Archive of Our Own ^beta

Christmas Eve, 1899

Spot is fucking freezing.

It’s cold as a witch’s tit outside, and holy Christ does he want nothing more to collapse in front of a fireplace, but he has ten more papes to sell.

“Senator suspected of speculation,” he calls, passing off a stack to a group of men in nice clothing. They’re probably heading home for supper. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie…his stomach growls.

Stop it, he thinks furiously. Nothing to do about it now. Ever since the strike this past summer, he’s been sending out kids father and farther to other boroughs, and someone needs to pick up the slack in Brooklyn. Which is why he’s scuffing his boots on the icy city sidewalks at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve.

“Paper,” he calls again, but less animatedly. Damn strike. He’s glad it happened, really. Remembers it like it was yesterday and not six months ago.

He’d been sitting in his “office” at the lodging house when a tiny kid tried to announce the presence of a visitor, only to be steamrolled by Racetrack Higgins himself.

Spot had nearly punched him right then and there. Show up in Brooklyn unannounced, then knock over one of Spot’s kids? It took a lot of fucking nerve. But then Spot saw his bruises, and looked full into those ridiculously blue eyes, and made a very rash decision that only worked out because they were very lucky.

He blows hot air onto his fingers to keep them from going stiff. Jesus, but it does get cold in New York. Spot casts one final look around the dark alleyway in which he’s perched himself. Everyone’s gone home by this point, so he lets himself go too. No use in selling to empty streets.

Spot takes the familiar route back to the lodging house, managing to be virtually undisturbed the whole way there. He knows what Race would say, if his stupid, cheeky ass was here.

Giving up that easy, huh? You know, one would think the great Spot Conlon could capitalize on the holiday crowd, but it looks like ya got about five extra papes stuck under that arm of yours.

“Shut up,” he says, accidentally out loud.

Whoa. Get a hold of yourself.

Spot is still gathering his thoughts when a short, hunched woman comes barreling around the corner. He yelps and nearly falls flat on his ass in trying to avoid the old lady. She just whips around to stare at him with startlingly lucid eyes.

“You.” One crooked finger points out from underneath a fringed shawl.

“Me? Me, what?”

“You will be visited. Tonight.” The old woman smacks her lips. Spot is five seconds away from running. “Three of them, there will be.”

“The fuck?” He’s not usually profane around little old ladies, but this is a special case. “Get away from me.”

“No,” she rasps, and grabs hold of his arm. “Listen. You must…listen to them. Change. For him.”

Then her grip loosens, her eyes fog over a little bit, and the terrifying verbal attack stops.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear,” she says. “Where am I?”

Spot runs the rest of the way to the lodging house.

•••

He doesn’t want to go to sleep. It’s stupid, he knows. An old woman having an episode, that’s all it was. And really, three people coming to visit him in his room? No one would dare to jump Spot Conlon in his sleep. This whole thing is crazy.

But even Hotshot had seen that something was wrong. He’d burst in the door, breathing heavily, then blown off her questions and marched upstairs immediately. He’s been trying to be more social, he really has. But he just couldn’t sit around a Christmas fire with the rest of the newsies. Not tonight.

So here he is, pacing around his room. Race’s nasally, insulting tone appears in his head again.

I thought nothing could scare you, Spot. Or is it only stuff that has something to do with me?

Spot groans and pulls at his own hair.

Nothing better to do than go to sleep. Right? He has a long day of selling tomorrow, it’s pretty warm in his bed. He’ll forget about that terrifying old woman by the end of the night. And Race will stop fucking with his head from all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge.

So Spot peels off his vest and boots, scrubs at his face with a washcloth, and crawls into bed. He tries not to think about that lady.

Change. For him. What the fuck does that mean?

•••

Spot doesn’t know what wakes him up but he’s laying in a cold sweat. Terror overtakes him for one second before he manages to snap out of it.

No, no, no. This isn’t fucking happening, not to me.

He scrambles to the window. The clock tower downtown says it just turned midnight. Okay, then the chimes woke him up. Sometimes that ugly old thing goes haywire and rings so loud you can hear it from Manhattan. That’s all it was.

When he turns around, Katherine Plumber Pulitzer is standing in the middle of his room.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he barks. His heart nearly jumps up his throat. “Plumber. What are you doin’ here? Who let you in?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes in that preppy, snobbish way he hates.

“Come on Spot, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet.”

He wants to rip out his own hair. “What the hell is goin’ on tonight?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She snaps her fingers and his bed goes up in flames. Spot screams and jumps backwards before she snaps again and it returns to its original appearance, completely unchanged. “You’re dreaming.”

“I’m…dreaming.”

“We’ve established that.” She turns with a toss of auburn hair and heads for the door. “Come on.”

Spot doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he takes a few awkward steps forward. When Katherine flings open his door, it doesn’t lead to the landing and a crooked staircase. It opens into a dirty city street bathed in sunlight.

“The fuck?” he mutters, following her out onto the cobblestones. The street is bustling with people, carrying carts and large bags through the snow. Across from them is a familiar door adorned with a wreath.

“Hey, I know this place!” he blurts.

