A/N: Written for my friend on tumblr, who had a head canon about Spot being not-quite-so tough as we all make him out to be.
Sometimes Fagan wanted to run away. It was an odd concept, considering that's how he came to be here in the first place— running away. But still, sometimes all Fagan Callaghan wanted to do was run away— never to be seen again and back home with his brother and sister, having taken the first train back to Virginia. He knew, though, that he couldn't do that, that he had to stay here and fight a battle that he was too young to lead, let alone even be apart of.
Fagan Callaghan was a general. He led troops into the fray, knowing that some of them would never come out— he had played enough war games as a child, elders wincing at the almost realistic sounds that came out of their mouths, and warnings about it all getting too realistic. But Fagan had thought that it could never get too realistic. After all, it was just pretend, wasn't it?
Curling up in a bunk, holding tightly onto his key— metaphorically and literally the last connection he had with his old life, the key to his front door he had gotten when he was seven and considered a man, Fagan Callaghan but his knuckles and tried not to weep. Because he was a man now, a man with a different name and a different life, and Spot Conlon— leader of Brooklyn, did not weep.
Spot Conlon did not weep, but Fagan Callaghan did. And so he rocked himself back and forth slowly, muttering prayers and pleas and so thankful that he had a small room above everyone else so his boys wouldn't see him weakened, weeping silently.
His mother, no matter how much she hated him at times, had still wanted the best for him, wanted him to become a man, but had made him one too young. Fagan would have been content following the Brooklyn leaders, but the words of his mother had always echoed in his ears. 'If you're not the most important person, you're no one, Fagan, do you understand me?' And he had nodded, trying to understand, but not fully doing so until he had taken over Brooklyn and had to face that responsibility.
He threw up in the middle of the night sometimes— most times. Why were all these kids following him? Why were they so eager to please him and make sure he had everything he needed? He was just a kid as well, God damnit. He was younger than some of the people he led. They followed him and respected him and he was nothing more than a child sobbing in the corner of his bed, wishing he could just go back home to his mama.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, before falling into a fitful sleep, another night of more of the same. He never knew what he was apologizing about.