A/N: This was born when my sister put in the tape of 'Ramona Quimby, Age 8' by Beverly Cleary. I didn't like those stories when I was a kid, but there was one that played today where she got sick at school. I thought she sounded so miserable that I decided to do some Spot torture. Heh heh.

Spotmuse: I'm so unappreciated.

Shut up. You like it. Masochistic sexpot that you are.

Spotmuse: Thanks! I mean... hey!

So anyway, I decided that Spot being sick was cute in a pitiful way. So here's Spot being sick. Enjoy. And pass the medicine while you're at it.

DISCLAIMER: Roses are red, violets are blue. Me no own, so you no sue. Rated for bits of language and gross sickness - beware, ye with wimpy stomachs.

"Umph." Spot stumbled again, nearly dropping his papes in an effort to keep his balance. He glared at the offending curb, but his head lurched and he went down on one knee. A few passer-by rushing past cursed him for blocking their path, but he was too busy trying not to fall over tobother replying.

When his vision finally straightened out, Spot climbed slowly to his feet. He felt like he was trying to stand on the back of a galloping horse – the ground pitched and rolled like the East River. What was going on? Had he breathed in some fumes from the sewer? Or had he wandered too near the opium dens on Henry Street? He couldn't even focus enough to read the street sign.

Blindly, Spot stumbled over to a convenient alley and collapsed back against the wall. Breathing heavily, he passed a sweaty hand over his face. Thinking made his brain swish all around, but he figured that he must be somewhere near O'Connell Avenue. That put him right near the bridge, but nowhere near Henry Street or a sewer opening. From this, he was forced to draw only one horrifying conclusion.

He, Spot Conlon, was sick.

What would he do now? He hadn't been seriously sick for several years. Sure, he had had colds and mild fevers, but as long as he could still stand and speak, he was out on the streets, Carrying The Banner and showing everyone that he was still in power. But today, he couldn't even walk straight, let alone string together a coherent sentence.

Suddenly, hisstomach jumped halfway up his esophagus, and he found himself gaining an intimate view of the alley floor. Desperately, he tried to force it down by will power alone, but this was something not even Spot Conlon could command. With a series of painful heaves, his stomach emptied itself of anything even remotely resembling food, including what felt like most of his internal organs.

He felt a bit better afterwards, and managed to clamber slowly to his feet. He wiped his mouth on his shirttail and looked at his papes. Several were ruined, but he had perhaps fifty or sixty left to sell. Great. Just great. He couldn't retire back to the lodging house -notwith sixty papes and a reputation to uphold.

Squaring his shoulders, Spot headed back onto the streets. He had become Brooklyn's leader by being strong and defeating all his weaknesses. And hell if he was going to let a little nausea stop him this time.

A few hours later, Spot was convinced he was going to die. He had thrown up no less than four times, and could barely stay on his feet. Fortunately, he looked so miserable that he had sold all but maybe twenty of his papes.

Feeling that familiar clenching somewhere about his middle, he stumbled back into the alley and spent a few minutes dry heaving into a puddle - there was nothing solid left in his system to throw up. When he finished, he stayed down, resting his forehand on his fists while he took deep breaths. He felt so tired and miserable, like he'd been run through a clothes-wringer. All he wanted was to go back to his room and curl up in bed and moan.

But he couldn't. He was Spot Conlon. He was Brooklyn. He was Never Sick, Never Hurt, and he was Never EVER Weak. If his boys started seeing him exhibit sickness, weakness, humanness, they would start to think of Brooklyn as less than perfect, and they would lose the power he'd built up – not just over his boys, but over the other boroughs as well. His boys believed that he was infallible, and they obeyed him unquestioningly. So therefore, as long as they believed in him and did what he said, they were infallible too.

If they started to question, if they started to wonder about the truth, they would lose confidence in him, in Brooklyn, in themselves. And then they would fall.

So this was why after allowing himself only a minute or two of relief, him pulled himself back to his feet, gathered up his remaining papes, and trudged back out to the street.

