Disclaimer: Do you really think that if I owned Newsies I would be writing a random ass fanfiction right now? Lmao all rights go to the respective owners; I only own a few of the characters you don't recognize from the film :)
Jack sighed contentedly. He and Spot were sitting on the docks by the Brooklyn newsie house with their drinks, quietly enjoying the late evening air. New York was filled with an assortment of smells, most of which were less than pleasant, but here by the water, late at night, when the city was calmer and the hot sun didn't augment the awful stenches, the natural air wasn't all bad. Sitting there, with his beer in hand and his best friend at his side, Jack Kelly couldn't have been happier. If only they could stay like that forever.
But Jack knew that in the morning they would have to get back to work. Back to the grueling hours out in the unbearable heat, getting scorched red as tomatoes and making little profit as a result. The life of a newsie was never easy. Jack and Spot may be considered great leaders in the eyes of the lower-class, but that didn't change the fact that they were both thread-bare poor. The elation from winning the strike had only lasted so long, and now every newsie was back under the oppression of the upper-classes. They had won, sure, but in the end, things would always remain the same: Pulitzer and all the other greedy autocratic bastards would always win in the long run.
Jack looked over at his friend. Spot took a swig from his beer and then leaned back against his palms as he rested his eyes against the scintillating moonlight. Spot was another story entirely. He knew authority and leadership like no one else. He had started from the lowest bottom anyone could possibly imagine, and yet he had worked his way up to the top of the lower class by sheer effort and determination. He had incredible talent in leadership and was the smartest person Jack knew. He may not stand out in a crowd, but Spot Conlon was not someone who should be overlooked. He was feared and respected for a reason, and Jack knew that, if he applied himself, Spot could really go places in life. He had the potential to be great; to really make a difference in the world. And yet, Jack worried for him. Everyone always talked about how, one day, Spot was going to be the biggest, most well-known crime boss New York had ever seen. That he was going to lead a gang of the toughest and most brutal men in the entire city, and that no one would even dare to speak his name. Jack didn't doubt that Spot could accomplish all these things, but he didn't want that for him. He knew just where a life like that would land Spot: prison. Jack's own father was in prison for similar crimes, and Jack wouldn't wish that upon anyone, especially on his best friend. It was something Jack thought about frequently: about where Spot would end up. About where he himself would end up. Would Spot become the fearless gang leader everyone expected him to be? Would Jack ever make it to Santa Fe? Would he marry Sarah and start a family? Would Spot have a family? Jack chuckled at the idea of their kids getting together for playdates. Sarah would throw a fit if her children went within ten feet of those of her sworn nemesis. But then Jack frowned. Would the two of them even remain friends?
Spot, who had heard Jack's chuckle, peered at him curiously. He could tell that Jack was deep in thought.
"Hey, whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" he asked nonchalantly. Jack turned his gaze to rest on his companion. Spot gave him an odd look and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Jack sighed.
"Do me a favawh, eh Spot?" he replied. "Doan let dem decide what becomes of yuh."
Spot laughed nervously.
"What's dat supposed tuh mean, Jacky-boy? Yuh drunk or what?"
"Nah, man, it's just…" Jack trailed off, but Spot looked at him imploringly. "I doan know, I just tinks we should control our own futuhs, yuh know? No one gets tuh decide what happens tuh us 'cept us, right?"
Spot furrowed his brow and looked at his friend in confusion.
"I mean, I guess so…" he cleared his throat before continuing. "Where's all dis comin' from anyway, Jacky-boy?"
"I doan know, I guess it's just dat tings are changin' yuh know? You and me, we're gettin' olduh and we can't be newsies fawhevuh. We's both gonna have tuh get real jobs someday and get lives in de real wawhld."
"Yeah dat's true, I guess. But Jack tings may change and we may get olduh, but I know one ting fawh shoh, and dat's dat I will always be your best mate no mattuh what." Spot slung an arm around Jack's shoulder and smirked humorously. "Even when you's old and grey, and go by de name Franny, I's always gonna be around fawh yuh."
Ever since Spot had learned that Jack's real name was Francis, he had pestered him for it to no end. He loved to call Jack 'Franny' whenever possible, and where at first it had exasperated Jack substantially, it had now become a sort of inside joke between the two of them. Besides, Jack always returned the gesture by calling Spot 'Patty' after his middle name Patrick.
"Oh yeah?" Jack smirked back at him. "So does dat mean dat I'm gonna have tuh deal wit' a grumpy old Patty, who's fawhevuh gonna complain about de fact dat he finally has tuh use dat good fawh nuttin' cane of his tuh help him wawhk, becawze he's too damn old tuh do it on his own?"