Katherine hums. “Good for you.”

“No, I’m serious. This is my old flat. I used ‘ta live here.”

As he crosses the street, not a single passerby spares him an extra glance, even through he just appeared out of thin air. He assumes they can’t see him. Wouldn’t be any stranger than the other events of the night.

He lays a hand on the old, cratered wood. On the ground next to the door, a small child is sitting in the snow and sniffling. Spot knows who it is before he even looks.

The crying kid is small, probably five or six but tiny for his age. He’s covered in snot and tears. Spot looks down at his younger self and sighs.

“You remember this day, don’t you?” Katherine asks. He nods. Five floors up, Mr. and Mrs. Conlon are still alive and having another one of their famous barn-burner arguments. Not long after this, Spot’s mother will hit his father with a frying pan and they’ll both have to go to the hospital. It wasn’t a very good Christmas.

“You miss your parents, even if they were the way that they were,” Katherine remarks.

Spot tears his gaze away from his younger self. “Don’t lecture me about parents, Plumber. You ain’t in any better shape than me.”

“I’m the only one who can lecture you,” she fires back. “Because I’m someone who knows what it’s like. To hate the people who raised you and love them at the same time, against your better judgement.”

Against his better judgement. It’s a common theme for Spot these days.

Katherine holds up a hand and somehow he knows that two years have passed. The wreath is gone from the door and his younger self, now wearing that familiar ratty red vest, hawks newspapers from a street corner. Both of his parents have been killed by fever by now. He remembers this year, too.

“My first Christmas in the lodging house,” he says, almost wistfully. That was a different time. He was in charge of nothing. Still a hard-ass kid that got in too many scrapes, but older newsies would toss him nickels and hoist him onto their shoulders. The whole world wasn’t afraid of him yet.

“You were so young and so independent,” Katherine says in a far-away voice. “No kid should have to go through that.”

“Alright, if this is some stint to get me to see the error of my ways and be filled with childlike wonder again, I can see right fuckin’ through it,” he growls. “I know life was rough. It’s like that for every newsie.”

“Okay, Jesus,” Katherine snaps. “I’m not asking you to make any dramatic changes. Just watch. That’s all. Now follow me, we’re done here.”

He stomps after her down the street. As they walk, the buildings melt into chain link fences, and now they’re underneath the bleachers at Sheepshead. Spot recognizes this Christmas immediately and feels a fiery blush heat up his face.

“Oh, don’t look so embarrassed,” Katherine teases. “This is happening inside your own head. I already know everything there is to know.”

“Shut up,” he threatens, and just like that, little Race comes barreling down underneath the bleachers with an angry Spot in tow. They’re out of breath, like Spot was chasing Race. Which he was.

“How old were you here?” Katherine asks. “Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” Spot mutters. “I’ve known Race since I was twelve.”

“I told you to stay the fuck out of here!” his younger self shouts. He holds a pudgy fist up to Race’s face. Jesus, they were tiny.

“I don’t recall that,” Race giggles. Why does he find everything so fucking funny? “Anyways, Jack Kelley himself sent me. I’m on direct orders.”

“I don’t care about Jack Kelley,” Little Spot hisses. “No Manhattan is selling on my turf.”

Little Race throws his head back and laughs. That laugh is what got him hooked in the first place. Race has a great laugh. His eyes crinkle, he cackles loud and carefree, and his Italian half really shows. Little Spot’s eyes widen.

Yep, that was the moment he knew he was done for.

“Your turf? Who are you, leader of Brooklyn?”

Little Spot’s brow furrows. “Actually, yeah I am.”

“You’re Spot Conlon?” Little Race finds this even funnier. Spot feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he was pissed in the moment, but it’s kind of funny to look back on now.

“How cute,” Katherine teases. Spot would clobber her if she wasn’t a girl. And his second-favorite member of Manhattan.

“Yeah, you’re real fucking funny,” he spits.

“But seriously, Spot, it’s been six years. And you haven’t said a word. Do you really expect anything to happen?”

“Enough about me. How’s Sarah Jacobs?”

Katherine’s mouth snaps shut and her cheeks blaze red. Even in Spot’s dreams, she gets riled up about it.

“She’s great, thanks for asking,” Katherine says. “But I get your point. Let’s go.”

They leave Sheepshead as Little Spot is demanding a Christmas tax from Little Race. He’s going to tell him to never show his face there again. Race, of course, isn’t going to listen.

They turn a corner and are back in Spot’s room in the lodging house. He swears and turns around three times before realizing where they are. Dream traveling is very disorienting.

“Alright, that’s all the time I have,” Katherine says, glancing at a pocket watch. “Expect the next ghost at one.”

“What?” Spot whips around to look at her but she’s already fading, like a piece of ice melting on the sidewalk. “Wait, Plumber! I have questions!”

“One o’clock, Spot!”

Then she’s gone.

•••

When Spot turns to the window to look for the clock tower, the little hand has already moved to the one. He grabs onto the windowsill tightly. It was just midnight. Is he still dreaming?

“You alright there?”

“Holy Christ!” he yells, jumping about a foot in the air. “Do you all have to show up that way?”

