn't want to think he had anything to do with it, but it happened and now he was standing in the rain, standing alone on an empty dock, trying to figure out how he got himself into this mess and why the hell he didn't want to get out of it.
His head was bowed, the chilly rain slipping down his neck, falling under his checkered shirt, sliding away without him paying the least bit attention to it. His thoughts were on Sarah, on how she went from untouchable to—here he allowed himself the tiniest of smirks—entirely touchable (at least, when she was far from her mother's apron strings), and how, if he was as smart as he thought he was, he would stop this before it got any further than it already had.
So many reasons…
She wasn't anything like him.
If you asked Spot what meant more to him than anything—if you would've asked him back in July, back before he first met her—he would've said Brooklyn. He still would… for the most part. As far as he was concerned, he was Brooklyn. He knew his city intimately, her streets, her corners, her hide-aways, the places he could go when he just wanted to be Liam and not Spot Conlon, the most feared newsie in all of New York.
He loved Brooklyn's ladies, too, the girls born and bred on Brooklyn's streets, smart-mouthed, sassy lasses who gave Spot a run for his money and a good time. They were his sort of girls, the girls he always knew he would end up with. He was young and carefree, sixteen and just having fun, changing his girls as often as the headlines changed.
And then he met Sarah.
He remembered the first time he saw her, how different she was from all the girls he knew, how different from anything he was. It was at the newsies rally, the rally against the strike organized by Jack Kelly and his partner, the Walking Mouth. It was in Manhattan which was more than enough of a reason for him not to go, but he was standing up for his Brooklyn boys and Jack wanted him to share the stage. Always the sort of boy to like the limelight, how could he say no?
But when Medda Larkson took the stage after them, Spot was more than happy to take a seat at a table, tipping back something that looked like whiskey but didn't taste like whiskey. He wasn't alone, either. David Jacobs sat a couple of seats down, and next to him was her.
She was so unlike any of the girls he knew, though he'd seen young ladies like her before (usually with their noses up in the air, far away from his grubby grasp). For one, she wore a hat, a dainty little thing that sat so sweetly on top of her chocolate brown curls. Her dress was beautiful, white like an angel, her skin flawless... she was a hoity-toity type of gal and, as he took another sip, he wondered what in the world a girl like that was doing in a place like this. He never even thought to talk to her then because, in Spot Conlon's world, girls like her didn't talk to boys like him.
Because she wasn't anything like him, she was better. Spot had been on the streets long enough by now to know where he stood and it wasn't anywhere near the likes of her. So he drank his drink, wondering what it was, listening to the music, remembering the cheers and trying his damndest not to get caught staring at her.
And then the cops burst in and the rally busted up and Spot was too busy finding himself in a paddy wagon to worry about the angel at Irving Hall.
She was Jack's girl.
Spot Conlon led his boys into Manhattan the day the strike ended, representing Brooklyn as he joined the ranks of Manhattan newsies while they waited for Jack and Davey to come down from Pulitzer's office with any sort of news. But he wasn't so involved in waiting that he didn't notice her there.
The hat was gone, the curls too, and so was the white dress. Instead, her long brown hair was left loose, the top pinned back, and she wore a plain blouse and skirt that made her look both simple and charming; somehow, she still stuck out at him like an angel amidst the street rats and urchins and working kids of New York. While the crowd had their heads lifted, their eyes lifted to Pulitzer's penthouse office, Spot watched her.
Her name was Sarah, he found out when Race needed someone to yammer at, and she'd caught Jack's eye when the whole strike started. That should've been enough for him—and maybe it would've been, 'cause he couldn't go after Jack's girl—but when the whole strike ended successfully and he watched as Jack Kelly rode off in Teddy Roosevelt's carriage, Spot decided that he was going to stick around Manhattan just a little while longer. So he cheered on the Manhattan newsies and even joined them down at the distribution center, all the while waiting for the girl to dry her tears and maybe look his way just once. But first she needed to dry her tears—Spot Conlon hated watching a pretty girl cry.
