Author's Note: Okay so, this story is more a focus on how Spot views his role as leader and all of the sacrifices he makes for the newsies of Brooklyn. This isn't one of those stories about a womanizing, bad ass, sarcastic, or cruel Spot, even though we all love that Spot to death! (I know I do anyway) This story sheds a bit of a different light on Spot I think, although I did make him smirk :D

Also: SPOT WEEK 2009!! April 1-8!! PM huffle-bibin or I (because we're holding it) if you want to enter something! Details are on either one of our profiles. YAY! That's sort of how this story/one-shot came to be; I just got so excited and it put me in a Spot mood and my brain came up with this! Ha ha! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Scribbles is a figment of my imagination. Spot is not :(

Spot Conlon leaned back, supporting himself with the palms of his hands, where he reclined on the roof of the Brooklyn Lodging House, gazing up at the stars with his closest friend—or as close a "friend" as Spot would ever allow himself to have. He was the leader of Brooklyn, he didn't have time to dally in social relationships unless they further endured the survival and authority that Brooklyn held. Personal friendship was not on the list of social relationships that Spot considered crucial.

The newsgirl beside him rolled her head slowly in a circle, cracking her neck and sighing at the releasing feel. Spot grimaced. "God, Scribbs, ya gotta do that? It's…gross." Spot couldn't think of a better word for his disgust. He hated the sound of bones being cracked, unless it was from his fists.

Scribbles grinned wickedly before jerking her head first to the left, then to the right, the result being two horrifically loud popping noises. It was a wonder, Spot thought, that her head remained attached to the rest of her body. He shook his own head at her and went back to finding constellations.

A cool breeze blew and Scribbles' tangled mane danced in the wind. Spot could smell the hint of rose water that she added when she washed her hair. One thing he could say for the boyish girl was that she took exquisitely good care of herself, for someone who acted like a complete lout sometimes. But after fifteen years of knowing Scribbles, he was used to her unique ways.

Scribbles was the only person Spot could think of that was comfortable being with him when he was silent. Most newsies, and adults as well, began to fidget nervously and ramble about some unimportant topic if Spot chose to stare instead of speak to them. Yet Scribbles simply sat, maybe even enjoyed the quiet, too.

It was while Spot was thinking this that Scribbles interrupted his thoughts on the matter. "Hey Spot?" her voice inflected.

"Hmm?" he hummed questioningly.

The girl scratched the back of her head. "I'se've known ya for near me whole life, and I'se jus' wonderin'…what on earth is that damn key for?" She blinked her wide eyes at him, desperately pleading for an answer with that doe-ish look.

Spot furrowed his brows for a moment. "What key?" he asked, confused.

Scribbles scoffed. "The one 'round ya neck!"

Oh. Right. That key. He looked down at his chest, as if just realizing the adornment was there. Spot didn't think on the key much, and frequently forgot about the old thing, until, that is, someone brought it up or stared in wonder at it for too long. "Why da ya wanna know?"

"Why do I—why do I wanna know? Well, gee, Spot, it's 'cause I know it's ta somethin' valuable and I wanna steal ya outta house an' home," she answered sarcastically. She rolled her eyes. "Why do I ask all me questions Spot?"

In unison they both spoke flatly: "Curiosity."

Scribbles laughed quietly as Spot smirked, he couldn't allow himself to laugh, he was the leader of Brooklyn, and laughter was a convenience he could not afford to indulge in. "Well," he began, "What da ya think it's for?"

"If I knew I wouldn't a asked."

"I didn't ask what ya knew, I asked what ya thought."

Scribbles scrunched her mouth together in a pout, stroking her chin in concentration. "I suppose there's the possibility that ya might permanently occupy a room at a certain cat house down the road…" Spot glared at her good-naturedly; he knew she was making a joke; he rarely let himself become concerned with a girl, or involved with a girl, or just be with a girl. He was the leader of Brooklyn, he couldn't let anyone see him at his most vulnerable, when he was lost to the world in pleasure. No one, he vowed, would know the power they potentially held over him. Girls could wait for after he had enforced Brooklyn's safety.

Scribbles went back to pondering. "Maybe ya got a secret box somewhere with all the little hidden treasures ya've picked up along the way," she offered. Spot gave her a skeptical look and shook his head no. Collecting little 'treasures' in life was a childish thing to do. Spot wouldn't waste his time for treasures, nor would he waste the space needed to keep such silly items. What did Scribbles think he collected? Bottle caps and shells from the sand? Only a young kid would do that, not Spot, not the leader of Brooklyn. He couldn't do such a thing; he had to look out for those still innocent enough to have fun doing that sort of activity.

"How 'bout this," Scribbles piped up with a grin, which tipped Spot off that her notion would be absolutely ridiculous.

"Shoot," he nodded in a granting manner.

"Spot Conlon ain't actually a newsie. Oh, no, Spot Conlon's actually one a the richest hoity-toities roamin' God's green earth, and that key—that key right there—" she pointed to his chest for emphasis "—that key is the key to a large mansion on top of a hill, overlookin' a prosperous and glorious farm, or ranch, or somethin', that you'se is makin' all the money ya evah need off of, and the real reason you'se hangin' with us low lifes is 'cause ya poifect lifestyle was hideously borin'." She finished breathlessly, holding back a snicker at her overly far-fetched and gaudy tale about the leader of Brooklyn, who wouldn't even think of living in luxury when his boys—and girls—were left in the slums.

