Author's Note: Uh, yeah. So, slowly but surely this will develop into an odd version of Spot/Sarah. Just warning you right there. Also, I'm claiming that Spot, Sarah, and Jack are seventeen, while David is sixteen. I just thought I would get that out of the way. Now, onto the disclaimer!
Disclaimer: I own basically nothing.
The cobblestones were soaked, and though the sky was still a pale gray, the rain had stopped. Spot Conlon was adjusting his cap on his head as he took in the outside world from behind a pane of glass, glancing over his shoulder and smirking at the slumbering form of some rich debutante he had spoiled the night before. Katherine or Katelyn or something along those lines. She took a deep breath, letting out a sigh. Spot snorted in amusement before jimmying the window open and inching out onto the ledge.
The problem with houses—or in this case, a miniature mansion—was that there were no fire escapes, just conveniently placed trellises. Rotting and covered with thorny—yet aesthetically pleasing—roses, Spot surveyed this new challenge. He was no newcomer to sticky situations, and although this trellis was a nuisance, the King of Brooklyn could more than handle it.
Ducking his head out the window, one leg on either side of the ledge, he took hold of a clear area on the trellis, grunting as he hefted himself fully out of the girl's room and into the early morning gloom. It was as he was about to take his first step towards the ground that the girl in bed stretched awake, furrowing her brows and desperately glancing around for the newsboy she had expected to be there when she awoke. Blinking in surprise, she lifted her gaze to the open window, tilting her head in confusion. "Spot?" she asked groggily, rubbing at her eyes in confusion. "What are you doing?"
Spot grinned at her, shrugging his shoulders as best as he possibly could while still holding fast to the splintery wood. "Oh, you know. Gotta get back to my boys. They're completely lost without me," he lied, allowing his foot to settle on a lower rung as he inched his way downward, his eyes widening at the sound of a sickly crack. "Shit!" he swore, losing his balance and grasping at twisted, prickly stems to keep from plummeting to the ground.
His extra squirming, however, dislodged the ancient trellis from the brick siding, slowly tilting backward, gaining speed on its fall towards the earth. Spot spun his head, eyebrows raising as he neared the ground. He cringed, letting out a loud groan when he finally collided with the damp yard. A dog's bark and the gruff yell of a man, not to mention the anxious squeals from the girl's window three stories away, informed Spot that it was high time he vacate the property.
Shoving the botanically-heavy trellis away from his body and crawling out from beneath it, Spot quickly took in the pack of hunting terriers that had been let loose on the property, rapidly closing the distance between them and the Brooklyn leader, snapping their jaws and thrashing their heads to-and-fro. Struggling to his feet after such an unexpected fall, Spot ignored the spur of pain throughout his torso and bolted for the road, grinning to himself when he heard the girl calling his name. Sometimes Spot thought the getaway was the best part, pure adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Dogs weren't an overly tricky breed to outrun. Hell, nothing was too difficult to outrun when you were used to running your whole life. And Spot was most definitely used to running.
He hadn't exactly run away from home when he was young, just more or less told his mom he was leaving and that was that. What he had really left was the man that his mother allowed to live in their small, two room apartment. And by two room, it was more like a room and a small area in which Spot would curl up to sleep at night. But then Rodney came into the picture and Spot couldn't take it anymore.
But luckily for Spot, this apartment building was easily accessible in times of need, and when a pack of dogs were chasing him, Spot considered it to be a time of need. Dodging down an alley and skidding around a sharp corner, Spot whipped through the apartment building's doorway, panting and chuckling softly to himself as he heard the mutts race past on the opposite side. Wiping his brow with his forearm, he licked his lips and took a deep breath, clopping up the stairs until he was at the floor on which he had been raised since a small babe.
Smoothing his hair back with his fingers and holding his hat tightly in one hand, he cordially knocked and waited until he could hear the clip of stubby heels heading his direction. Upon the door's opening, Spot grinned and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the cheek of the woman that stood before him. "Good morning, mam," he greeted her.
Mary Conlon smiled at her son, placing her hands on both sides of his face and taking in how much he had grown since last week. She was a keen one, and noticed even the most miniscule of differences in her son. She pulled his face down, kissing the crown of his head, and stepped to the side so that Spot could step over the threshold.
He immediately grabbed a stale roll from the plate on the table and plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs, automatically lifting his feet to rest on the table top. The Conlon clan was nowhere near rich, but they were better off than many of the families in the Brooklyn area. Mary hurried over to Spot, swatting at his feet with a towel. "Seamus, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your darn feet off my furniture?" she scolded, although there was a playful glint in her eye which made it almost impossible to take her seriously.
Spot just smirked and obeyed her request, leaning his elbows against his knees and watching as his mother continued to make a small breakfast. Rodney was already at the factories, which Spot was most grateful for. He'd much rather not share his mother with anyone else.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, Seamus?" she asked as she began to clean up, wiping down the miniscule amount of counter top they had in their apartment. She turned around and settled her dark gray eyes on Spot, raising one eyebrow. In many ways, Spot took after his mother when it came to looks. His temper was a gift from his father.
Spot let out a small laugh. "Can't a guy visit his mam without being interrogated?
Mary took a deep breath, shaking her head and wiping her hands on her skirts. "I know my son much too well for that," she informed him, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Holding back the impulse to shove away her hand, Spot pursed his lips and rummaged in his pocket, procuring at least half of that weeks earnings. "I was in a bit of a pickle," he explained with a shrug. "And I hadn't been able to stop by earlier this week, so…" Once again, he shrugged. Spot was usually pretty eloquent with his words, but his mother seemed to turn him back into the little boy he had been.
Mary's hand fell from Spot's hair to cup his cheek. "You're too good to us, Seamus," she declared, smiling down at him so that her crow's feet were more emphasized. Spot didn't care, as far as he was concerned, his mother was the most beautiful woman.
Spot lifted his head, taking his mother's hand in his. "Mam…it's not for both of you." He had stated this a million times before it seemed, but she just wouldn't get it through her head. "I'm not helping support him. He's not family," Spot ground out through grit teeth.
Mary retracted her hand, crossing her arms in front of her and tapping her index finger. "As long as he lives under this roof—"
"No," Spot spoke bluntly, swiftly standing up from his chair. "I—I've have enough, mam. He's no good for you. You know that. You know he only brings back so little because he gambles the rest of it away. And when he doesn't win he uses what's left for booze." Spot tried to get his mother to look at him, but she was glaring a hole in the wall. Spot took a deep breath. "I gotta get back to my boys," he curtly spit, marching towards the door.
Mary lifted her chin. "How are they?" she asked with concern, always curious as to the affairs of the newsboys of Brooklyn.
"Fine," Spot replied, too annoyed now to be cordial—even to his mother—and wrenched the door open, letting it slam behind him.
Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism is always welcomed :) Thanks for reading.