But Sarah didn't cry for long. Before Spot ever had the chance to walk over to her and even offer his name, the crowd erupted, the horses' hooves came pounding back and there was Jack Kelly again. The carriage hadn't gone to the train yards. If anything, it had just gone around a block or two. And Spot had lost his chance.
One of the crowd, he watched as Jack said something to the governor and climbed out of the carriage. He made his way through the throng of his newsies, feeling their pats on his backs, their cheers, their support, but he only had eyes for one girl. Like a scene out of one of those flickers, Jack found Sarah just as Sarah made her way to him. Then Jack leaned down and Sarah tilted her head back, their lips meeting in a scandalous kiss, and Spot couldn't quite explain the strange tug to his stomach or why his hands curled into a fist. So he pretended he didn't even feel it at all and, like all the other boys, lifted his hands and whooped along and wondered why he hadn't gone back to Brooklyn when he had the chance.
She was the Mouth's sister.
Spot told himself that he made the trek over the Brooklyn Bridge more often the days following the strike because he wanted to make sure that their success didn't go straight to the Manhattan boys' heads. He told himself that he wanted to make sure Jack was keeping things in line, that, as Brooklyn's leader, it was up to him to make sure Pulitzer himself wasn't getting any ideas with messing with the newsies again.
Spot told himself all that, and even he knew he was lying.
He always waited until after the morning edition had been sold and there was still some time left until he needed to lead his boys up to the distribution center for the evening edition later on. Then, sticking his cane under his suspender strap in a blatant warning that no one should ask him where he was going or what he was doing when he got there, he made his way into Manhattan, not really sure where he had to go. Spot just figured he'd know when he did get there.
And then, one hot day about a month or so after the strike—it was the middle of August, he remembered—he happened down some aimless street and there she was. Hold a woven basket loosely in one hand, fanning herself with the other, she stood out like a beacon to him.
He was halfway down the block towards her when he realized she wasn't alone. There was a small boy, near ten or maybe a little older, walking on her left side, waving his hands and talking a mile a minute. Spot walked right over to them, strutting and he made his way over, smirking when the pipsqueak took one look at him, stuck out his chin in defiance and proceeded to run down the rest of the block.
Spot was used to boys running away when he turned his piercing stare on them, so that wasn't anything new. Realizing that he was standing right beside Sarah now, he faced her and noticed she was watching him curiously. "Say, isn't that the Mouth's kid brother?" It wasn't the smoothest of opening lines, but Spot had been surprised to recognize Jack Kelly's walking shadow and David's responsibility. What was he doing with Sarah?
"That's Les," she said with a motherly sort of smile. "He's my brother, too." She paused then, as if just understanding what he'd said, she asked, "Mouth?"
"Yeah, Mouth… as in the 'Walkin' Mouth." Then it was his turn for his ears to catch up to his brain. The kid, Les, was Davey's brother. If Les was Sarah's brother too, than that meant… Shit. So she wasn't just Jack's girl. "He's your brother? You're—"
"Sarah Jacobs, yes. And I know you. You're Spot Conlon." She pursed her lips slightly, obviously appraising him. "You don't look all that scary to me."
It didn't surprise him that she knew his name. As far as he was concerned, everyone knew who Spot Conlon was. Instead, he asked with a smirk, "Who said I was scary?"
And then, as if in answer to his question, Spot heard Les calling back to his sister. He was waving again, gesturing for her to come meet him at the end of the block. He was standing in front of a rather large tenement building and Spot had the feeling that had to be their home.
Sarah lifted her head in response to her brother's call and waved a dainty hand back at him. "Coming, Les." She gave a little bob of her head, a small secretive smile directed right at Spot. "I must be going," she said, almost apologetically.
Spot just raised his cap and mirrored her nod and said nothing in response.
But when Sarah lifted her skirts and hurried off to catch up with her younger brother before stopping and shooting one last glance over her shoulder, Spot's smirk widened. Then he remembered that she was Davey's sister and his smirk simply slid off his face.
She was from Manhattan.
Once again, he didn't know why he kept going back there. Ever since the strike ended and Manhattan and Brooklyn had formed an uneasy alliance, Spot made trips every other week to visit Jack Kelly and swap news. Then, after he discovered where Sarah lived, the part of downtown where the Jacobs' apartment was located, Spot found more and more reasons to leave Brooklyn behind for an hour here, and hour there, all because he found Manhattan suddenly more alluring.