Spot snorted before pulling out his cane and jabbing Jack in the ribs with it. Jack yelped and began to laugh as he clutched at his side and fell on his back onto the boards of the Brooklyn docks. Spot laughed along with him, and laid back on his elbows, so the two of them both stared up at the late-night sky. The smog that endlessly surrounded the city, blocked any view they could have of the stars, but that didn't matter to the two boys. Neither of them was really looking anyway, but rather they were both contemplating the things that Spot had just said. Jack knew that he'd meant it, that he really thought they'd be friends forever. And as they both sat there, deep in thought, it was as if eternity had already reached them, and, in that moment, Jack's worries were put to rest, and he genuinely believed that he and his best friend would continue to take on the world together for the rest of their lives.
As Sarah climbed into bed that night, she replayed the events of the day in her head. After Spot and Socks had left, she and Jack had gone to Tibby's for dinner, and then had walked the streets of Manhattan until he had left to head over to Brooklyn. The two of them had enjoyed themselves thoroughly and had a genuinely good time. Despite this fact, however, Sarah simply could not get the incident with Spot out of her mind. She couldn't understand why he affected her so much, or why she let him get to her when she knew he was only trying to get a rise out of her.
Maybe it was because she hated all the praise he received from the people around her. It seemed like everyone she knew talked up the "great Spot Conlon," the fearless and revered leader of the Brooklyn newsies; one of the best fighters in all of New York; the guy you don't mess with unless you're ready to meet your maker. Sarah scowled. She hated when people described him like that. She remembered how her own brothers had talked about Spot Conlon before she knew who he was. David had gone to Brooklyn with Jack to convince Spot to join the strike, and afterward he'd never stop going on and on about how intimidating Spot Conlon was, and how Spot Conlon had shot a beer bottle with his sling shot from twenty meters away, and how Spot Conlon was the most famous and respected newsie in all of New York and probably everywhere else. Spot this, Spot that, yada yada yada. By the time the big rally had come around, Sarah couldn't help but be beside herself with excitement and anticipation to finally meet the renowned leader of Brooklyn. When none other than the rude, immature, and pompous jerk from Central Park had sauntered into view flanked on either side by Brooklyn boys and demanding the attention of the entire room, Sarah had nearly hurled chunks all over her best dress. She finally understood what he had meant when he'd called himself the 'King of Brooklyn', and she was absolutely appalled to discover that the conceited title held some truth in the life of the insolent git. He, of course, had been overjoyed at her discomfort, and had made it his goal in life to give her as much grief as possible. She could hardly believe the amount of arrogance that could be found in one boy, and her hatred for him grew every time she caught sight of his condescending smirk. Jack had asked her on several occasions why she hated him so, but she refused to explain. She knew that he and Spot were almost like brothers, and she didn't want to come in-between their friendship.
Sarah was startled out of her abstraction by a loud clash followed by the sound of someone blurting out a string of curse words. Her heartbeat quickening, Sarah pulled her legs over the side of her bed and turned toward the noise, which resounded from the fire escape outside her window. She stared in shock as she saw none other than the insolent git himself, stumbling about the fire escape, creating a racket, and swearing every time he nearly toppled over the edge. She watched as he wobbled back and forth before finally regaining his balance and reaching into his pocket he extracted a piece of paper which he proceeded to attempt to jam underneath the glass pane of her window. Sarah could hardly comprehend his audacity. Here was Spot Conlon, completely wasted, fumbling about outside her house, leaving her a note of all ridiculous things, when mere hours before he had tormented and embarrassed her in front of an entire squad of newsies. What on earth did he think he was doing?
Sarah exhaled heavily before standing to her feet and making her way over to the window. As she came within arm's length of the glass, Spot lifted his eyes to meet hers. Sarah froze. For a moment they both stood there, transfixed in a dream-like trance. It was like they were the only two beings in the entire universe, and Sarah felt an odd tingly feeling deep inside her chest. But just as quickly as the moment had formed, it was broken. Spot lurched into motion, and before Sarah could even consider opening the window to talk to him, he was gone, vanishing into the night as if he had never been there at all.
Sarah stood there for a moment, wondering what it had all been about. Why had they both frozen like that? And why didn't she feel angry or annoyed like she usual did after a situation involving Spot? And what was this unfamiliar sensation welling up inside of her? Sarah didn't have an answer to the nagging questions, but she knew for certain that she would do her best to find out the next time she saw him.
