So sorry this update took so long. I had finals this week and haven't had any time to have a life lmao. Anyway, I finally finished the next chapter and decided to post it now. Hopefully now that I'm on Christmas break I'll have more time to write, and can get you guys updates sooner :)

Sean hid his face as another scream ripped through the dead silent air. He heard a crash and another angry yell. A woman was crying. A man was fuming. A four-year-old boy was hiding in the other room, listening as his own father viciously beat his mother over and over and over… The screams came to an abrupt stop. A door slammed. The only sound remaining was the mother's sobs as she attempted to pick herself up off the floor.

Sean hurried through the door and was at his mother's side in seconds. When she saw him she began to sob anew and pulled him close to her in a tight embrace. Bruises and lacerations were scattered across her tiny frame, but she didn't care about the pain. All she cared about was keeping her son safe.

"Doan cry, Mama," the child whispered softly. "He's gone, he cain't hurtcha no more."

She smiled sadly at her son. He said those same words every time her husband left. No matter how awful the beating was, she knew that her son was just on the other side of the wall, and that he would be there to comfort her the moment her husband slammed the door on his way out.

Her husband detested her. They had fallen in love at a very young age, just before he was to head off to college. She couldn't afford further schooling, herself, and he had made the decision to stay for her. Instead of going off with his friends to get a higher education he had sacrificed it all for their marriage. He was intelligent and studious and had he gotten a degree he would likely have the money to show for it. He blamed her for their poverty. The first years of their marriage had been as happy as they could be, but over time he had become bitter with regret and jealousy as he watched all his old school friends grow up to become rich and successful business men, while he continued to work in the factory to provide a measly sum to support his family. For a time he had bottled up his resentment and anger, but it was bound to spill over at some point. He had turned to drinking and violence to get his way, and his wife became the main focus for his drunken rage.

"Mama?" Sean's voice broke through her reverie and she realized that tears were still pouring down her cheeks. Bringing a hand to her face, she wiped them away and squeezed her son closer to her still.

"I love you, baby boy," she said gently as her deep blue irises looked on her son affectionately. "Don't you ever forget that."

"I won't, Mama," he said as he mirrored her actions with eyes identical to her own.

Spot woke with a pitiful yelp as he sat straight up in the air and wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. His entire body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his skin was a ghostly hue. His pupils were dilated as he visibly shook, and Spot was tremendously grateful to have his own room in the Brooklyn boarding house, as he could never allow any of his boys to see him in such a state. Every time he dreamed of his past, specifically of his mother, he woke up terrified and vulnerable, and if anyone ever discovered the truth they would call him weak and pathetic. He could not allow his past to affect him so.

The problem was Spot dreamed of his family more often than not. In fact, Spot hated sleeping. His nightmares were one of the reasons he had started waking before sunrise every day; he simply could not sleep any later. Even though he often went to bed very late, he could not sleep in, for it was as if his dreams had him on a schedule. They awoke him at roughly the same time every night: just before five in the morning. After years of this routine even on the nights when he wasn't plagued with bad dreams he still woke at the same time. Spot simply didn't sleep. He knew he was often sleep deprived, but he would rather suffer while awake than face the consequences of his restless nights.

Shaking his head slightly and rubbing his hands along his shivering arms, Spot attempted to calm his rapidly beating heart. After several minutes of allowing himself to calm down, he finally managed to fully return to reality, and he slowly lay back down as he stared at the ceiling in deep thought.

He wasn't sure why he continually allowed his past to bother him. He was the King of Brooklyn; he wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything. But Spot knew that this was only foolish arrogance. People might believe that he had no fears, but it's entirely impossible to be completely fearless. In all honesty, Spot was scared almost all the time, and was simply very good at hiding it. He was afraid for his boys, of what would become of them if anything were to happen to him, or if he misled them in any way. He was afraid for Jack and for Race and the other Manhattan newsies, and for what they would think of him if they knew about his past, about how he had come to power. He was afraid for his sister. He was afraid of letting her down.

Every time Spot closed his eyes his fears manifested into dreams of the one person he had let down more than anyone else. He could never stop the images of her lifeless corpse from entering his mind. She had needed him and he hadn't done anything to stop the monster from taking her. He hadn't done anything.

