#spotconlon

“I don’t know.” Spot pushed past Knicks and the small crowd of newsies that had begun to form. 

“What are you doing? How’d they’d get here? Do you know where Vinny’s hat is?” Knicks started questioning Spot. 

Spot groaned at the boy’s questions and started towards the stairs. “I’m bringing her up to my room to take care of her. I don’t know. I found her on the doorstep. As you can see, she’s beaten up pretty badly. And no, I haven’t seen Vinny’s hat.”

Spot was right. The girl in his arms had been soaked and looked pretty rough. She had a black eye that was a nasty black, purple, and blue. On the other side of their face, another bruise was creeping up their cheekbone. Her lip was split and had a smattering of other cuts and blemishes on their face.

Before Knicks could ask anymore questions, Spot quickly sidestepped him and hurried to his room.

Spot set the teenager down and before exiting the room. He wanted to grab some things to clean them up. Maybe some bandages or ointment? Truth be told, Spot was better at soaking someone than healing them. 

Once he got back with his half-hazard supplies, he found the person sitting up on their elbows. 

“Hello?” Spot looked at her sceptically. Should he trust this random person? 

“Who are you?” The girl asked, trying to sit up further. 

Spot shook his head and said, “Lay back down. What happened to you?” 

“Answer my question.” 

Spot raised an eyebrow. No one ever talked back to him. But, this kid didn’t know he was the King of Brooklyn. He could cut them some slack. “I’m Spot Conlon, newsie, and King of Brooklyn.” 

The girl’s eyes narrowed but she laid down as Spot had asked. “I’m Y/n. I-uh.” They cleared their throat, “The Delancey Brothers got to me. They thought I was stealing something.” 

“Were you stealing something?” Spot asked in a deadpan voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if this dirty street-rat needed to steal to stay alive. He wasn’t about to diss on it, though. He knew all too well about life on the streets. He started cleaning the girl up. 

“Yes.” Y/n admitted. She pulled out a policeman’s whistle, a proud glint in her eye. “It just looked so shiny and I thought I could get some good money for it.” She then squinted at Spot who was cleaning some cuts on her arm, careful for her fresh bruises. “Why’d you take me in? I know newsies are all about loyalty and crap, but I’m not a newsie.” 

Spot huffed a laugh, “Just ‘cause you’re not a newsie doesn’t mean I’d leave you out there. That’s cruel.” 

“You were still taking a gamble. I could knock you out and steal from you right now.” 

This time, Spot laughed for real. “Yeah, sure sweetheart. You could beat me in a fight. And, I don’t know… there was just something about you? I couldn’t imagine you doing anything terrible… Sounds stupid. I know.” 

Y/n hummed. “Alright, Spot Conlon. I trust you.” 

They went to stand but Spot pushed them back down. “That was a bad soaking. You were unconscious. I’m not about to let you waltz out here.” 

Y/n glared at him, “I can take care of myself.”

“From what I just saw, no you can’t.” Spot contradicted. “You’re staying here until you get better.” 

Y/n leaned back on Spot's bed, arms crossed. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me, Spot Conlon.”