(Some days, you just want to let your inner Mary Sue out. Um, right?)

Emma's shoes hit Brooklyn turf with palpable relief. Suddenly, fear and indecision evaporated. Here, people smelled fear, so there was no place for it. Head high, small body tensed and ready for anything, Emma claimed yet another part of her beloved city. Spot may have owned Brooklyn, there was no doubt that the borough loved him, but Emma was New York. The city had raised her, mothered her, and loved her. And in Brooklyn above all places, Emma was at home.

Instead of asking around for Spot's whereabouts, she'd been gone too long for it to be worth the trouble, she made an educated guess, and headed towards the bridge. If he wasn't actually there, someone she knew would be.

It had rained sometime in the night, so the streets were pleasantly foggy and whisked with low clouds. The rough feel of the city suited Emma, and by the time she had reached the bridge she was smiling. Her indecision had hardened into pure resolve. Conlon would listen to her, and he'd give it to her straight. When he set his mind to it, he had decent advice. Usually. Besides, she'd hit the wall, and he was all that was left.

At the edge of the bridge, Emma saw the boy she was looking for, and a girl she was not. Candide was speaking animatedly to the Brooklyn boy. Unfortunately she was also speaking softly enough for their conversation to be private. Wishing she'd gotten in on the whole squirrel bit, so she could've understood what was going on, Emma was not prepared when Candide whirled away from Spot, and started towards her. Emma cocked an eyebrow as the newgirl approached.

"It's none of your business, and he's such a prick." Candide's words were sharp, and just as quickly, she had swept past Emma on her way to anywhere but here.

Emma's mouth quirked, Spot and Candide had interesting effects on each other. Approaching the Brooklyn boy, she received an unnecessary glare.

"She's such a bitch," he declared, darkly.

"Do you anger her on purpose? Because it's not safe…even for you…" It was Emma's turn to smirk at her friend.

"It's none of your business, why are you here?" His tone denoted the question's low priority.

"You sound just like her," Emma observed.

"Shut up, scruffy,"

"Hey, now, don't take it out on me!"

She spit into her palm, and offered it to him, in the time-honored tradition of good faith and brother-hood. His expression lightened subtly, and he followed suit.

"Good ta have ya back," Spot muttered, by way of a vague apology.

"All is graciously forgiven,"

"What?" he asked, quizzically.

"Nothing," He knew what she was talking about, he just wouldn't admit it. Considering that she was about to unload her past two days of emotion in a moment, she wasn't going to push this issue.

"So whya here?" He asked, blunt as usual.

"Actually, spotty—"

"Woah, woah, whoa…no," he had been leaning against the bridge, but his whole attitude became defensive at her inventive nickname. Spot protected his 'dignity' like a mother chicken worried over her eggs. It bordered on pompous. (1)

Pleased with the effectiveness of her taunt, Emma had none-the-less come here for another reason.

"Then stop calling me scruffy, anyway, I'm here to talk to you." She paused here, not quite sure how to continue. Spot was just really not the kind of person you poured your soul out to on a daily basis. If she wasn't so set on doing this and if he hadn't been the closest family she had left, well, then she wouldn't have come here in the first place. Spot, for his part, chose this moment to make everything completely awkward;

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he looked genuinely concerned, behind his offhand phrasing.

The question caught Emma by the ear, she couldn't believe what he'd just asked her.

"What the hell?" she demanded, face contorted in disbelief and disgust.

"Why else would you want to talk to me?" Spot shrugged, having found his answer in her disgust, he played it off with perfect nonchalance. Emma wasn't able to follow suit.

"What the hell?" she repeated, unable to get past this.

"Maybe that was the wrong question to ask you," Spot admitted, cocking his head at her strange expression. "Why did you come?"

Emma was still fuming over his last question, illustrated with a frustrated; "Nnngrmpht!" and by throwing up her hands, exasperated. "Damn, Spot can you ever ruin a moment!"

He merely folded his arms and shrugged. When she kept staring at him, he opened his mouth to pacify her somewhat. Emma held up a hand, "Skip it, Spot, I just need to talk to you,"

"You've said that," He stated, nodding encouragingly. "You haven't, however, told me why…"

"Would you just shut up? It's about Blink…" She paused a moment and sucked in a deep draft of the Brooklyn air that made her feel so bold and decisive. There was a moment of awkward silence before she stumbled through the first few sentences about how much of a friend he had been to her. Once the words started, Emma couldn't spit them out fast enough.

She wove the story for Spot, who stayed surprisingly quiet. She told him about the kiss, and why she'd pulled away. She told him about Sarah and David, about how much the one-eyed boy meant to her, and finally about her total confusion and fear of losing herself. She spilled out her words to him and when she was done, she looked at him, waiting for him to speak, waiting for his words.

"Why 'dya tell me?" He asked, presently.

The response was so quick in coming, that Spot wondered if she'd expected his question and pre-prepared an answer.

"'Cuz you don't bullshit me, Conlon. I trust you." The admission was a bold one, for her. Something she'd never told him outright. "Besides, who else do I have?" she laughed, ruefully at the last bit.

"And what do you want from me, Emma?" Spot looked at her, calmly. This kid was more important to him then he'd let on. She'd never asked for anything more then being a newsie. A newsie with no agenda, it had to be a first in his book, and she had something in her that he cared about, in his own, narcissistic way.

"I just don't know what to do next, Spot," she made a funny face "I'm not good at this romantic stuff,"

"Been telling you that for years," He muttered, smirking when she scowled at him.

"You are such a boy!" she accused him, hands akimbo.

He waved her off with his hat, effectively telling her to 'keep your skirt on.' Spot leaned back against the bridge again, thinking.

"Do ya like him, Emma?" he finally asked, to Emma's chagrin.

"I just spent the last fifteen minuets telling you just how much and you're seriously asking-" she was cut off by Spot's unmistakable wisdom.

"Then why're you telling me, Scruffy? Never known you to go the long way around before," he smiled, knowingly at her, and jerked his head, sharply, flicking his bangs out of his blue eyes.

"I hate it when you're right," she told him, "It'll go to your head, too…" she added, shaking her head, sadly.

"Get out of here, Emma. Poor fool's waiting for you somewhere. Pulitzer knows what he sees in you." Spot declared mournfully, hat over heart.

Laughing at the incongruous sight before her, Emma couldn't deny the good sense Spot momentarily contained, but wasn't about to let him go with out a bit of her own advice.

"Candide's not going to wait for you forever, Brooklyn." She told her surrogate-brother, abruptly.

It was Spot's turn to be confused.

"The hell?" he demanded.

"She's the only girl who's ever really challenged you, Spot. She's the only one who'll ever really be good enough. Don't be thick, Brooklyn."

She smiled as he sputtered protests and curse words at her with alarming variety.

"You do not like being wrong, do you?"

This was really too much, Emma knew it. So she wasn't really surprised when his fist connected with her shoulder.

"I love you, too."

"Get off my bridge!"

Shaking her head at his childish behavior, Emma followed his order. He needed time to think and she had a newsie to find.

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