After the day his father had killed his mother and buried her remains in their yard to cover for his crime, Spot had vowed to never again fail someone so miserably. This is why he took his father's beatings in the place of his younger sister. This is why he bore the physical and mental scars of his childhood so that she didn't have to. This is why he began to work as a newsie at age six so that he could earn a living to support his sister. This is why when he rose to become the leader of the newsies at age ten, he finally turned his own father in for the murder of his mother, because he was finally able to make enough money to help his sister escape the terror inflicted by their own flesh and blood.

Spot protected the ones he loved with little care for his own well-being. He put on the cold-exterior of a selfish and powerful leader so that no one would question his authority, but on the inside he only wanted to protect his friends. He didn't care what happened to him as long as they were safe. He knew that if he ever lost the people he loved that he would be broken beyond repair.

Spot sighed as he pushed these morbid thoughts to the back of his mind. He always felt lonely and insecure after a nightmare, but his mornings in Central Park always helped him clear his head. Pulling back the thin blanket that covered his legs, Spot slowly crawled out of bed, groaning as a headache hit him with the force of high-speed train. Rubbing his temples he made his way over to a small stack of neatly folded clothes and snatching the first shirt he saw he shrugged on his notorious pink suspenders, grabbed his slingshot, cap, and cane and trekked down the stairs and out into the fresh morning air.

As he made the voyage through the expansive city and across the vast Brooklyn bridge, his headache persisted the entire way. By the time his feet touched down on Manhattan soil his mood had turned quite bitter at his tenacious migraine, and Spot couldn't help but think that the morning just couldn't get any worse.

Sarah settled herself down onto the soft grass and shivered as a blast of cold wind whisked around her. Pulling her shawl tightly around her soldiers, she frowned at the unlikely weather. It was only the 2nd of September and already the air around her brimmed with the beginnings of the frigid winter to come. She sighed and reached down to check on the basket that lay at her feet. Inside were several stacks of freshly-baked cookies- a peace offering she hoped that Spot would accept. She was worried that he would have no recollection of leaving her the note, so she wanted to have something to help calm his inevitable temper. She remembered how deeply he valued the mound on which she sat, and she shuddered as she remembered the sheer amount of anger she had seen in him on the first day he had found her there. She was positive that on that day she had seen the Spot Conlon of whom everyone was so afraid. She would never admit it, but she had been terrified herself, and she hoped to never again have to see him with that murderous look in his eyes.

The very first rays of sunshine peaked over the horizon, and Sarah smiled at the sight. Although New York is called the city that never sleeps, she had always loved the tranquil mood in the early mornings. Before most anyone was awake it would be almost impossible to not see the peace that such a morning could bring. Unfortunately, it is far to easy for one to break that peace.

"Princess!"

Sarah startled. She knew who it was without looking, and she could also distinguish by the tone of his voice that he was not in a good mood. She slowly stood to her feet as she brushed the dirt off her skirt. She could feel his presence just behind her left shoulder, but she dared not look for fear of seeing that petrifyingly furious look for a second time.

"What de hell do yuh tink yuh's doin' here?" he barked. Suddenly he placed a hand on her shoulder and she gasped as he forcefully wrenched her around to face him. What she saw as she met his gaze, however, was not the anger she expected, but rather something very different. He was annoyed and glaring at her, of course, but there was something underlying his irritation that she couldn't quite understand. Something that caused his shoulders to sag, his eyes to be surrounded by dark circles, and his face to crease with wrinkles beyond his years. Yes, there was something going on that made him look… broken.

Taken aback by his appearance, Sarah didn't notice that he was talking to her until he literally waved a hand in front of her face. Snapping out of her thoughts, she realized that he was looked at her expectantly with his arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she said with a wince as he glared even more fiercely.

"If yuh would quit daydreamin' den maybe yuh would know de answer to dat, Princess. What, I ain't interestin' 'nough tuh even pay attention tuh?"

"No, it's not that, I was just-"

"Nevuhmind it ain't important. What's important is why de hell yuh tinks yuh have de right to be here, when yuh knows dat dis is my spot."