Thirty minutes later, he was leaving the alley again, and feeling rather odd. His brain felt like it was squinched tight in his head, and separated from the rest of his body, which floated along below him. He was starting to see odd things – like a giant ivory sphere spinning in front of him, or giant boys closing a boardgame – and everything seemed loud and confusing.

"Spot!"

He looked over his shoulder to see one of his younger newsies running up to him. "Heya, Screech." He mumbled tiredly.

"Spot, I sold all me papes! Ain't it great?"

Rubbing his hand across his face, he summoned up a weak smile. "Ya foist time, kid?"

"Yeah!"

"Good job." He patted the boy on the head. "Go buy yerself a sasparilla. All da boys who finish oily go ta da docks, they'll be real proud a ya."

Screech grinned up at Spot. "Gee thanks!" he paused for a second, then frowned. "You'se okay, Spot?"

"Yeah, I'se fine. Why?"

"Ya…" the little newsie debated over how much to say. "Ya don' look so good."

Spot frowned and tugged his cap a little lower over his face. "It's nothin'. I just hoid some bad news." He paused, trying to keep from staggering when his vision tipped. He couldn't stay out here any longer, or he was going to collapse, and that would be a Bad Thing. He was too sick. But he couldn't be, couldn't give in, not in Brooklyn. Not in Brooklyn. Spot thought for a moment, then sighed. "Heya, Screech, can ya do me a favah?"

"Shoah Spot!"

"Go find Hawk at da docks, an' tell 'im I'se goin' ta 'Hattan."

"Ya goin ta 'Hattan? Why?"

"Are ya questionin' me, Screech?"

The younger newsie winced and looked quickly at the ground. "No Spot."

"Good. 'Cause it ain't any a ya business. So you'se just go tell Hawk okay? He's in chawge 'till I get back."

Screech nodded. "Okay. Tell Hawk dat ya goin' ta 'Hattan, and he's in chawge 'till ya get back. Right?"

"Right. So beat it."

Spot watched the little kid scamper off, before letting out a weary sigh and sagging wearily back against a nearby wall. It was going to be a long walk.

By the time Spot was halfway across the bridge, he had started shaking. It wasn't that it was cold out, and though he did feel rather icy, it wasn't precisely that either. He was just shaking. Soon it was so bad that he couldn't walk straight, and had to hold onto the railing to keep going.

People gave him funny looks as they hurried by – a lone street kid, stumbling slowly along, newspapers held loosely in one hand, the other feeling its way along the railing. But no one stopped to help, no one asked if he was all right. He was only a street kid, anyway.

Now Spot was stopping every few minutes to catch his breath and keep his bearings. The other end had never seemed so far away. With every step he sent up a desperate prayer – don't let me throw up. Don't let me throw up. Don't let me throw up.

He focused every fiber of his being on keeping his gorge down, and placing one foot in front of the other. When I get sick, I really get sick.

Spot was so involved with his steps and his stomach, that he didn't realize he was at the other side until his boots stepped off wood and onto solid ground. Manhattan. Thank gawd.

Now all he had to do was find one of Jacky's boys. Who could be anywhere. In all of Manhattan.

Spot's steps were wobbly as a drunk's as he wandered in the direction of where he thought Duane Street was. Trying to read made him feel dizzy, so he was picking directions that felt familiar, in hopes that they were the correct ones. He had thrown up soon after stepping off the bridge, and again only a few minutes ago, so he figured he would be all right for another couple blocks.

"Spot? 'Zat you'se?"

He turned slowly towards the voice – bracing himself against the wall at the wave of nausea that accompanied moving his head. "Race?"

"Heya, Spot. Whatcha doin' ovah heah? Didn' know you'se was comin'."

Spot decided that leaning against the wall was a smart idea now. "Dat makes two of us, den."

"You'se okay, Spot? Ya don' look so good."

"So dey tell me." Slowly he let himself sink slowly down the wall, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to contain his shudders.

"What's wrong?" Race crouched down next to him, a worried look on his face.