Well, not Manhattan. Just one girl who happened to live on the wrong side of the bridge.
It hadn't worked out between Sarah and Jack; by the time lessons started up again and David stopped selling to go to school, there was no more Jack and Sarah. Spot knew he shouldn't be so glad that his friend's relationship had failed, but he had birdies and those birdies were chirping something about Jack and a girl called Vanessa so, as far as Spot could tell, it couldn't hurt to talk to Sarah.
Except for one thing.
She was from Manhattan.
He was from Brooklyn.
It wouldn't work out, but why didn't that stop him from chasing after her like a lost puppy dog? And why was it that he only saw the sense when the Brooklyn Bridge was standing between them? And yet, no matter what he did, he'd end up taking the long walk over to Jacky-Boy's territory whether he should or not.
That was the problem. Because, as often as he crossed over into Manhattan, meeting up with Jack and his boys, making sure things were still running smoothly, it was just as likely he'd be found walking up and down Sarah's street, hoping to accidentally bump into her. Whenever he did, he acted all tough and surprised to see her delivering her lace in her own neighborhood, but Sarah never let on like she knew. Sometimes she would let him carry her basket of lace, and sometimes he even offered.
So, thought Spot Conlon was Brooklyn, he went to Manhattan because there was no chance he'd ever find Sarah in Brooklyn—
"Liam!"
And suddenly, at the sound of his name, barely audible over the roar of the rain, countless reasons why he'd been fooling himself all along came washing over him—because he knew it was her. It was Sarah.
It wasn't July anymore, it wasn't August or September, it was April of 1900 and it was almost a year since he first met Sarah and just as long since she turned thief and stole his heart. More than six months now since Spot finally got the nerve to ask her for a walk—with this girl, he wanted to do this right—and there he was, standing on the docks, out in the pouring rain—when had it started to pour?—and in one word, he remembered why he loved her, even when he knew he shouldn't.
Because she knew where to find him, and she called him Liam, just like his mother used to. Because she ran all the way in the rain, across the Brooklyn Bridge and down to the East River to come to him, risking her mother's anger and the neighbor's catty gossip. The rain kept her hair plastered down, her dress soaked to her skin, she had the appearance of a drowned rat, and yet Sarah Jacobs was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in that one moment.
He loved her, damn it, and it had been useless trying to talk himself out of it.
She ran up to him, her shoes clacking loudly against the wooden docks, but she stopped when there was still a few feet left between them. Spot had the sudden desire to take her by the hand and pull her into his arms but he didn't; instead, he waited to see what she would say.
Why had she come?
Spot couldn't tell if the wet on her cheeks was only from the rain. And, damn it, he hoped so. He'd only ever seen Sarah cry once, and those tears belonged to Jack. Spot never wanted to make her cry.
"You…" She was all hesitance and girlishness as she approached him slowly, and it was just another reminder of how different they were—until she plunged forward and boldly grabbed him by the arms, digging her fingers into his slippery, slick skin, and asked with a hint of a tremble in her voice: "Why didn't you come?"
He didn't understand. He didn't understand what she was doing there, what he was doing there, why they were together, why it felt so right when they were together… He didn't understand so he asked, "Come where?"
"It's Monday. You've come every Monday for… for as long as I've known you, Liam. And you didn't come. I thought… I thought something happened to you." She looked like she wanted to throttle him for being perfectly fine, if not utterly foolish for standing out in the rain.
"Sarah—"
She cut him off with an indignant shake of her head; the wet hair stuck together and swung around, slapping her in the face. "And that's not all I thought… nothing's happened to you, so I must've been right."
"Sarah," he interrupted, "it's raining." Because that was as good an excuse as any.
"I know it's raining," she shot back, every bit of the spitfire he never would've guessed but knew all too well lurked beneath her sweet façade, "but that never stopped you before."
She had him there. How was he supposed to admit he got cold feet when his toes were blocks of ice by now inside his soaking wet shoes? He couldn't, so he didn't, telling her brusquely, "I'm fine."
