Disclaimer: The character of Spot Conlon in this story is the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.


Red


As I'm staring through this fire
It's too late to make you mine
So far from where we started
So far from what we wanted

And as both our worlds fall down
We have lost and we have found
So far from where we started
So far from what we wanted

- "Money Honey", State of Shock


Just his luck, Spot saw Red before she saw him.

She looked exactly the same as the first time they ever met, nearly ten years ago and, for a heartbeat, it was as if no time had passed at all. From the wavy blonde hair cascading down her shoulders to the red ribbon tied in a bow underneath, and the white skirt that offset her innocence... she was the Red of his memories, the Red of his fantasies, and she was real.

But probably not any more real than the young sandy-haired fellow standing right beside her.

It wasn't like he was caught off guard—he wasn't. Deep down, he might've even anticipated this. Red was a pretty girl with a big heart and the ability to see the best in people. Spot Conlon was proof of that. He was her friend, wasn't he? He knew damn well that there was a whole other world she kept from him, of girlfriends and her father's doting affection and, it seemed, male callers.

Spot felt his lips curl.

He could've walked away. She hadn't noticed him, and neither had the young man walking alongside her. Spot could've continued on his way, gone on to the Brooklyn Bridge and made it to visit Jack and his boys in Manhattan before their curfew without Red ever knowing he discovered her little secret.

But he didn't. That wasn't who Spot Conlon was.

Instead, gripping the top of his cane lightly as if he wanted nothing more than to slip it out from under his suspender strap and use it as a bat, he stood and waited for Red to see him.

It didn't take long.


"It's lovely out tonight, perfect for a stroll. Don't you think so?"

Charlotte nodded. She was standing so close to Tommy, there was barely an inch separating them. He hadn't reached to take her hand again after they got out onto the street though she could feel the heat coming off of him; his hand hovered near her elbow, hesitant to hold onto her, eager to get the opportunity to help her across some particularly difficult cobbles.

He kept up a soothing stream of conversation as they went along. "The night sky is just perfect. Look up, look at the stars. The way they twinkle and shine. It's beautiful, Char, almost as beautiful as you are."

Her stomach dropped. It was like he pulled the rug out from under her feet, the way he slipped that last comment in there. Even she couldn't pretend she hadn't heard him. Without looking up at him—in case he could see the indecision and discomfort she couldn't hide—Charlotte murmured her thanks.

Tommy sighed in contentment.

Charlotte wished they were heading back to the apartments already.

It was too soon. She didn't know why, but she had expected him to give her some time to adjust after his proposal. To have him immediately ask her out for an unchaperoned, nighttime walk... it was too soon. There had never been a shortage of things to talk about with Tommy Sanders when he was simply her childhood friend. But with Tommy being her new fiancé, she found she was speechless. She had nothing to say to him at all. Just like how she had to run away from Spot at the docks after he kissed her, she wanted to leave Tommy's side and be alone.

Spot... Charlotte gave her head a small shake. That was the last person she wanted on her mind just then. Thinking of Spot meant thinking about how she really felt about him—and thinking about how she still had to tell him about her engagement.

Tommy didn't seem to mind that Charlotte wasn't in a talkative mood. He carried the conversation for both of them, pointing out how quiet it was on the street—wisely, he didn't mention the reason why: the Beast's still too-recent attack—and how it made it all the more romantic. He told her about his father's plans for the upcoming wedding and went on to explain how it would be different for both of them once he ran the butcher's shop and Charlotte would tend to the apartment. It was right about the time he started discussing children that Charlotte, in a bid to keep from losing it, stopped listening to what he was saying.

Instead, unable to get her mind off of Spot, she ran countless conversations through her head, all of them having to do with her confession over the engagement.

None of them ended well.

She didn't notice that Tommy had stopped at first. If he hadn't reached out and laid the flat of his palm against her arm, Charlotte would've kept moving. His touch jerked her out of her silent reverie and, looking over at him questioningly, she saw that his attention was drawn to something in front of him. Feeling as if her heart had jumped up into her throat, Charlotte followed his direction and nearly fainted in surprise.

There was Spot Conlon. And from the look on his face, it was easy to tell that he'd been watching her long before she saw him standing there.

With only half of a block separating them, Tommy's light brown eyes were locked on Spot's cyan ones and, suddenly, it was as if Charlotte wasn't even there anymore—or maybe she was the only girl who existed at all. Tommy's arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him. The action was as possessive as it was natural, unwanted as it was, strangely enough, entirely appropriate. Mine, it said. She only wished she could slap his arm away.