Sarah turned to head back to bed. But just before she turned her back on the fire escape, a flash of white caught her eye. The note. In all the excitement she had nearly forgotten that Spot had been trying to leave her a note of some kind. Slowly opening the window, Sarah was careful to not let the small slip of paper blow away into the dark night. Once she had the note grasped firmly in her hand, she pulled the window shut and flipped open the folded note excitedly:
Princess,
I belivs that we both got of on the rong foot. I's been misin you at the ol spot in Central Park. Plis com meets me ther agin tomaro and we can mabe start ovuh.
-Spot C. aka The Insolent Git
Sarah couldn't believe it. Could the insufferable brat really have some decency in him? Maybe this was all a dream or some wild invention of her imagination. Sarah reread the note. She giggled at the atrocious spelling and grammar, especially humored by the fact that he had spelled 'insolent' correctly but had failed to spell simpler words such as 'again' or 'please'. But no matter how she looked at it, she could not come up with a selfish motive behind the innocent note. Could it be possible that he really felt sorry for everything he'd done to her? Could she trust him?
Sarah set the note on her bedside table and crawled back underneath the warm sheets. She gazed up at the ceiling, not feeling one bit sleepy as she couldn't seem to take her mind off the unpredictable turn of events. She smiled to herself, but she wasn't sure why. After what felt like an eternity, drowsiness finally began to overtake her, and as she drifted off to sleep at last, Sarah knew that she would just have to go to Central Park the next day to discover just what the King of Brooklyn was up to.
Spot moaned and rolled over onto his side. He let his arm flail to his left and was surprised to feel his hand squelch into something wet and sticky. Opening his eyes he groaned as the bright sunlight assaulted his irises. He had a piercing headache and it took him several minutes to wake himself up. Blinking several times to grow accustomed to the light, he was finally able to look down at his fingers.
"Aargh!" Spot jerked up faster than he thought possible and vigorously looked around for something to wipe his hand with. Dripping from his fingers was a mass of yellow liquid, the likes of which Spot was sure he had never seen. As he surveyed his body he realized in horror that the stuff was not only on his hand but seemed to be covering nearly every last inch of him! He didn't know what it was, but he could come up with a few guesses, none of which he wanted to be anywhere near him.
As Spot looked around he realized that he was in Jack's room in the Manhattan boarding house. When the hell had he come to Manhattan? The last thing Spot remembered was Jack taking him back to the bar to bribe the bartender into giving them a few more drinks.
"Apparently we had more than a few," Spot muttered to himself as he finally found a blanket on which he began to wipe off the mystery goop.
"Mmmmmh." Spot jumped as the sheet he was using suddenly moved beneath his fingers. Stumbling away from the shifting form, Spot grabbed the first thing he found to use as a weapon. Brandishing nothing but a hair brush, Spot slowly creeped toward the unidentified entity in front of him. As he came close to it, the thing turned around swiftly and the blanket covering it fell to the floor from the sudden movement. Spot screamed. It screamed. Spot raised the hair brush ready to rain hellfire on… Race?
"Woah, woah hold up it's me!" Race fell to his knees in front of Spot. "Please, have moicy, I din't mean tuh frighten Your Highness."
Spot rolled his eyes as he lowered the brush. Race always made fun of his status. He wasn't scared of Spot one bit, and never failed to let Spot know it. He just loved to push Spot's buttons and test the limits of the "feared King of Brooklyn."
"I ain't scared," Spot grumbled under his breath.
"What was dat?" Race cupped a hand to his ear as he climbed to his feet. "I coun't hear yuh ovuh de sound of your enawhmous ego."
Spot glared at him fiercely before tackling him to the ground, initiating a playful brawl as they wrestled about the floor. Spot kneed Race in the stomach, who, in turn, elbowed Spot in the face, causing his headache to return with such ferociousness that he groaned and clutched at his skull.
"Yuh yieldin', Conlon?"
"Never." But before Spot could take Race on for a second round, an annoyed voice sounded from the bed on the other side of the room.
"Would you two ladies quit yuh bawlin' and shut de hell up?" Jack lifted his head to glower at them before letting it plop back down onto his pillow. "A man can't get any sleep around here."
Spot and Race glanced at each other briefly before Race's face broke into a mischievous grin. Spot watched in confusion as he tiptoed across the room and picked up a half-full glass of water from a small mantle. He turned to Spot, who, finally catching on, grinned back and nodded. Without further ado Race rapidly flipped the glass, causing its contents to tumble through the air before landing on Jack's head with a resounding splash. Spot and Race exploded with laughter as Jack jumped a mile into the air and fell off the bed into a heap of twisted limbs on the floor. The look on his face was priceless as he frantically scoured the room until his eyes landed on the two boys keeling over from the amount of laughter emitting from their lips.