"I…" Sarah wasn't sure what to say and realized she had no idea how to bring up the night he had appeared outside her window, when it was obvious that he didn't remember one bit of it. Or at least he was pretending not to. Spot raised an eyebrow at her, and she knew he was waiting for her to continue. She took a deep breath. "I was just hoping we could…" she struggled to find the words. "Talk! You know, about stuff…"

He gave her an incredulous look and she couldn't tell if he was mad or if he simply thought she was an idiot. She felt her ears grow warm and a blush crept up onto her cheeks. Spot smirked at her and shook his head.

"Yuh full of surprises, ain't yuh, Princess?" After a moment the smirk vanished from his face and was replaced with a vacant expression. Sarah was surprised once again at how broken and vulnerable he looked. "Unfortunately, I doan got no time fawh yuh silly games. Yuh no what, I'll fawhgetcha was evuh here s'long as yuh doan let it happen again, okay?"

Without another word he turned around and began to head back the way he came. Sarah stood, watching him go for just a moment before she remembered why she was there in the first place. Hurriedly grabbing the basket of cookies she frantically scrambled down the hill to catch up with him.

"Wait!" she called as they both neared the bottom of the hill. Spot glanced in her direction as she finally reached his side, but he continued walking as if she wasn't even there. Sarah rolled her eyes as she struggled to keep pace with him. He was now a good three inches taller than her, and his legs were much longer, and could therefore take much bigger strides.

"I made you cookies!" she panted out as she became winded from all the running. Spot came to a sudden halt and he turned to gape at her in surprise. His eyes first lingered on her face, before they drifted down to the basket in her hands, and then back up to meet her eyes. Sarah smiled at him and held out the basket for him to take. Spot stared for a moment longer before bursting into a fit of hysterics. Her smile twisted into a scowl as he keeled over from laughing so hard.

"Didja now? Fawh me? Yuh shouldn't have!" he leered as he continued. "No, really though, yuh shouldn't have. Jesus, Princess, what have yuh been smokin'?"

Sarah glared at him.

"For your information, I brought them because I thought they could be some kind of peace offering between us! I don't know why you're laughing, it wasn't my idea to play buddies and make up. You're the one who brought me that ridiculous note."

Spot's chuckles came to an immediate stop and he furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What note?" he asked as he scratched his head.

"Two nights ago you showed up outside my window and left me a note." Sarah reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the small scrap of paper. She handed it over to Spot who immediately read it with an addled look on his face. Suddenly it was as if realization dawned on him, and he sighed before crumpling up the note and tossing it to the wind.

"Hey!" Sarah protested, but before she could catch it the note was whisked away by the early morning breeze. She groaned in annoyance. "Just because you destroyed the evidence doesn't mean it didn't happen, Spot."

"Yeah I knows dat. And I's aware dat it did happen, but, Princess, I doan even remember dat night. Dat was de day of me birthday and Jack and I got completely wasted."

"So? It still happened and as far as I'm concerned, it's still a sincere sentiment."

He rolled his eyes at her and groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Look, Princess, if yuh wanna pretend we's best friends and stop all de fightin' dats fine, but I ain't got no time fawh yuh silly fairytales. I doan want to start ovuh with you or nothin' like dat, so yuh can fawhget about de whole ting. It ain't my fault you's stupid 'nough tuh believe de words of a drunk man."

Sarah felt her eyes fill with tears at the insult, but she immediately pushed them back. She couldn't believe she had let him humiliate her once again, and that she ever could have believed he had changed. She glowered at him and threw the basket of cookies at his face. He jumped back in surprise and swatted it away as cookies tumbled out to litter the hillside.

"And to think I was under the impression that you had some decency left in you." She ignored the slight look of guilt he gave her, thinking she had imagined it. "You really are just an insolent git!"

Sarah fled the scene before she would start crying in front of him. Once she was out of his sight she let the barriers fall, and tears began to stream down her face. She continually reprimanded herself for allowing him to catch her off-guard when she should have known that he would always disappoint her. She was just so sick and tired of letting him upset her over and over again, and she vowed right then and there that after that day she would never shed another tear over Spot Conlon.

