A/N: First and probably last attempt at the Newsies fandom. I watched the movie last night and that, for some sick, twisted reason, bread this morbid bit. So, yeah, go with it.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Disney does.
Ave Maria
It was raining. Coming down in heavy droves that washed away any trace of filth that covered the streets. He stood on the middle of his docks, allowing the icy sheets to marinate him.
His body was stock still, deceivingly so. Every inch of him was motionless, except for his shaking fingers. The only indication that something was not right.
Besides the fact that he was standing in a torrential downpour in the middle of October.
But he was Spot Conlon. He did what he wanted. When he wanted.
No one would question him if he wanted to catch his death. Not unless they wanted to catch theirs.
His hands found their way into his pockets and his breathing halted. His fingers grazed against the hilt of his blade and he quickly retracted them.
His lips were moving automatically as the words washed into the East River with the rain.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
The knife weighed down his body, a tell-tale heart of his burning sin. It, he was sure, was untouched by the storm. Still stained crimson.
The Lord is with thee…
It's not that he's never killed before. Because he has. Many times. All bastards. All deserving.
But no matter the blood on his hands, it never made it easier. No matter the things he justified it with, it was still murder. Still a sin.
Blessed art thou amongst women…
And this time…oh, this time. It was much worse than a sin.
It was a friend.
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…
The smug bastard had it coming. He had it coming. He had if fucking coming.
His cocky-ass smirk. His too arrogant swagger. His belief that he was a fucking King.
The way the others looked at him. Respect and awe. A look that was once given to him and only him. Except no one looked at him with fear. No one even so much as flinched when he walked by. And Spot hated him for that.
Holy Mary, Mother of God…
They regarded him as a deity. A god among mere mortals. His reputation was getting too big. Too big for Spot's liking.
No one was better than Spot Conlon. No one.
Not even Jack Kelly.
pray for us sinners…
The sound of metal severing flesh made the hair of the back of Spot's neck stiffen. It didn't matter how many people he stabbed, he would never get used to that sound. The blood that spilled over his fingers was warm and sticky. He could never get used to that feeling.
Vacant eyes, a lingering question embedded into deep brown, stared Spot down as he pulled the knife back out. The body crumpled up and Spot was gone before the resounding thud echoed through the alleyway.
They wouldn't find their fallen King until morning. And by then, all traces, all answers, to the lingering question would be washed away with the passing storm.
now and at the hour of our death…
Spot pulled the knife from his pocket. Squinting through the sleet to see if the red was still branded to it.
He threw it into the river without a second thought. And with the whispered splash, the guilt and memories sank to the bottom of the East river.
And as the final word of the familiar prayer lay on his tongue in anticipation, his fingers stopped shaking.
Yeah. Jack Kelly got what was coming to him.
And Spot didn't feel sorry.
Because he was Spot fucking Conlon.
And that was reason enough.
Amen.