It was a tense stand-off, Spot on one end of the block, watching with his offensive stance—one hand on his hip, the other resting lightly on his cane—over at where Tommy held tightly onto Charlotte. Even if she could get away with rushing over to Spot, Tommy wasn't going to let her go so easily. And Spot obviously wouldn't want her, anyway.

Tommy was the first to speak and what he said made Charlotte's heart skip a beat: he called out to Spot by name.

Spot's eyebrow rose and he took a few steps forward, closing the gap a little more. "I think ya got me at a disadvantage, pal. See, I know Red there, and you know my name, but I ain't got half an idea who the hell you are."

"I'm Thomas Sanders."

"Never heard of ya."

"Charlotte's never told you about me?" Tommy asked innocently.

"Why? She tell you about me?"

When Tommy didn't answer, Spot turned his gaze on her and it took all of Charlotte's inner strength not to quail underneath the fierceness of it; it was nothing like the way he watched her last, after their kiss. "Lookin' good, Red. Nice ribbon... it's a real good color for ya."

Charlotte's cheeks lit up, red as her ribbon, humiliated. She wasn't that innocent eight-year-old girl anymore. She knew exactly what Spot was saying—and, worse, she couldn't blame him.

If Tommy understood, he played it off like he didn't. With his free hand, he touched her loose hair lightly, stroking the end of the ribbon that was visible. "I've always liked it," he said softly.

She didn't care if it was noticeable. With a tiny jerk of her head, Charlotte moved away until Tommy's hand was petting the air. Across the way, she watched as Spot noticed her gesture with amusement and she wondered if, just maybe, this might work out.

"Spot, I know you must be wondering about..." Charlotte swallowed, unable to say the words.

"Please, I can explain," she tried again, her voice so full of pleading it made her feel like a foolish little girl. Even as she spoke, she could tell from his hardened expression that it was pointless—she could hear it in her own tone: Spot Conlon was stubborn and proud and there was nothing she could do or say that would ever make him understand what was going on between her and Tommy.

"Explain what? I figured it out long ago, I knew we could never really be friends. You're the daughter of a respectable tailor. My father was a good-for-nothing drunk. You have a life, my life is the streets. The most I could hope for was to sell you a paper in the afternoon. You ain't got nothing to explain."

"But I—"

"He's right, Char," Tommy added smugly. "It never would've worked."

His arm was still wrapped around her waist, keeping her right next to him. It was all she could do to turn and look up at him, clutching at his arm, as she cried out, "Tommy!"

"No, Char," and Spot used Tommy's nickname for her like a curse. But he was still smiling. "Your friend is right."

"Friend?" laughed Tommy. "I think you mean her fiancé."

"Fiancé?" That wiped the smile off of Spot's face. "You're gonna marry this guy?"

Tommy intertwined his fingers with Charlotte's; she was too stunned to stop him. Lifting up their joined hands, he placed a featherlight kiss against her knuckles. "We're promised."

"I see..." While his right hand let go of his cane and clenched into a tight fist, just itching to strike that pleased grin off of Sanders' face, Spot brought his left hand up and plucked at the skin on his bottom lip. He could hardly believe it was only that afternoon that he dared kiss Red and there she was, out walking with another man.

With her fiancé!

His fingernail was jagged and sharp and it tore at the dry skin. It was a sharp pain, reviving almost, but it couldn't hold a candle to the emotions warring within him—emotions he wouldn't allow either of them to see. Spot licked at the cut and recognized the tangy taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. Nodding to himself, he said, "Yeah, yeah... I see how it is alright."

There was jealousy and anger and hurt at her betrayal all fighting within him and Spot didn't trust himself to hold back any of them for long. His lips were so used to the crooked pull that he smirked effortlessly though it was an empty gesture. The truth was in his eyes and the way he hadn't relaxed his fist just yet. Looking across the way at Red, she looked frightened. She pulled away enough from Sanders to prove she didn't invite in his touch, but she drew away from Spot's stare, her big brown eyes as big as a doe's.

She was afraid of him, he realized, and she damn well should be.

But the girl had spunk. Spot recognized that—in that way, Red really hadn't changed at all. Just like the time she swung a sewing basket at a raving drunkard, Red untangled her hand from Tommy and clasped it to her chest, right over her heart. She was watching him imploringly.

"Please, Spot, I—" she started again, she tried to erase the tension that existed between them all, but she could get no farther. But it wasn't Tommy who cut her off.