For once, Spot loosened up. "Correct," he commended, and grinned along with Scribbles up at the dark sky. The moon was a thin sliver, beautifully reflected off the river under the Brooklyn bridge. Spot couldn't even conceive of being anywhere but where he was. He couldn't imagine a life where he wasn't responsible for someone else's life as well. Spot wasn't complaining. He knew what the job as leader entailed when he took it, and he fully accepted the weight on his shoulders. He was, after all, leader of Brooklyn. He had to be strong. Had to carry that weight on his shoulders.

Scribbles huffed in minor frustration next to him. "C'mon Spot, jus' tell me," she whispered. Not pleadingly, not begging, just saying. She understood that Spot kept most secrets to himself, understood he felt he couldn't open up to anyone. She knew he didn't want to trust anyone too much. He was the King of Brooklyn, he should be the trusted one, not the one handing out the trust. If he trusted the wrong person, the effects could be disastrous. Spot knew this. Scribbles knew this. But Scribbles also knew that the toughest of people could break if they didn't share even a small bit of their burden.

Spot could see that there was no harm in Scribbles, saw that she was pure in her intention of knowing. Spot couldn't help but feel that Scribbles was incredibly naïve and innocent, even at the age of seventeen and living on the streets, and Spot physically hurt at the thought that it wouldn't be long until she discovered the world was not a nice place. He felt it his duty to shield Scribbles for as long as possible, even if it meant destroying himself in the process. He felt this way for all of the newsies he was in charge of. They were his children, and he was the protective father. He was the leader of Brooklyn, he couldn't allow his newsies to become corrupt. Spot would let himself waste away in sin before exposing even one of his charges to something of the sort.

Scribbles watched Spot's burning eyes. She calculated his thought process, knowing that Spot was blind to the problems his newsies caused. She knew he thought that they had never strayed from the path of righteousness. That was the one place in which Spot was imperfect in his leadership. No matter what any of the Brooklyn newsies did, in Spot's eyes, their bad doing was automatically good, and carried out in order to accomplish something good, because they were Spot's newsies, and therefore not one was troublesome or faulty. No one recognized this weakness of his from his cold and authoritative exterior. But that was why he was the leader of Brooklyn, and why everyone was inclined to let Spot lead. Because he was nearly perfect at it.

"So, back to the key," Scribbles broke the long silence, bringing them back to the original point.

Spot tilted his head, looking her directly in the eyes. He started at the intensity of her penetrating stare. For the first time he saw her as her, and not as the angel he had painted his newsboys and girls to be. He saw possibilities in her eyes. A comrade. A confidant. A companion. A friend. A lover…well, maybe. He wasn't ready to take that leap yet.

He took a deep breath, about to go where he hadn't gone with a human in a long time, about to trust. Not that what he was about to tell her required a large amount of secrecy or trust, but it was a small step. A small step in the right direction. "This key," he fingered it gently, holding it up and examining it. "This key…goes ta nothin'."

Scribbles raised her eyebrows. Nothing. Nothing? How could the key go to nothing when the leader of Brooklyn wore it religiously? She wanted to press the matter, but restrained herself, with great difficulty. Spot had told her something he had told no one else. She was not about to ruin that over, well, nothing.

She didn't have to prod though, because Spot began to speak again. "I found it in the street one day, lyin' there, glintin' in the sunlight. I felt important puttin' it on, like I was good enough ta have somethin' belong ta me that needed a key," he paused, remembering, "Wasn't long befoah people began to assume the key really did belong ta me, really did open up somethin' important." He shook his head at how foolish that sounded. "I'se the leadah a Brooklyn, Scribbs. I can't throw the key away, because not only does it make othah territories wondah what Spot Conlon's got hid away, but because it's sorta a part a me. Without the key, I feel like I'se just Spot Conlon, street rat newsie. But with the key, I'se the King a Brooklyn. With the key I'se the leadah. I'se the key." He sighed. "I 'spose it's that the key gives me more authority in a way, more respect. If people think I got somethin' important locked away, they'se'll treat me bettah…" He ended in a whisper, having spilled more than he had intended.

He hadn't wanted to tell Scribbles about how the key was to nothing. Nothing that he knew of anyway. Now he felt ridiculous. How stupid he must have sounded. He jumped when he felt Scribbles' hand lightly touch his shoulder, meeting her eyes.

"Thanks," she smiled a little. "For tellin' me, I'm glad ya did." And she was. This could be a new beginning for Spot. Maybe the boy would finally open up, stop being such a recluse.

But Spot didn't give that possibility a chance. He was going to work even more diligently, if he was able, at keeping things to himself, keeping things inside. He couldn't just go about, randomly spouting off his secrets to some girl on a rooftop! Although, he fully knew he had exaggerated that situation. It hadn't been random, it hadn't been an overly important secret, and it hadn't been just some girl. But still, Spot felt the pressure of Brooklyn pushing down upon him, felt that it was urging him to do better, to stop letting stupid things slip from his mouth. Because if the wrong ears heard, it could mean trouble. And as the leader of Brooklyn, he couldn't allow that.

Scribbles smiled inwardly. She knew Spot was probably battling within himself over what to do about his sudden trusting of her. She realized he was probably ridiculing himself and making sure he never, ever did something like share a tiny secret with anyone again for as long as he lived. But Scribbles' smile was one of success. She had cracked Spot, if only for a little bit, and that was good enough for her. Because Scribbles knew that Spot wanted to, needed to open up sometimes, and now, he knew where he could go.

Author's Note: Origionally this story ended bitterly, with Spot closing up from everyone for forever, but that felt wrong to me, so I added the last paragraph, I hope that works though...anywho! Now, put it on your calanders! Spot Week begins in one week! Begin your countdown! And while you're at it: leave a review, and you will be rewarded with freshly baked cookies and a newsie of your choice! :D