"So, it's true," Sarah said, and at that she took back her hands, and stepped away from him. "The rain didn't stop you. You didn't come because you didn't want to see me anymore."
That was the last thing Spot expected her to say. He couldn't believe she'd said it at all. Did she look forward to his visits as much as he did? What was wrong with her? "What? No! Why wouldja say that, Sarah? It was rainin', I didn't feel like walkin'. 'Sides, Brooklyn needs me."
She recoiled as if she'd been slapped but she didn't lose the fire burning in her eyes. "But I need you, too."
Spot took a step toward her. "What are ya tryin' to say?"
"That I love you. I thought you might've—" She stopped there, hugging herself, feeling the cold all of a sudden, feeling the damp and the chill. She let her words hang in the air before they were hammered to the docks by the falling rain, knocked into the depths of the East River, and when Sarah couldn't take the silence coming from Spot, she started to turn and would have run away—why do they always run?—if he hadn't stopped her.
But Spot was too quick for her. "Sarah, wait," he said, reaching out and grabbing her with one hand, pulling her close like he wanted to, holding her tight. Her mouth was parted slightly, she was ready to argue, but Spot silence her with a kiss that would've put the one she shared with Jack to shame. He thought he might've tasted some of the cool rain with the kiss, but it made it all the sweeter, and when he finally let her go, he didn't have to say it, but he did: "I love ya, too."
"Then why didn't you come?"
Because they were too different. Because she used to be Jack's girl, and even if she wasn't now, she was once. Because she was the Walking Mouth's sister and that was a little strange. Because she was from Manhattan and he was Brooklyn—
"Because I was a dumbass," he told her honestly. "It'll never happen again."
"You know, we should tell them," she said earnestly, pushing the thick, heavy, wet strands of hair out of her face. There were no signs of any tears now, just bright eyes and a warm smile that kept the chills away. "We shouldn't have to hide what we have. If we're together…"
"We are," he said firmly, feeling inexplicably lighter—freer—than he had in a long time. "I just… I thought you didn't want to."
Sarah blinked, surprised And that was the last thing she expected him to say. "Me? Why?" And then the understanding, "Do you think I'm ashamed of you, Liam? Or… or are you ashamed of me?"
He took her hand and marveled how smooth the side of her palms felt, how callused the fingertips were from her sewing. "Never," he told her, and he meant it. Any reasons against this flew out of his head as Sarah stood with him on his docks, in his Brooklyn, her hair black and flat from the rain, her brown eyes twinkling without any tears. "I love ya, Sarah, and I'll tell the world about if ya want me to."
She dared a quick, coy smile that was no less innocent for Sarah being the one to smile it. "Maybe not the world, but my brother. And… um… I want Jack to know, too."
Jack… he was sure Jack already knew, and David was too much of a brain not to have worked it out… but he nodded anyway. "Alright," he promised. "I'm goin' to Manhattan soon, gonna spend a night out with some of the fellas. I'll tell them then."
And he would. Because she asked him to. Because she wanted him to. Because, despite their differences, despite all the reasons he knew it should never work, she loved him and he loved her, and that was all there was to it.
End Note: So, yeah, it's day two of NaNoWriMo and I have another one-shot posted. But that's okay because I already had 3/4's of it done before it started and I really wanted to have this done for Firefly Conlon's Spot On contest. I was just thinking that in quite a few of my stories I have Spot paired with Sarah, and why I think that dynamic works personally, I realized I never actually written anything that showed them together. In Diabo, their relationship happened 100 years in the past so we didn't see it and in Five (the fic this is really a companion to, especially when you see that this one-shot happens right before Five begins) Sarah death is a catalyst that set Spot off. We see that he loved her, but I never got to show them together.
So then there was this. I saw that the contest called for a one-shot fic about Spot's first love and everything just clicked. All the simplistic reasons about why this pairing wouldn't work, and how (as a fic writer) we can create our own reasons why it can. It was fun exploring Spot, and I haven't touched anything romance-y in years, so I hope it came out okay!
Alright, back to working on my NaNo novel ;)
- stress, 11.02.10