Spot got a funny roaring in his ears, and when he spoke he could barely hear his own voice. "I'se sick." The roiling in his stomach was back, but he had no energy to run for an alley, so he just turned to his side and braced his hands on the cold ground. He had long ago thrown up anything that had been in his stomach so he just spent several minutes expelling painful dry heaves that convulsed his whole body.

"Jesus, Spot. How long 'zis been goin' on?"

"Since dis mawnin'."

"You'se came ovah da bridge like dis?"

Spot decided nodding would probably not be a good idea. "Yeah." He rested his head on his shaking arm and focused on not crying. He just felt so miserable.

Race gingerly touched his forehead, and Spot flinched away. "Ya hands are like fuckin' ice!" He pulled himself wearily into something resembling a sitting position. "Ugh…" he moaned, knowing he should be ashamed of such a show of weakness, but unable to dredge up enough willpower to care.

"Hang on, Spot. Dere's Snoddy." Race leapt to his feet and hurried across the road.

Spot covered his face with his twitching hands and contemplated dying. However, he quickly discovered that closing his eyes was not a good idea anymore, because his fevered brain spiraled off into a hallucination where he was rolling along the ground in a cart wheel, being pushed by Les and Snipeshooter.

"Spot?" Race was back, crouching next to him. "Snoddy's gone ta get Jack an' Davey."

"Okay." Spot replied weakly, desperately trying to stave off the feeling of rolling the cart wheel.

"I'se gonna have ta touch ya now, Spot. I need ta check yer temperachuh. Sawy if my hands is cold." A cool palm rested against his forehead, and then to either cheek – but Spot fiercely kept himself from shying away.

"You'se boinin' up, Spot. Why da hell did you'se come all day way heah? Ya should be at a doctah's!"

"Naw, no doctahs. Gotta… be strong fer me boys. Can't get sick." Spot sighed, staring at his hands, so he missed the understanding and vaguely pitying look that flashed across Racetrack's face.

Spot wondered if it would have been smarter to stay in Brooklyn – maybe it would be a good thing to let his boys know that their leader was human.

But as much as he cared about his boys, as much as he looked out for them and kept them safe, his friends were in Manhattan. He couldn't allow himself to be too close to his newsies, couldn't show favoritism. He was their leader, he couldn't compromise decisions in favor of a friend, or allow anyone into a position where they could blackmail him.

He supposed the same could have been true for the Manhattan newsies, but they were less likely to want to become leader of Brooklyn. And besides, as long as Manhattan and Brooklyn were friends, they had one-up on all the other boroughs – who couldn't band together to save their lives. Besides, Spot had known many of the Manhattan newsies long before he had ever become leader of Brooklyn.

"Spot?" Race queried, sounding slightly worried

"Yeah?"

"Just makin' shoah you'se okay."

"I'se okay. Jist a bit sick, I'll be bettah in a few days."

Race settled back against the wall, just as Spot had to brace himself for another bout of dry heaves. The Manhattan newsie waited until Spot was done, before gently helping him to lean back again the wall again – careful not to touch bare skin. "We'll take ya back ta da Lodgin' House. You'se kin stay dere 'till ya get bettah. Don' worry now."

Spot dredged up a tired smile. "I won't." In a moment of weakness that he would never forgive himself for, he let his body sag wearily against Race. Obligingly, the other newsie wrapped an arm around Spot's still shivering frame, allowing the Brooklyn leader to rest against Race's chest and shoulder.

Feeling moderately comforted – though not any less sick – Spot gave in and drifted off into fevered dreams.

He woke briefly when Race moved under him, and heard voices echoing strangely in his head.

"-his face is hot, and he's shakin' real bad. Every now an' den he does that thing, where ya gotta puke, but ya ain't got anythin' let ta puke up, so ya just kinda… hack."

Icy hands pressed against his forehead and he let out a moan, struggling to pull away from them.

"Yes, he looks quite sick."

"Let's get 'im back ta da Lodgin' House. Kloppman'll know what ta do."

"Actually, Jack,Iknow what to do – Les had this a while ago. Spot just needs to lay down and ride it out. He'll probably be throwing up for the rest of the day, and then just tired and nauseous."

