For Brooklyn 2

By: Ambrlupin

Chapter Nine: Come along, Mister Conlon

Summary: Spot is being forced to leave New York, but how will Brooklyn take it? How will Red...? One thing is for sure though. No one is going to let him go without a fight. (Sequel to For Brooklyn)

Disclaimer: No. I. Do. Not. OWN. Blah.

A/n: SECOND half of my first Newsie fic. -smile-

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"You don't get it, do you? Spot isn't just a newsie of Brooklyn. He is Brooklyn. He is the air that you breathe, the ground under your feet, the sky above your head, everything you see he has bled to protect, and you will, BY GOD, SHOW HIM SOME RESPECT!" - Red.

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"Race!" He set the other down on his back, his fingers twitching as a fine tremor began to work up his arms and across his chest, his heart starting to nearly thump out of his chest. Why wasn't Race answering him? Why wasn't he answering him!

"I know you'll take care of me...Brothers always do."

Brothers...They were brothers...

And he was letting him die.

Race's head was tilted to the side, cheek to the pavement, his lips a sharp crimson from the blood, his skin an alarming shade of ashen gray that sent chills up and down Spot's spine. He knew what was wrong the minute he saw the way he was laying, the stillness to the chest.

He wasn't breathing.

Millions of thoughts ran through his head then. He heard voices, conversations, anything and everything. He had to save Racetrack, absolutely had to! But he didn't know how.

And there was no one around.

"Race...Race..." Somehow he had started to chant, a soft breathing of the elder's name. He couldn't die, not here, not in Spot's arms. That was just too cruel, just too darn cruel!

"WAKE UP RACE!" He screamed, his voice echoing in the air, "GOD DANGIT YOU WILL WAKE UP!" His fist slammed onto the ground so hard his skin tore. "YOU WILL!"

"SPOT!"

The unexpected shouting of his name made the youth's head jerk upward in alarm, eyes wide. He had never been so thankful in his life. And the one who was rushing towards him was even better.

"Red! Red...He's not breathing!" He stammered, "Race's not...!"

Red fell to his knees, easily taking charge as he brushed a strand of hair from his own face. He gently pushed Spot back, eyes running over Race with a sharp look. He moved the newsie so he was straight on the ground, arms at his sides with the palms down to the pavement.

Tilting the youth's head back, Red softly forced breath after breath into the other's lungs, once and a while putting a firm pressure on his abdomen, and occasionally felling around his throat.

Spot could have slapped himself silly and then hung himself over his bridge. Every newsie in Brooklyn had been taught such a simple maneuver. It was usually used for drowning victims, so why was Red-

Oh...

Red pulled back just as Race's body jerked slightly, his head turning to the side as he coughed, blood slipping past his lips to splatter over the ground. His eyes fluttered open weakly before he sagged back against the concrete.

But he was breathing again.

"There's probably a cut," The redhead explained, his finger tips feeling around the base of the Manhattan boy's throat. "Somewhere around here, and it was bleeding, leaking into his breathing tubes, and at the angle he was at...He wasn't aware of it until it was too late."

"It was so fast." Spot murmurred, his hands shaking, "So fast...I didn't know what to do...There was no time.."

"No." Red easily lifted Race into his arms, but his eyes were on Spot, his small smile sincere. "You did good, kid. Real good."

"But its my fault, Red! If I hadn't stood up to him..." Why did he feel the need to justify it? Why did he have to justify Race's injuries? Was it to ease his own guilt? Was it because he knew, deep down, that if he had just died so long ago...this would never have happened, and Race wouldn't be lying there? "This wouldn't have-"

"Don't kid yourself, Spot. He would have done it eventually, its his nature, the only thing he knows." He tilted his head to the side, motioning the other to follow him as he led the way home. "Whether it were now or later, Race or someone else entirely...He would have still done it. However, I, for one, am quite proud of you standing up to him, Matthew."

Matthew.

That was his name, the one he had been given at birth. Matthew Christopher Conlon. His mother, long ago when she was still in her own mind, called him that. His sister, called him that. His father...

No, Jake Conlon, called him that.

But the only time it didn't sound like a curse, was when it came from Red's mouth.

Spot smirked a little as he watched Red's back, and despite the gravity of the recent events, he smiled and murmurred, in a barely audible tone, too soft for the other to hear, "Thanks...Dad."

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Spot turned over in the bed, covers pooled around his waist. A sliver of moonlight drifted in past the covered windows, landing on his bare torso and sending a flare of silver through the sleeping room.

A soft smile came across his face as he turned the key over and over in his fingers. As insignificant as it may seem, the key was a vital part of why he was leader. His cane was the flag, but the key...the key...

He had first seen that key around Red's neck, years before he even thought of becoming a newsie. Everyone seemed to want to get their hands on it, but Red had given it to Spot, after their first brush with Karlof in Queens.

He had asked Red then what it had meant and what it went to.

He was told to never ask again, but that he would know when the time came.

That time came...Years later when a foolish kid in Manhattan started a strike.

""They say that Spot Conlon is the key..."

Spot would never say it to his face of course, but the Mouth had been wise that day, wiser than even he knew. He had answered Spot's question, the one that had been bugging him since he was a child. What did the key under his shirt mean?

He asked Red once more.

And got an answer.

"That key you wear, its nuttin special at all. It went, long ago, to the first lodging house, when Brooklyn was first established."

"Then why does everyone want it? Why did you tell me to keep it secret?" Spot was confused, he at least thought it went to something important!

Red glanced at him from under the brim of his hat, eyes full of a fierce fire. "Because, Matthew, it's the key to Brooklyn."

He had been left to puzzle that one out, but he thought that maybe, just maybe, he had finally figured it out. It wasn't just that it was a part of their history, but it was the sign of their leader, maybe even more so than the cane, because it was the start, and it would be the end.

Because he had kept it secret, until the time had come.

And when the time had come, he told the world...

Spot Conlon was here to stay.

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The next morning, everything fell apart.

Spot had just sat down with something to eat when there was an almighty banging at the doors, in which Boots nearly tripped over himself to open. Race was upstairs sleeping, and he didn't need to be disturbed.

It was the cops.

They stalked inside with the air only adults carried, that smug swagger that clearly said they owned the area, that they could make anyone and everyone bow down to the ground they walked on.

But Spot was there, and he had that air too.

"Can I help you?" Jack asked, standing slightly to the left of the group of Brooklyn newsies. His tone was polite, but sharp. He hadn't forgotten his recent brush with these men.

"Im looking for a Matthew Conlon." The deputy, a tall and mean looking man said slowly, flipping out a piece of paper. "This here is a court order. He is an underage child, and is thus required to return to his home. Now."

Spot's world crumbled out from under his feet, taking him with it down and down, into the empty darkness, without a hand-hold, without any way to stop himself. He cast a stunned look around at his friends, his boys...They could only stare back in horror.

A court order.

He couldn't challenge a court order.

His spoon fell from his hand, hitting the plate with a sound that echoed forever, and the deputy seemed to know, had to know, because he looked at Spot and said it a cool, collected voice.

"Come along, Mister Conlon."

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awww! -cries- im sorry! I forgot to update it! So it's a little late! Im sorry! Don't hate meeeeeeee! ...review?