Spot barreled angrily into the boarding house, slamming the door behind him, and causing a few younger newsies to yelp in surprise and scatter in fear. The other newsies in the room stared at him in shock and their eyes widened at the sight of their callous leader. He was furious; anyone could see that. In fact, the newsies could hardly remember the last time they had seen him so livid. They cowered when he glared at them, and visibly shivered in trepidation as he neared them.

"Well?!" Spot barked, eyes blazing with fiery rage. Several of the newsies witnessing the scene ducked down and covered their faces as if his words could cause them physical pain. "Ain't it about time yuh get off yuh lazy asses and get tuh woik? Dis ain't a boarding house fawh no slackuhs, yuh here me?"

The effect was immediate. Boys of different ages began to frantically scurry about, shoving the last of their breakfast into their mouths, hurriedly wiping shaving cream off their faces, and scrambling to find shirts, shoes, suspenders, and other clothing oddities. All the while Spot glared at them and crossed his arms in an authoritative stance. He was still seething over his visit with Sarah, and over the fact that because of her he wasn't able to cool down after his bad dreams. He had nightmares more often than not, and he needed the mornings in Central Park to himself, simply to think in the peace and quiet.

Instead he was stuck here with this lot, and he couldn't stop thinking about the audacity of the girl who had ruined his day before it had even started. She had been completely in the wrong by intruding on his hill, but somehow she had managed to twist the whole situation back on him and caused him to feel guilty despite of himself. As far as he was concerned, he had done nothing wrong, but his exasperating conscience was getting the better of him. Why did he even care? He didn't understand it, but she had a way of getting under his skin more than anyone else.

"What's de mattuh, Spotty? Wake up on de wrong side of de bed, or what?"

Scratch that, there was one other person who could dig his way even deeper under Spot's skin: Rusty Higgins. Rusty was Spot's second, his only legitimate friend under his rule in Brooklyn. He was his oldest friend and was in fact the first newsie Spot had ever met. Rusty's selling spot was just a couple blocks away from where Spot and his family used to live, and when Spot was little he used to sit out in the yard and wait for Rusty to show up with his characteristic lemon drops. The kid always carried them, and no one bothered to ask where he got them; he simply always had the bright yellow candies. Spot remembered how much he used to look up to Rusty. The other boy was only a couple years older, but Spot had practically worshiped him and the other newsies back before he himself had joined. Back then he could only ever imagine a life free of his father, working for a living, and roughing it up on the streets.

When it came down to it, Rusty had become Spot's key into the Brooklyn newsies. Although Rusty hadn't been high on the totem poll of leadership, he had been able to get Spot a meeting with the leader at the time: Dick Clemmins. The kid was a complete joke and Brooklyn had been the laughing stock of the boroughs. His boys hadn't respected him. They only followed him because he was as big and burly as a locomotive and soaked anyone who tried anything against him. They followed him solely out of fear.

Spot remembered the day he met Dick; he had been absolutely terrified. He was sure that he would piss his pants when Dick had laughed at his obvious nerves. In the end, however, Spot had been accepted into the newsies with little resistance and had faded into the background; he was simply the tiny, scrawny little kid who didn't say a word. In fact, for the first year or so, he only ever spoke to Rusty. Of course over time he had grown more comfortable in the group and had begun to branch out his social network, but Rusty was the only friend he ever made in Brooklyn. He had been there since the beginning and knew Spot better than anyone else. This could be dangerous, however, for Rusty new both the good and the ugly of Spot. He knew just how to pull on his strings and knew all of his vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Spot would never be able to thank Rusty enough for being so loyal, but sometimes he did worry about just how well the other boy knew him.

Plus, the boy was Race's cousin, and that could never be a good thing. Anything related to Race was bound to cause unceasing amounts of trouble.

"Lemon drop for yuh troubles?" Rusty stuck a piece of the candy under Spot's nose and wriggled his eyebrows goofily.

"Ah get dat away from me, Higgins," Spot said sourly. "I ain't in de mood."

Rusty's smile faded and he furrowed his eyebrows. He could tell that Spot wasn't simply in a bad mood; something was bothering him. Nodding his head slightly, Rusty proceeded to lead Spot out of the room, who followed while grumbling under his breath. Once the two boys reached Spot's bedroom, Rusty pushed the door shut before turning to face his friend.