It was Spot.

He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want her explanations—he'd already gotten it. She was promised to another man. What else could she say?

"Save your breath," he snapped, unable to restrain himself. "Just... just stop already."

Red flinched as if he'd slapped her and, as a result, leaned in so that she was tucked under Tommy's arm. That made it worse for Spot and, where his anger had frozen in the split second when Red looked so frightened, it absolutely burned to see the girl turn to Sanders for protection.

Spot sneered and jerked his chin. "Don't you worry 'bout me, 'cause I ain't got the time to be worryin' 'bout you, right. The Beast's still out there. I got my city to protect." Then, before he could stop himself, he brought his smarmy, cocky smirk back—a last slap in the face. Spot tipped his hat. "Evenin', miss. Congratulations on your, uh, your engagement."

And then, his smirk sliding into a scowl that better served to show how he really felt, Spot turned his back on her and refused to face Red again, not even when he heard her voice crack as she called his name one last time.

He had been a fool to trust her. To believe her. To want to keep her safe.

Let her fiancé do that.


When Charlotte woke up later that night, she was surprised to discover that it was still dark out.

It had taken her quite some time to fall asleep as it was. After Spot left her shaken and hurting from the abrupt way he brushed her off, pushed her away, Charlotte begged Tommy to walk with her back home. Which he did, and though he didn't say another word as they went, he kept his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Tommy hadn't missed Spot's parting shot about the Beast, either.

Charlotte appreciated his quiet. It gave her time to think and she did, biting down on her lip and fiddling with a pulled thread from the top of her skirt; anything not to notice the way Tommy's fingers rested lightly on her hip. She didn't want to admit it but, while it was probably the worst possible way for Spot to discover her engagement, maybe it was for the best. It saved the inevitable lies, even if it did nothing for the terrible guilt that churned in her belly. The guilt and the shame and the cruel uncertainty.

It only got worse when Tommy stayed with her right up to her front door. Despite all the bravado he showed off in front of Spot, he was honestly uncertain and overly careful with her when they were left together alone, almost as if he thought of her as a China doll, fragile and easily broken. He moved slowly, taking his time so that, when he started to lean in, Charlotte was prepared. She managed to sidestep his intended kiss, his lips landing in her hair instead, then tried not to notice his keen disappointment as she quickly bid him goodnight and escaped to her bedroom.

Her father wasn't at his cot; Charlotte only assumed he was still celebrating the happy couple with Mr. Sanders. She was glad, too. Just then she couldn't face his heavy expectations, not now. Not while the flash of betrayal across Spot's tough face lingered in her mind's eye as if it was seared in her memory.

She had changed from her skirt and blouse into a simple nightdress before climbing into bed and praying that sleep would overtake her. It seemed an age until blissful unawareness swallowed her whole—but it hadn't lasted. Feeling as if she'd been ripped from a peaceful sleep so soon after she succumbed to it, Charlotte lay awake, breathing heavily as she waited. She didn't know what exactly it was that she waited for, maybe for her father to knock again or a summer thunder clap to echo around her or something to explain why she woke up again so abruptly after finally falling asleep.

Then she heard it. A quick tap that came against her window. Which was silly, really, since they were on the second floor and who could reach? And then Charlotte remembered how Spot got her attention earlier that morning, throwing a pebble up at the glass and, suddenly, she was sitting upright in bed.

Spot. Her breath caught in her throat. He couldn't have come back, could he? Not after Tommy and their meeting in the street... right?

After nearly tripping over the hem of her quilt in her haste to climb out of the bed, Charlotte made her way to the window and, shielding her nightdress with the curtain, she peeked out into the street. Her heart thudding so loudly she could barely hear anything over the pounding, she saw that there was someone standing directly below, right next to the lamppost.

At first she thought it really was Spot but something told her it couldn't be—and not only because of the way he left her alone with Tommy. This person was short, even shorter than Spot was, and he wore a coat that flapped behind him like an oversized pair of wings. The material swayed in the wind as he took aim again. A second later, the stone tapped against the window again and Charlotte couldn't deny that he was waiting for her answer.

She opened the window up and let her head stick out enough that he could see her face. She didn't want to yell in case it woke her father, and she called down softly, "Hello?"

The boy had picked up another stone, preparing to toss it, but he dropped his hand when she caught sight of her. Immediately, he removed his newsboy cap and held it to his chest. "Miss Red?"

"Yes." There was a waver to her voice. How did he know Spot's name for her? No one else used it but him... and with such respect, too. What was going on?

