I don't know where Spot actually lives so he now has an apartment he shares with other Brooklyn newsies. Together they can all pay rent.

I wanna thank SomedayonBroadway for this request/idea, I hope I delivered to your liking.

Spot Conlon walked into his Brooklyn apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. A couple of his fellow Brooklyn newsies looked up, their eyes drooping with sleep. It was after dark; the room being lit by a single candle. After the whole ordeal with Race and the Manhattan newsies, Spot had walked around for a while, his shirt still stained with blood.

"Don't come 'ome so late." One of the boys complained, shoving his face back into a pillow.

Spot sighed, walking back into his room. Another boy slept in there on the top of a bunk bed, Spot getting the bottom. Removing his shirt, he winced at how stiff it was, Race's blood caked to the cloth. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the bathroom, bringing a candle with him, and turning on the faucet.

Spot filled a bucket of full of warm, clean water. He grabbed an old rag from under the sink, dipping his hands into the liquid. A sigh escaped his lips as he cleaned his chest and abdomen off, each stroke sending red streaks of blood down his body.

It took him longer than it should have to get completely clean. At least, completely clean by candle light. Who knows what it would be like in the sunlight. Spot dumped the dirty water down the drain, wincing as he saw the discoloration in the once clear liquid.

Returning to his bottom bunk, his chest bare, Spot curled into the blankets. He buried his face into his stiff pillow, the thin blanket shielding his bare skin from the chill of the room. All candles blown out, Spot was left in darkness.

Race was bleeding out on the ally ground, Spot desperately trying to control the bleeding. Screams and wails in pain escaped the boy's lips, his bloody hands clawing at Spot's face. He fought to keep the injured boy still, but somehow seemed to be losing.

"You'se did this! You'se did this!" Race shouted in accusation, moaning in pain as Spot pressed harder on the stab wound. The blood refused to stop flowing, if anything it pooled in his hands even faster.

"Race," Spot began, his voice cut off as Race clawed at the Brooklyn boy's throat. Anger and pain contorted his face, Spot's face presenting panic.

"This is you'se fault! You'se fault!" Race screamed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. This time, his eyes didn't close, they just remained open. His eyes had rolled back into their normal position, his pupils staring into nothing.

Race's chest no longer rose and fell every few seconds, the air refused to enter his brain. His blue eyes stared at the sky, the sun continuing to set in the distance as if nothing was happening. Spot could no longer feel the other boy's heartbeat on his hands, the blood almost immediately stopping its flow.

His skin was pale as snow, his lips blue as his eyes. His body was going cold, there wasn't anything left moving through it to keep it warm.

Race was dead. Race Higgins was dead.

"It's my fault." Spot sobbed, releasing his hands from the Manhattan newsie's side. He hung his head in sadness, wishing and praying against all hope there was something more he could do. "It's my fault!"

"It's my fault!" Spot yelled, sitting up so fast in bed his head hit the top bunk. His breathing was labored, his whole body was drenched with sweat.

"Pipe down would ya?" Jaxon, his roommate, pounded his fist on the bed above, the wood creaking as he rolled over.

"Yeah." Spot replied, sitting up on his bed. He reached under the bunk, pulling out an old, worn out trunk. Grabbing another red shirt almost identical to the bloody one, Spot pulled it on over his head, tucking it into his loose pants. He made a mental note to save up for a new pair of suspenders, preferably before his pants fell to his ankles.

A sliver of sun shown in the horizon, the building lighting to a bright orange color. The other newsies would wake up soon, so if he wanted to go to Manhattan, he needed to move fast.

It didn't take him as long as he thought to reach Manhattan. Using what clouded memories, he had, driven by guilt, Spot made his way to the Lodging House. It was real early, the bell wouldn't ring for another hour, so there was time to see if his dream was true, if Race was truly dead.

