Story: Heaven
Chapter:
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor will I ever own (Damn it) the Newsies and/or any and all related material. I do own the plot however.
Summary: A last chance angel is sent to earth on a mission to protect the one and only Spot Conlon. But as she grows to know the notorious leader, her own agenda may interfere with an attack that could kill both her new ward, and her self.
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Brook adjusted to life as a Newsie easier than she'd expected. Getting up every morning, buying the papers, selling them, and coming back to a drafty bunk at night. It was a perfect circle, a perfect routine. Nothing would come between her, and her life as a Newsie. Nothing that is, but her mission. Her bloody mission. No matter how hard she tried, she simply could not get close to Spot. Every time she caught him looking in her general direction, he either walked away, or was surrounded by so many other newsies that she'd need a ply-bar to get to him.
On one afternoon, right between selling papers and going to bed, at that magical time of the day that isn't night and isn't afternoon, when the sun has almost sunk beneath the sky-scrapers and lapping waves, Brook found herself drawn to the docks like a magnet to metal.
Whistling some melody or other, she took each clambering step down the docks, and swung her feet over the edge. Not many boys were left by the water, all of them either swimming or talking, laughing, and playing ridiculous games. The sun stained the sky pink with dusky light, and sunk lower on the shaky horizon.
"Well, well, if it isn't my dear Brook Lynn, back to grace us with her presence," a voice sneered from behind her.
Turning around, she inclined her head in his direction, "Spot, how are you doing this fine evening?" She asked him, a smile plastered on her finely sculpted features.
"What's so fine about it?" he asked her. His cane made a hallow sound against the boards of the dock, and she could sense the boy standing next to her with uncanny certainty. Heat radiated from his body, making a stark contrast to the chilling breeze on her face, and colder water surrounding her feet.
"How was yer sell today?" she asked him offhandedly, not really thinking about what she was saying, but unable to simply sit there.
"About 53 today, not too good." He told her, sinking to the wooden boards beside her. Brook gave a distracted nod, kicking up a spray of water in the evening air.
"Water's cold," she told him, grinning at her own idiotic giddiness. Spot gave a small laugh.
"Then take your feet out, stupid," he told her reasonably, giving a slight nudge to her shoulder.
Brook giggled. Her mission was momentarily forgotten, and so were her fears. She felt as if she had known Spot for her entire life, as if they were old friends that had just met after many, many years away from each other, and it was a comfortable type of meeting, not those stiff 'How's the family?' conversations. She kicked up another spray of water, watching the drops of blue-green liquid fall, and was sucked into the mass of swirling black, lapping at the dock edge.
She was oddly comfortable there, sitting with her back to the world, and Spot by her side. They both stared out at the water, talking as if nothing had ever been any different between them. And that is exactly how she wanted it to stay.
~~~~~
The next morning, Brook awoke (as usual) to the now-familiar noises of an awakening city. Brooklyn, having no lodging house of its own, was home to numbers of street rats, sleeping in crates by night, and selling papers by day. Many of the Newsies would create bands of orphans, who would look out for each other. Brook had found herself one such band, led by a curiously young boy, named James, or 'Crumbs' as his band-mates had affectionately dubbed him. Crumbs had welcomed Brook into his pack of street children like she was the queen of some far off country, lending her some extra money when she was low, and sticking up for her when a boy got a little rough.
Brook had soon learned, that even if you were in a pack, it was each boy (or girl) for him/herself when it came to selling papers. That was one dilemma Crumbs wouldn't touch. If you got your selling spot robbed of ye, it was your own damn fault it happened, and it was your own damn responsibility to get the spot back, using whatever means you found appropriate at the time.
This morning, Brook knew something was different. It was the scent in the wind as it blew its first breaths threw town, and the taste of the water from the nun's shabby cart down the street. It was something that was oddly familiar, yet eternally strange. It went against every fiber of inquisitiveness in her being to ignore it, but ignore it she did. She had made some headway on her mission last night, finally getting her chance to make friends with the notorious leader- Spot Conlon.
Brook knew right away that her entire outlook was changing; it wasn't just her connection with Spot either. It was the general feel of life at the time. She was really getting into life as a Newsie- worrying about her sales more and more, and her job less and less. If she lost any more interest in her assigned case she knew she'd be sent back to Heaven with a reprimand, and a big ugly "Uncompleted" mark on her record.
"Brook! Are we going down to the Distribution Office anytime this morning?" Crumbs yelled into her ear, making her jump backwards form the nun's wagon, and make her way threw the crowds with scarlet cheeks.
"Jeese, the girl spends one evening with the infamous Conlon, and she's already dreamy as a star-eyed puppy." She heard one of the boys murmur, causing the other to chuckle in agreement. Apparently Mr. Conlon had quite the reputation.
"Well he won't get to me," she promised herself, but something in her stomach had done a flip-flop at the memories of her night on the docks, talking with Spot. She pushed it out of her mind with impatience. "A job is a job, and a mission's a mission. And that's all there is to it."