"It's Spot," he answered and Charlotte's fingers clenched the gauzy material of the curtain. "Please, miss, you've gotta come see him."

There was no hesitation. "I'll be right down."

She closed her window and drew the curtain back, then hurriedly reached for her skirt. There was something in the the boy's voice, an earnestness and a worry he hadn't been able to hide, and Charlotte found herself imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios that would require Spot sending one of his boys down to her apartment to retrieve her. She pulled her skirt on over her nightdress, but let the top serve as a blouse; her fingers trembling the way they were now, she doubted she could do up the buttons herself.

It was summer and hot in Brooklyn. During the days, Charlotte made do with a simple dress and, when it was really sunny, a straw hat rimmed with the same ribbon she used to keep her hair out of her face. But it was chilly out once the sun went down and she didn't know how long she would be gone. There was a red cape with a matching hood still stowed in her suitcase; she hadn't unpacked her winter clothes yet since, when they first moved to Brooklyn, she hardly believed they were staying. Ripping through her wardrobe, she grabbed the cape, slung it around her shoulders, placed the red hood over her sleep-tousled hair and fled down to the streets.

She didn't stop to wake up her father and tell him she was going. He would forbid it and she couldn't allow that. There was no time.

The newsboy was waiting at the doorway to the stairwell when she made it down. He was quite young, no more than twelve to her mind, but his eyes were older as if he'd seen things on the Brooklyn streets that no boy should have to see. Under the light of the gas lamp Charlotte could see the freckles that dotted his cheeks and the tufts of red hair that escaped from the hat he replaced on his head.

He was frowning. "You ready, miss?"

"Where is he?" She pulled her cape tighter around her. "Where's Spot?"

"I'm supposed to take you back with me to the lodging house. So, if you'll follow me."

Charlotte hadn't had any reason to return to the Boys' Working Home ever since reconciling with Spot. As far as she was aware, he kept her a secret as much as she had to Tommy and Madge. They met on the docks and walked the lengths of Brooklyn and, with the exception of that afternoon, she'd never been anywhere his newsboy world. But despite the years that had passed, she remembered the path and probably would've been able to find her way there without her young guide.

The boy was quiet, and his brow was furrowed as if he was thinking unpleasant thoughts. Charlotte didn't feel comfortable interrupting him and they spent most of the quick-paced walk in silence. It was only when she recognized that they were almost there that she let out the one question that was running through her mind:

"Did Spot send you here?"

"No," he answered, "Scotch did." And that was all he said.

Charlotte didn't know who Scotch was but she found out when she met the dark-haired, gangly newsie waiting for her at the open side door. Tall and thin, he was leaning against the doorjamb of the entrance. He was either guarding the door or waiting for someone; Charlotte suspected it was a little bit of both. As the newsboy led her forward, he jumped down from the stoop and didn't stop until he was standing right before Charlotte.

There was an unlit cigarette hanging off of his lip. When he spoke, it wobbled. "You this Red lass?"

"Yes," answered Red. "And you're Scotch?"

"Scotch O'Reilly, one and only." Using the lamplight from the open doorway, he looked her up and down but, despite appearing like he was made for it, she got the feeling he wasn't leering. Not yet, anyway. "Alright. Look, if anyone asks, the Society sent you over. You're a nurse, see, and you've come to take a peek at Spot."

"Is he sick?"

"If he ain't sick now, he'll sure as hell be come mornin'," scoffed Scotch. "Come on in. I'll show you the way." Waving for her to follow, he turned to go back in. He started inside, paused to allow the younger boy past him, ruffling his hair and murmuring, "Good job, Murphy," as the boy disappeared up the steps. It was only then that he noticed Red was still standing in Buckbees Alley, unmoving. "Whatcha waitin' for, lassie? Don't you want to tend to Spot?"

She shouldn't go in. It was against all decency, against all sense of propriety for a girl to walk inside the Working Boys' Home, especially so late at night. Scotch had lifted up the oil lamp, the flickering flames throwing shadows around, making his gaunt face sinister and his dark eyes wicked. She didn't know him—she didn't know if she could trust him. But if Spot needed her...

Gathering her skirt up in her hands, Red shuffled after Scotch. She tried not to flinch and be too frightened when the door to the alleyway closed shut behind her, though her head did whip around out of surprise.

Scotch was standing there, smirking at her in a way eerily similar to Spot; he had tucked his cigarette behind his ear so that he wouldn't lose it. "Move along. You don't want to be caught roamin' these halls, believe me."

