A/N: I really like this chapter for some reason. Probably because it has Spot in it. Heh.

Elyse: Thank youuuu for calling me on the fact that I've managed to give Bridget's fiance like, seven different names. is sheepish. To clairfy the issue; her fiance's name was orignially supposed to be Jonas Pierpont, before I decided that I liked Lucas Davenport it doesn't really matter a whole bunch, but I'm strange and like Lucas better than Jonas. Whatever anyway, I tried to go back through and edit that--but I missed a few spots. Apologies for the confusion :o) and thanks again for calling me to task on it.

As for the nickname "Bee" that Spot calls her, there really isn't any huge significance behind it--I just think Bee is a cute nickname for someone named Bridget. I wish I could take credit for it, but it's shamelessly stolen from The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants series. I guess I should add that to my disclaimer, huh? XD Anyway, thanks for your review!

Madmbutterfly:713: Thank you for your review xoxoxox.

5. Everything is bigger in Brooklyn

'Blood might be thicker than water, but Brooklyn is thicker than anything.'

-Spot Conlon

Bridget decided that the trip hadn't been a total waste. She had at least gotten to stand on the Brooklyn bridge, and it was the biggest, most beautiful thing she'd ever seen in her life. It's sheer size and magnitude left her struck dumb for a moment. David and Racetrack had told her that everyone shouted off the Brooklyn bridge, so she had. It seemed appropriately rebellious, and it made David and Race laugh, which was nice. She'd never been around men who treated her like an equal. Her father had treated her like a stranger, someone he was aware of but didn't fully know. Lucas had treated her like something delicate and fragile, not to be troubled by disturbing talk of buissness or politics---and Ben? Ben had treated her like his golden girl, his little sister, his darling, his treasure.

She wondered if he still thought of her that way. For her part, she'd never stoppped loving her brother---even though it had been years since he'd left, and even though her parents and the rest of Hartford liked to behave as if there had never been a Ben Conlon, she'd never let his memory fade from her mind.

"Well--here we are." Bridget looked around in confusion, her nose wrinkling at the smell of fish and stagnant water. "He lives...here?" This was a pier. A disgusting pier. A disgusting pier chock full of soaking wet, half naked teenagers.

"Yep. C'mon--we'll take you to him. 'Ey, you--Docksider, watch the ladies stuff willya? We gotta talk to Spot." Race handed over Bridget's trunk to a burly newsie who eyed her suspiciously with the eye that wasn't swollen shut behind an ugly ring of black, blue, and purple. "She ain't one of Spot's old girls, is she? 'Cause we ain't supposed to let them down on the dock anymore. He says he don't want nothin' to do with 'em durin' the daytime."

"I beg your pardon-" Bridget began, looking furious, but David held out an arm to restrain her, fighting back a laugh at the younger girls outrage. "No, no. Nothing like that--she's, uh, an old friend of Spot's. He'll want to see her---I think." He added, more to Race then to Docksider. Bridget fired up again, causing both David and Race to wince. "An 'old friend'? I'm his--"

Race clamped a hand over her mouth to quiet her, and she bit him. "Ouch!" Bridget looked shocked at what she'd just done and flushed. "Sorry. Instinctive reaction." She explained, handing him a hankie to wrap around his now bleeding palm. "S'ok." Race muttured darkly, inching away from her a bit. Docksider gave them strange looks, and for a moment David wondered if he was going to let them pass, but he finally relented and stepped back.

"Fine--but keep it short and sweet. He's in a bad mood today." Race rolled his eyes. "Like that's a new development." Bridget scowled at Docksider, "I don't want to just leave my clothes with this man." She snapped haughtily, and Docksider chuckled. "No worries, doll face. I ain't got much use for a trunk full of dresses and corsets." Bridget looked unconvinced, but David and Race grabbed hold of her arms and frog marched her down the pier to where her brother, the infamous Spot Conlon, was surveying his domain with jaded eyes and feeling immortal.

- - -

"LET GO OF ME."

Spot Conlon looked over his shoulder and saw David Jacobs and Racetrack Higgins dragging some dame down the pier towards his perch, preparing to disturb. His eyes, beautiful and terrifying as two silver bullets, narrowed dangerously. He'd had enough of Manhatten's hand me down whores looking for a place in Brooklyn. Brooklyn had enough whores all on it's own.

"Spot--how's it rollin'" Racetrack asked, extending a hand and releasing the girl who was staring at him as if he was a god (which, in Spot's mind, was always a bit of an understatement). It made him feel a little kinder towards her. She looked familiar. But then--so did the majority of girls in New York.

"What brings you boys to Brooklyn?" He asked (not really giving a damn) but shaking Race's hand, then David's like a good burrough leader. He ignored the girl. She looked crest-fallen, which irritated him. He didn't like girls that could be broken that easily.

"Well, uh, Spot, see--thing is--Davy here was selling his papes down at Grand Central today and he met--" Spot frowned at the Manhatten gambler and wondered what the hell was going on. Race, who was famous for being able to smooth talk his way out of any situation without breaking a sweat, was rambling slightly hysterically, his voice growing more shrill by the second, and David 'The Walking Mouth' Jacobs was simply standing there, his infamous mouth silenced for once. It took Spot less than a second to realize that they were nervous. Really nervous. Spot smelled trouble---and he was pretty sure the girl was the cause of it.

He turned to her, meeting her eyes directly, and shutting out the other two. The girl shrank away from his intimidating gaze and looked as if she wanted to run as fast as she could away from him and Brooklyn.Which was the usual rection, but Spot still relished the feeling of inspiring terror into people, it was one of the perks of the job.

"Alright, look toots; I dunno what it is you want but--"

The girl seemed to come to life at the sound of his voice and she stepped forward, her lower lip trembling, her eyes hopeful. Spot stopped talking and felt his stomach contract. He knew those eyes. As a matter of fact, he'd spent eight years trying to forget them.

"Ben?" The voice was so small and plaintive she could have still been a nine year old begging him not to leave her. A foreign emotion exploded in Spot Conlon's brain; fear.

He licked his suddenly dry lips, and his voice was little more than a harsh rasp. "I dunoo anyone by that name." His sister looked near tears, and Race and David looked as if they would've rather been any where but there at that moment. Spot could have killed the both of them for bringing her here like this without a warning.

"Ben--it's me. It's Bridget." It was a plea, a hope, a dream.

There was dead silence for a split second. Then Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, acting leader of Midtown and the Barvey, and the most revered newsie in the city, issued a command. "Clear the pier." David and Race knew he was talking to them, even though his gaze was still fixed on Bridget. His voice was like steel, and his eyes were unreadable, but they could tell the great leader was more than a little shaken.

"Sure, Spot." David said quietly, before he and Race turned and began the arduous task of getting all of the Brooklyn newsies to retreat to dry land for a few moments. It was easier said then done, but when Spot Conlon issued a direct command, only a fool would have dared to disobey.

--

Spot: Review, or I'll soak ya!

A. Duchess: SPOT.

Spot: What!

A.Duchess: Don't threaten my readers.

Spot: grumblegrumble

A.Duchess: Ignore the angry little Brooklynite. But, if you liked/disliked anything please do let me know about it.

Spot: Hey, who you callin' little!