"Dere ain't nothin' else we can do? Poor guy's real miserable – look at 'im."

"Sorry, Race. Just get him back to the Lodging House as quickly as possible, I guess."

Race moved again, and suddenly Spot was being gently pulled upwards. His head swam, and he broke away just in time to attempt to regurgitate his stomach for what felt like the millionth time.

"Jesus… Spot, we'se gonna get ya home, buddy. Jist hang in dere. Has he been doin' dis da whole time?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"All right, let's try to move him again. Slow and steady now."

Spot felt himself once again shifted up, but this time he only groaned and let them manhandle his unresponsive body upright. His head whirled, but he was draped over someone else so he didn't fall, and though his stomach roiled, it didn't rise either.

"Okay, he looks stable enough. Let's go."

And then Spot was being dragged forward, apparently supported by Jack and David. His arms hurt ad bit, but that pain was so minor in comparison to everything else he was feeling that it justdidn't matter.

Eventually, he got somewhat used to the awkward jostling and fell back into the roiling waves of fever dreams.

For the next indeterminable amount of time, Spot woke only to throw up into a battered tin bucket before hurtling back into dizzying nightmares and bouts of freezing coldness. Always, there was someone nearby, holding the bucket up, murmuring comforting words, once even helping him stumble into another room to pee. He was unable to do anything more than mumble something that sounded vaguely like 'thanks' and focus on not falling over.
When he clawed his way out of a patchwork dream of swirling palm trees that attempted to attack him, Spot found himself staring up at the underside of a bed. Carefully, he tipped his head sideways. He was in the Manhattan bunkroom, and he was very, verynauseous. He groaned, and suddenly the familiar bucket appeared under his chin. Gratefully, he heaved over it, until his stomach settled back into something resembling its normal place, and he was able to relax back on his pillow.

Race dropped the bucket back onto the floor and settled into the chair sitting next to Spot's bunk. "How ya feelin'?"

"Okay…" Spot managed weakly, trying to muster a smile and failing.

Race did smile though. "Any bettah?"

"Bit."

"Good. Davey said yer ovah da woist of it now."

"How… how long?"

"Uh… it's been da rest a da day ya got heah, den da night, an' now it's mawnin'."

"Why ain't you'se sellin'?"

Race flashed his trademark lopsided smirk. "Someone had ta stay wit' ya, Spotty-boy. I won da pokah game las' night, so I had extry dough."

"S-sawry…"

The smirk softened, and Race looked down at his hands. "Aw, it's awright. I don' mind. What're friends foah, huh? 'Sides, da boys'll spell me when dey'se done sellin'"

Spot felt his eyes closing, and managed the smallest of smile. "Thanks, Race…"

"Any time, Conlon. Any time."

Spot spent the rest of that day, and most of the next recovering. By dinnertime of the second day, he could manage bland foods and was on his feet. Impervious to his friends' pleadings for him to stay the night at least, he set out for Brooklyn.

But the next week, the Manhattan newsies arrived back to the Lodging House to find a surprise waiting. There was a keg of beer sitting in the center of the bunkroom.

Jack grinned. "Da Brooklyn voisin of 'thanks'."

Back in his own bed, in his own lodging house, in his own territory, Spot smiled up at the ceiling. The Brooklyn newsies would always be his boys, and he'd always watch out for them. But the boys in Manhattan, they were his friends.
A/N: Okay, I really don't like the end, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of any way else to do it. It's kinda awkward in places too, but I did the best I could to iron it out. But despite all that, what did everyone think? Like? Hate? Tell me, I can take it.

Spotmuse: I can't.

No one asked you. Besides, you're supposed to be the lean mean Brooklyn machine. Surely you can take a little criticism, you big baby.

Spotmust: You're so meeeeeeeeeeean! Someone else adopt me please! I pack light, I don't take up much space - I can even cook a decent breakfast!

shoves Spotmuse off the screen Don't listen to him. He doesn't know what he's talking about.