Red got the feeling that Scotch only used the oil lamp for her benefit. He led her up the stairs that brought them to the first floor of the Home and went down the hall confidently, as if he knew where every creak in the floor was or any dip that might cause them to trip. He shielded the flame when they passed one particular door and could still navigate the path in the increased darkness. After they past it, he chuckled and muttered, "That was a close one. Last thing we need is Mrs. Kirby catchin' me bringin' Spot's, ahem, friend in. Bless her soul, but the woman is against lettin' ladies in. Shame, really."

She'd been waiting for him to speak; she didn't want to be the one to make any sound that might get them in trouble. But now that he had, she started to ask him, "How did...", but her voice, already a mere whisper, simply trailed off. Maybe that was the bigger concern: that she didn't know what she wanted to ask now that she could.

Scotch did. "Find you? Know anything about you?" He shrugged but a pleased smile played across his lips as he pushed open another door and ushered Red inside. "Don't tell Spot, but he ain't the only one with eyes and ears in Brooklyn. I guess you could say I got interested when he handed Cinder over to me so easily. Now, come on. Just up these stairs now."

Red had frozen on the landing. "Cinder?"

The loathing expression, the gleaming green-yellow eyes and sneer... Madge's Cinder? Was that what Scotch was saying, that Spot knew her too? Her heart thudded then slowed as if it was being squeezed. Which was silly, really—she'd just sprung her new fiancé on Spot. What should it matter to her that he was with other girls? Especially that girl?

But it did. It did matter. And that only made things worse.

"Aye, and I ain't surprised you don't know about Cinder Harrow. You see, she was Spot's good time for awhile, but of course that was 'til you showed up." He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "Don't mind my sayin' so, lassie, but I wouldn't say no to tradin' up meself if I didn't know that Spot would stick that slingshot of his so far up my bum that I'd be burpin' woodchips for just talkin' to you."

His words, crass and colorful as they were, had the effect of making Red go, well, red. For some reason that made Scotch take a step or two up and away from her. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "So, uh, if you'll be as good not to mention this to him..."

"It'll be our secret," Red promised.

Scotch's relief was palpable; his rubber band-body relaxed and he moved fluidly up the rest of the stairs. After a second, Red started up after him.

"Spot's a big one for secrets," he confessed when she joined him on the next landing before leading her out into another dark, empty hall. "It took me ages just to know he was walkin' 'round town with you but, well, I guess I must've known for sure right about when he brought you to the docks this very morning. I've expected it for weeks, though, but you was always a mystery. I think he liked it like that, and I only got a hint of you at all the other night. Nothin' much," he added when Red looked frightened, worried about what Scotch could've found out, "just your name and where you stayed. Enough that I was able to get you tonight when... ah, but here we are, I'm sure you'll be findin' out on your own now."

Red eyed the door, biting down on her bottom lip. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea, going into that room. "He's in there?"

"Aye."

She took a deep breath, knowing that she would never forgive herself if she didn't go to Spot when he needed her, and let herself into the room before she decided against it.

It was larger room than she expected, considering there were three or four bunks inside and it wasn't cramped. A pair of oil lamps were positioned in the far corners, placed up high so that there was no chance of anyone knocking into them and starting a fire during the night. It smelled different from the rest of the Home, a fresh scent that covered up another, less pleasing one, almost like a hospital room. Red wrinkled her nose. It smelled like sickness.

And Scotch was right, too. Spot was in the room. Sitting on the farthest cot, his boots on the floor and his head hanging down, Red couldn't tell if he was still awake or if had fallen asleep in such a strange position but, as soon as the door closed behind her, his head shot up and he was immediately on his feet. He took one look at her, wordlessly daring her to come closer. Red couldn't, so he made the first move. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, he was right there.

Spot didn't stumble and he didn't stagger, but the instant he was before her, she knew.

He wasn't sick.

He was drunk.

The whiskey on his breath, the rank odor of the liquor coming off of him in waves, it was all too telling. Red's father wasn't a drinking man, though he wouldn't say no to a glass of wine or maybe an ale with Mr. Sanders, but he'd never come home like this. Part of her wondered how Spot had made it back to his lodgings in such a state, while the other wondered how he had moved so darn fast.

Spot loomed over her, his eyes wide and staring. Up close, Red could see they were glazed, rimmed with red, but there was a lucidity in their cyan depths that made her shiver. There was a hunger. Standing on his toes so that he was taller, Spot was watching her unblinkingly, staring like a predator about to devour his prey.

