Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

A/N: A slightly different takes on the whole "Spot-the-womanizer" views. This will most likely only have two or three chapters, but it is a fun concept. Enjoy. I will be getting to updating Frostbitten soon. Gosh I suck.

Warning: PG-13 (implied adult situations/sexuality)

Chapter 1: Unanswered

Spot thinks I am asleep. I know he does. If he didn't he would have stayed in my bed. He only leaves once I'm sleeping, but he always leaves. I shiver against the cold that touches my naked flesh. As quietly as I can, I reach down and pull a cover over my frigid body and hope he won't hear me.

I don't think it did.

He stands at my window now just watching the empty streets. A loud sigh comes from him. I watch him carefully. Already he has donned his trousers, but his shirt is still on the floor. I don't even remember when he took it off or when my clothes became crumpled heaps. I never remember these things. Always I am so lost in him. His smell, his feel, his taste, I drown willingly in everything that he is. Why do I allow this time and time again?

The moonlight sends its silvery glow into my room and cold light across his back defined with muscles he hides beneath ill-fitted clothes. How tall he stands, and proud, like a soldier. One hand griped his other wrist behind his back, his head held tall and proud, and his feet hip width apart. It looks like he could be surveying a mass of troops before battle. Perhaps in a way he is a soldier trained to live in the streets.

He would be the perfect soldier. Only one so devoid of emotion or guilt could be such soldier as good as he. There is no shame in him or mercy. He takes what he wants and for some reason, you give it to him. Perhaps out of fear for what would happen if you don't, but there is also something in you that yearned to give it to him. In a way I pity him, but he doesn't want pity though. So I give him what he wants – though I can't say I'm better for it.

There is another sigh, and his head bows almost like he is praying. Maybe he isn't so unfeeling. No one without feelings would sigh. He looks almost like the marble statues I've heard of in Europe. His muscles are as hard as the stone he was carved from. Surely he has a heart of stone to match.

"I know yous awake." He said.

His speech cut into the silence like a knife. His voice is so cold and empty that I felt it chill me even more than the cool air of the room. It is eerie to hear his speak without seeing his mouth move. In fact nothing in his body moved. Perhaps he hadn't spoken at all.

"How long?" I asked.

I was not sure what exactly to say since I wasn't even sure if he'd spoken. We've also never spoken directly after a rendezvous like this.

"Awhile," he said.

He doesn't bother to elaborate or turn around to look at me. He doesn't bother to move from his place at the window. He speaks like I am now just an inconvenience.

"Oh," I reply.

It is an asinine attempt to fill the silence with my own voice, but he doesn't respond. He simply raises his head once more and stares out into the night. Lord knows what he was thinking of, or maybe even He doesn't. I would sell my soul to know those thoughts of his.

Silence. It was such a silence that you can feel it creep inside of you and make your heart feel too loud. It was silences like these in which I wonder why I let him do this to me time and time again. Then I saw of him in the eerie light from the moon; each muscle and sinew shadowed and highlighted for a remarkable effect. My throat tightened at the memory of how those muscles felt under my finger tips and how his lips felt against my collarbone. Longing bubbles up in my stomach. I want him again, but know that is impossible. He never gives two favors in one night.

He picked up his rumpled shirt. The customary red suspenders hang down around his legs. I remember pushing those down his arms more than once. His eyes never wandered towards me as he dressed himself. This is typical. Never once does he bother to really look at me. Even in our moments of passion he never once has looked me in the eyes during his bliss. Though I admit it has never stopped me from feeling as if I was the only person alive to him in the world. Right now, however, it bothers me.

Perhaps it is too personal, like staying with me in my bed and sleeping for the night. Staying in my bed would be too intimate - too personal. It would mean he would actually have to care, or belong to someone. Caring and belonging was something lost on the great Spot Conlon. They bled out of him before he came to me and used me like a common street whore. I was nothing more than someone who could scratch an itch and do it willingly, and silently. Silent until tonight

The realization that I was nothing more than convenient hurt even though I had it long ago. I watched him shrug his shirt over his broad shoulders, each of his muscles rolled under the thin fabric as he buttoned up the front. His dark head stayed upright. He didn't even bother to watch his own hands slide the cheap glass through the frayed holes. He was more of a machine than a human. Emotion was drilled out of him from the hard nights spent in the street. Lord only knows what he saw on those streets where he shivered in the cold and sweated in the heat.

Growing up I wasn't rich but I knew I wasn't poor. I had always had a roof put over my head, warm clothes on my back, food in my mouth, and as much education as a girl was allowed. My papa had always made sure of that, and I was thankful. I wondered if Spot even knew who his father was. Had he ever had a home with a family? There is so much that I didn't know about him and so much I will never know about him.

It was not a surprise to me why he was so cold and hard, but it didn't keep me from wanting to change it. I wanted to help him, to reach out and have him trust me enough to confide in me, but I knew he never would. Trusting was something of which he was no capable.

I wonder why?

"You're leaving?" He headed to the door. "Won't you say?" I practically beg holding the crumpled sheets to my breasts.

"Not tonight," his answer is simple, but he is not.

All of his answers are condensed, elementary, and to the point. I wonder if anyone had ever carried on a real conversation with him. I wonder if I ever will.

"Why?" I ask while I still have his attention, praying that he will look my way, but he doesn't.

"There are things to do," Another answer spoken in as few words as possible, with as few personal connotations as possible.

"At this time of night?" I'm baiting him and he knows it. I don't hide that I'm practically desperate for him to stay now.

"Yeah." Was his one word reply. His answered seem to grow shorter every time he speaks.

I am at a loss only for a moment, but a woman holds a great intuition. It can tell her when her child is in danger or when her flux is about to start. It can detect emotions if it pleases and directs one in the ways of feminine flirtation. It is that sort of intuition which whispered to me and told me that Spot was marked by another woman. I ignored it before now. I didn't want to know. Now my mind wrapped around the concept and hurried on with it before any real thought comes.

"May I ask you a question?" The intuitive whisper made the words come before a thought had formed entirely.

"Yous already done that." He said. The quip is quiet, to himself, but he didn't leave. Does he sense what is coming?

"Who is she?" I asked a question that would be cryptic if he could not fill in the blank. He doesn't look at me, but he does stay still. Is it vanity or stalling?

"Who's who?"

"The girl you who has spoiled you for the rest." I said. The clarification came before I had time to think through all of the ramifications of the statement.

Feminine instinct or not – I'd learned that Spot was no one to upset, and when the words slipped from my mouth I regretted them. His eyes shot to mine. A storm brewed on his chiseled features. The hurt is was short, but very sharp and real.

He turned jerkily and walked out the door.

He didn't give me any words, but he had given me an answer in his silence. For in all of my time around men I have learned a few things. One of which is that no one can be so callused without having a reason to be so, no one can be so hard without having been hardened, and no one can hurt someone else unless they too had been hurt.

I sat in the darkness with my shame, but I could not help but wonder who was the woman that had hurt him badly enough to make him the way he was. Who was the woman who had been able to tap past the rough exterior into something deeper? What kind of woman could have been loved by such a man and then leave such a deep scar?

These were the questions that weren't answered by his silence, but ones that I intended to have answered if it kills me.

And knowing Spot Conlon, it very well could.

A/N: Well, it is a little different and I like it. It is a different take on Spot than I have written before, but is it worth continuing? Feedback more than welcome, constructive criticism craved!