"I's gonna kill de both of yuhs." Jack struggled to his feet and advanced toward Spot and Race, but suddenly he clutched his head and stumbled backward until he collapsed onto the bed. Race burst into another fit of laughter, but Spot moved toward Jack in slight concern. After taking one step, however, Spot's own head exploded with pain and he too grabbed his skull before sitting down hard onto the floor.
"Jesus, just how much d'ja drink last night?" Race asked as his laughter finally fizzled out.
"Too much," Spot groaned as another wave of nausea coursed through his aggravated head. Jack wasn't doing much better, as he too moaned and complained about his throbbing headache.
"Alright, up and at 'em," Race said as he took Spot by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Spot began to complain, but Race wouldn't hear any of it. "Ah come on, Spotty-boy, I gots de poifect remedy fuh hangovers."
"Oh yeah, Race? What's dat?" Jack mumbled out.
"Watuh and a bath, me friend," Race replied as he used one arm to pull Jack out of bed and the other to pull Spot along as they made their way out of the room. "Watuh and a bath."
"And food?" Spot asked hopefully.
"Yeah shoh," Race answered with a laugh. "But no mawh mustard fawh either of yuh's."
"Mustard?" Jack looked at Race in confusion. The three of them had just made their way into the main sleeping area for the other newsies, and Spot noticed that the room was empty, meaning that the other boys were likely already out selling their papes.
"Yeah," Race grinned. "De two of yuh's came roarin' in here last night at about two in de mawhnin', drunk off yuh asses, and covered from head tuh toe in mustard of all tings. I still doan know where yuh could have gotten so much mustard in one night!"
Spot and Jack stared at each other, desperately trying to recall what had occurred the night before. It was obvious that they had both had a little too much to drink, and that things had gotten a little out of hand. Spot hated mustard. He always had, but Jack loved the stuff. Spot had no doubt that whatever they had gotten themselves into last night it had to have been entirely Jack's doing, because there's no way even a drunk Spot would willingly choose to do anything involved with that disgusting condiment.
As Spot and Jack began to strip off their clothing to wash up, Spot continued to contemplate his missing memories. The night truly was a mystery. Who knows what Spot could have done? He couldn't remember who he'd seen, what he'd said, or even where he'd gone the night before. He just hoped that his reputation was still intact. It would be pretty sad if he tarnished his whole image as a result of one drunken binge. Out of all the mysteries and questions that floated around his head, however, Spot was just grateful to have one piece of the puzzle solved: at least now he knew the identity of the mysterious yellow liquid.
Insolent git.
He hadn't shown up. Of course he hadn't, the scumbag. How could she have been so stupid as to think he could have had a change of heart? This was probably all just some ploy to make her feel even worse about herself, so that he could use it against her the next time he saw her. She could already hear his voice taunting her for falling for it. She wouldn't be one bit surprised if she found out he had been hiding in the tree line all along, watching her wait for him and laughing at her stupidity.
But he was drunk when he left the note.
"Oh, shut up." Sarah grumbled to herself. Her conscious just wouldn't let that one go. True, she was ninety-nine percent positive that Spot had been completely wasted when he'd visited her the night before, but she still couldn't help but feel betrayed somehow. As usual, she couldn't understand why it all bothered her so much. Why did Spot have such an effect on her? He got under her skin like no one else, and she just couldn't understand it. Even if he was drunk enough that he didn't remember, that would also mean that he didn't mean it, right? That the note and their moment the night before meant nothing to him.
But people are more open and honest when they're drunk.
Sarah scowled. Her conscience was, as usual, correct. Sarah knew from the days of her father's drinking that he would often be more truthful when intoxicated. This fact didn't totally condone Spot's failure to show up, but it did mean that he might simply be hungover and completely oblivious to what had occurred the night before.
So he deserves a second chance, then.
Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. She supposed that he did deserve a second chance, no matter how reluctant she was to give it. She would just have to come back again the next day and find out just how much sincerity was to be found within Spot's note.
Told you so.
Sarah laughed.
Once she had made up her mind to give Spot a second chance to prove himself, she continued with her day with a smile on her face. She didn't realize it, but secretly she had wanted Spot to be a better person. She wanted to make up with him, and maybe even start some sort of friendship with the Brooklyn boy. With that desire buried deep within her unconsciousness, Sarah went to bed that night with a light feeling in her heart.