"Alright, now we's alone so yuh can drop de tough-boy act, okay?" Spot crossed his arms stubbornly and glared at him. "Come on, now, Spotty, quit actin' like a three-year-old, and spill. What's really de mattuh witchu? Nightmares again?"

"Hey, I ain't a three-year-old, okay?" Spot protested. "If anyone's a three-year-old it's dat Sarah Jacobs, alright?" he conceded. He decided to leave out the fact that Rusty was right about him having nightmares. He was the only person who knew about them, and, still, Spot hated that Rusty knew he had such a strong weakness.

"Aha!" Rusty grinned in triumph. "So what did she do dis time?"

"She was at me spot again! De girl doan got no sense, and she just makes me so mad, and I doan know… Ughhh." Spot groaned in frustration and rubbed his thumbs in circles across his temples. His headache had grown progressively worse throughout the morning, and Rusty's questioning wasn't helping.

"Hmmm, well why de hell would she do dat?" Rusty asked. "She knows dat she shouldn't, right? What did she want?"

"She made me cookies." Spot muttered. When no reply came, he stopped rubbing his temples to look up at the other boy. Rusty was ogling at him with a ridiculous grin on his face, and he raised his eyebrows suggestively when Spot met his eyes. "What?" Spot asked confusedly.

"She likes youuuuuu," Rusty answered while he playfully punched Spot on the shoulder. Spot scowled.

"She does not."

"Yeah, she does," Rusty insisted.

Spot felt his cheeks grow warm as he considered the idea. Could the princess of Manhattan really like him? No… Suddenly Spot realized that Rusty was beaming at him.

"She likes you, and you like huh back, doan yuh?" he said. Now Spot knew his face had to be red.

"No, I most certainly do not like huh, yuh dolt. Why would you-" Rusty cut him off.

"Spotty and Sarah, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g," he said in a sing-song voice. As he continued the childish toon, Spot pulled his cane out of his belt loop, ready to soak the living daylights out of him before he got to the part about the baby. But before Spot could make a move, Eaves, one of Spots birdies, came tearing into the room at full speed. Spot and Rusty both froze and stared at the small boy as he tried to catch his breath.

"Spot," he said between heaves. Spot walked over to him and patted him on the back.

"Alright, spit it out," Spot said a little too harshly. He was still simmering over Rusty's ridiculous insinuations. Eaves immediately sucked in his breath and regained his composure to stand before his leader.

"It's Manhattan, sir," he said. "Dey's in trouble. Queens decided tuh attack 'em cuz dey tinks dat if dey take down Manhattan, den de're one step closuh tuh takin' you down."

Spot felt his chest tighten slightly but didn't let any signs of concern cross his face. He would never admit it, but he often worried over Manhattan's weak defenses in the event of an attack. He just hoped that no one would get hurt. He knew that Eaves had friends in Manhattan and he could tell the boy was damn near panic. Deciding to reassure him, Spot smirked and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he said. "Den I guess dey's about tuh find out just how strong Brooklyn can be, and dat we nevuh leave our own tuh rot." Eaves smiled nervously at him. Spot chuckled and pushed him toward the door. "Go. Tell everyone tuh get dere slingshots and fightin' rods and get dere asses tuh Brooklyn. We's got friends tuh save, and Queens fishes tuh fry."

Spot inwardly cringed. That one was bad. It didn't even sound clever. He'd never been very good at making speeched. It still seemed to do the trick, however, for Eaves practically sprinted out the door, and the sounds of newsies preparing for battle could soon be heard coming from the floor below. Rusty came to Spot's side and the two began to make there way down the stairs.

"Spotty and Sarah, sittin' in a tree," Rusty whispered into Spot's ear. Spot, who was still holding his cane, brought the weapon down to smack Rusty over the head, who laughed and clambered away.

"Shut de hell up, yuh idiotic imbecile!" Spot called after him. He shook his head in disbelief. Imagine, him and Sarah… Blinking his eyes, he pushed the image to the back of his mind and focused on mentally preparing himself for the fight to come. Maybe he'd see Sarah in Manhattan and be able to clear this whole thing up once and for all.