Hand trembling slightly, a trait the nicknamed 'King of Brooklyn' was not used to, Spot knocked on the door. He listened intently for signs of life inside and was greeted by the pounding of footsteps. Jack Kelly swung the door open, the scowl on his face softening just slightly as he saw the state the smaller newsie was in.

"Whaddya want?" Jack asked, breaking the barrier of silence between them. Spot looked into the fellow newsie leader's eyes, his face toughening.

"I wanna see Race." Spot stated, tightening his biceps to bring back some form of toughness to his body. It was clear that he was upset and distressed, but Jack Kelly didn't need to see any weak side of him. No one did.

"Why." Jack stated more than he asked, leaning against the door frame of the lodging house.

"I sorta saved his life yesterday. I wanna see how he's doin'." Spot replied, motioning to the interior of the building. Jack looked him up and down before sighing, moving out of the way. Walking inside, Spot felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder, Jack leaning down to talk to him.

"I'll be watching you'se. If you 'urt 'im so help me God, I will kill you." He threatened, a chill sending its way down Spot's back. He puffed out his chest, running a hand through his hair.

"If I wanted to 'urt 'em, I woulda finished the job yesterday."

The two walked in silence as Jack led him up the stairs. There was a hallway of closed doors, only one open. Beds lined the walls, boys of ages 12-16 all asleep in the bunks. Crutchie was in a chair by one bed, his head resting in his hands, his eyes closed. Race lay on that bed, his chest bare but his abdomen heavily bandaged.

A red spot where the stab wound is stood out against the white of the cloth bandages. Blood was no doubt oozing, but at least it wasn't spurting or gushing like it had been before. Race's body was white as a sheet, a thin layer of sweat covering him.

"Is he?.." Spot whispered, kneeling beside the bed. He wanted to reach out and feel the other boy's forehead, just to know if he had heat left in him.

"Dead? Nah." A voice croaked, startling both Spot and Jack. Race smacked his lips together, slowly rolling his head to the side to face the other two. "Pain? Yeah."

"Hey hey, don't talk, don't talk." Jack insisted, dipping his hand into a bucket of water and pulling out a rag. He rung the cloth out before putting it on Race's forehead, Race's face relaxing as the, no doubt, cool water soothed his potential, and very plausible, fever.

"Look kid, I'se sorry. I shoulda helped." Spot began, eying Jack to see if he could place a comforting hand on Race's shoulder. Jack nodded, but kept his eyes glued on the Brooklyn boy. "It's my fault ya got stabbed."

Race lightly shook his head, a crack of a smile forming on his lips. "Thanks. I'se okay…"

That was all the injured boy could muster before pain lulled him back to sleep, the smile fading from his mouth. Spot sighed, watching Jack's expressions. The oldest newsie looked concerned, angry, and sad all at once. There wasn't a real way to describe it.

"Has he's seen a doctor?" Spot whispered, his eyes pleading with Jack for the right answer. Jack shook his head, Spot's heart dropping.

"Specs is gonna go lookin' today. Soon as da bell rings. We'se need one dat don't cost that much." Jack answered, dipping the rag back in the water and repeating the process. "From what we know's though, if he was gonna die from dis, he woulda already. Or he wouldn't a woken up da few times he did."

Spot nodded his head, watching the curls on Race's head rise and fall each time Jack put the cloth back on his forehead. He watched the newsboy's chest rise and fall each time air filled his lungs. "Let me know about da costs. I wanna pay some."

"We don't needs ya to-"

"I need's to. For myself. I dreamt he d-died out 'dere on da streets. I wanna make sure dat don't happen." Spot insisted, pleading with the older boy. Jack's eyes widened with shock, he just couldn't believe the 'King of Brooklyn' was being so sensitive.

"If ya insist, I can't keep ya from it." Jack sighed, getting up to show Spot out. "But, Spot, he's alright. He should be."

With Jack's words in his head, Spot left the Lodging House, starting his trek back to Brooklyn. He was going to have to sell a lot of papers if he was going to help pay for a doctor. No use in being late for the bell. But, in the end of the day, Race was going to be fine.