Red let out a weak chuckle that did nothing to cover up her discomfort. "My, my, what big eyes you have."

It wasn't the drunken slur she expected, but a mild snarl under his breath that made her shake. "All the better to see you with, my dear."

"Spot," she said firmly after she recovered herself, "you're drunk. You shouldn't be standing. You must go back to sleep."

The moment passed and, when he looked away, he stumbled. To keep him from falling, Red put her shoulder up against his side, helping him back towards the small cot, wondering why none of his boys were helping her. And then she knew why. Why Scotch left her alone at the door, why it shut so solemnly behind her... why he had even sent for her in the first place: they blamed her for his state.

And they were right.

"Sleep? Ha!" Spot's scornful laugh was a rush of hot air in her face and she nearly stumbled herself, the stink of stale whiskey so strong. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Now, now, " Red soothed, "that's just the drink talking."

"No."

"Don't be stubborn, Spot. Here, why don't you climb back into bed?"

For a moment Red suspected that Spot wouldn't listen, that he would argue with her and insist he was fine. And maybe he would've since he opened his mouth to say something—and she doubted it would be pleasant—but then he blinked, looked her dead in the face, and closed his mouth. Pulling away from Red, he slumped down on the edge of the cot. He stiffened when she tried to guide him back against the sheets, though he didn't fight her.

He didn't say another word to her, either. Not as she attempted to undo the knotted up laces on his shoes and, failing, decided to leave them on his feet. He only moaned as Red helped him out of his suspenders, leaving them to hang at his sides before she made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. By then Spot was leaning forward, his body limp, and she thought sleep might've taken him. Feeling more confident, she went to remove his checkered shirt—but when she lifted the hem of his shirt out of his trousers, revealing an undershirt stained with... something, she felt her shakes return.

Dark splatters stained the side and Red was almost willing to believe it was dirt if it wasn't for the splash of brown that colored Spot's front. Down to his belly, a splash that was as large as a brick, his undershirt was crusty and stiff where the blood must've dried.

Because that's what it was.

"Blood," she whispered, gasping at the realization.

Spot's eyes were still closed. Leaning forward, his forehead slumped against Red's hip, he made no sign that he heard her at all.

Her fingers were hesitant but she willed them strong as she leaned over and reached for the edge of his undershirt. She had to look. Spot put up no fight, either. Maybe he had listened to her after all. A small gurgle escaped his open mouth, his head lolling, and Red helped ease him on his back before she finished pulling his undershirt up high enough to reveal his torso.

The relief that followed was swift, even if it was short-lived: there was no injury. No cut, no mark, nothing at all to explain all that blood. Red tugged Spot's shirt back down, just in case, but the blood was still there. How had it gotten there? Where did it come from?

Why was there so much of it?

Red was queasy; it was like she had swallowed a pile of rocks, her stomach felt so heavy. She couldn't look at the blood anymore. Grabbing the blanket that lay crumpled and forgotten at the foot of the bed, she covered up Spot, fussing with the blanket until only his head and his right hand were free. Then, because there wasn't anything else for her to do now that Spot was sleeping for good, she backed away from the cot—

—except Spot wasn't sleeping. Even though his eyes stayed close, and his voice was huskier than it had been, he was very much awake as he called out to Red, "Don't go."

She froze.

"Stay with me."

"Spot, I—"

"Red," he murmured, "please."

And Red found she couldn't leave. Though every part of her insisted that she shouldn't stay, that Spot stumbling on her and Tommy was the best thing that could've happened after their mistake on the docks that afternoon, Red's resolve weakened at the way he called her name and said please.

Moving slowly, dragging her heels against the floor of the quarantine room, Red approached Spot's bedside again, careful not to disturb the deliberately placed blanket, desperate not to look at the blood that covered his shirt. Rearranging her skirt underneath her, she sank to the floor and vowed to herself that that was where she would stay. And when Spot reached one of his clammy hands over the edge, reaching for her, she grasped it tightly between both of hers and held on as if their very lives depended on it.


End Note: Well, it's glad to see that we're all still here :) And, don't worry, I'll have this story done long before the next doomsday scare!

Lots of things happened this chapter - and there's still a lot more coming. I'll tell you: the whole exchange with Spot being drunk and Red having to tend to him... that was the first scene written of this entire fic. Everything before it was gearing up to this point but some of the scenes that are going to follow... oh, I can't wait!

- stress, 05.22.11