Crutchie finds his surprise very amusing. “Sorry Spot, I can’t control it.”

“And what are you? The ghost of Christmas Present?” he growls. He doesn’t normally mind Crutchie, but he prefers to not have a three heart attacks a night.

“Yes, actually,” he says brightly. “And we’re a little behind schedule, so follow me.”

Crutchie doesn’t even open any magic doors, just takes him down to the first floor of the lodging house. It looks like it’s already Christmas morning down here. Hotshot and the littler newsies are gathered around the fire. She always tries to buy each one of them some penny candy. It’s dangerous, especially for a girl, to show compassion in a lifestyle like theirs. But Hotshot doesn’t care. It’s one of the reasons Spot made her his second in command.

“Where’s Spot?” chirps a little kid.

Hotshot rolls her eyes. “Hawking, if you can believe it.”

“It’s cold as balls out there!” yells another. “Why does he even bother?”

Hotshot scowls. “Sometimes Spot needs to take his mind off ‘a things. He don’t like holidays.”

“But we made this huge fire and an extra bowl of stew,” the first little kid whines.

“I know, Stripes,” she consoles. “Tell you what. I’ll make him eat it when he gets back, alright? Now, who wants an orange?”

“She’s a good one,” Crutchie says, nudging Spot with his cane. “She’ll be a good leader someday.”

“She will be. That’s why I hired her.” Spot feels a pit in his stomach and he’s not sure why. He doesn’t really care what the little kids think of him, and who cares if Hotshot thinks he’s coldhearted? He is. He’s Spot Conlon.

“Alright, enough Brooklyn for now,” Crutchie announces. “Let’s pay a visit to my hometown, shall we?”

He gestures his crutch towards Spot.

“Uh, are you sure—“

“Just hold it.”

“Okay.”

He feels a sickening sensation like he’s being pulled up through the ceiling, and then they’re in the Manhattan Lodging House. More specifically, they’re in Jack Kelley’s room.

“Alright Dave, I know you’re not Christian or whatever, but accept this token of my gratitude as a Hanukkah present.”

Jack kneels down dramatically, offering up a small box to Davey, who sits cross legged on his bed. They’re acting giggly and flirty. Spot’s throat feels dry.

“You’re sure they can’t see us?” he asks.

Crutchie laughs. “Don’t worry, it stays above the waist.”

Davey opens the box and gasps. “Jack, this was completely unnecessary.” He pulls out a pair of new cuff links. “I didn’t get you something this nice.”

Jack grins wide, that unprotected look that Spot assumes only Davey gets to see. “I really don’t care, Dave. I’m just glad your ma let you brave the cold to get here.”

“Speaking of…” Davey pulls out a new pair of wool mittens. “My mom made these. You always look like you’re freezing when you come up the fire escape.”

“I love Esther,” Jack gasps. He puts the mittens on and smacks a hand on either side of Davey’s face. They kiss, then break into twin smiles, then kiss again. Spot feels like he’s intruding, then feels a terrible sense of loneliness.

“How long has this been going on?” He asks Crutchie.

He just shrugs. “I don’t know. All I know is they ain’t afraid.”

Spot watches Jack pick Davey off his feet and spin him around before he can’t take anymore.

“Okay, I get it,” he says gruffly. “What else you got?”

Crutchie transports them down a floor. The rest of the newsies are gathered in the central room, eating dinner and gossiping about what’s happening upstairs. Spot’s eyes immediately find Race’s blond head. He’s curled up on a windowsill, staring longingly into the cold.

“You think they’re you-know-what-ing?” Romeo is saying. “Oops, cover Les’ ears. Hey, Race. I said, you think they’re—“

“Yeah, I heard ya, Romeo,” Race says. “And no, I don’t think they’re you-know-what-ing in a building with paper thin walls when they know we’re all waitin’ downstairs.”

“Why you got a stick up your ass?” Albert prods, jabbing Race in the shoulder with a broom.

“I do not.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ do. Shit, sorry Les. Earmuffs.”

Les dutifully covers his ears and more newsies gather around Race.

“You wanna go to Sheepshead or something? Blow some cash on Christmas bets?”

“No, I don’t wanna go to Sheepshead,” Race snaps. “In fact, I don’t feel like selling there for a long time. So quit botherin’ me about it.”

They retreat from the windowsill, only casting a few concerned glances in his direction. Spot feels sick to his stomach. Why is Race so upset? Why does he suddenly hate Sheepshead so much? Is it because it’s in Brooklyn? He has been acting different towards Spot lately.

“Alright, this is where I leave ya,” Crutchie says.

“What, here?”

“Don’t worry. Someone else will be along soon. Two o’clock.”

Crutchie hobbles out the front door onto the sidewalk, leaving Spot to chase after him.

“Wait, Crutchie—how do I fix this? What do I—“

“Don’t worry too hard,” he advises. He’s beginning to fade like Katherine did. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

Then Spot is alone.

•••

The streets are empty and full of mist. Spot stumbles around blindly for a minute or two before bumping into someone.

“Hey watch it—oh, Davey. Can you see me?”

Davey nods.

“I assume you’re taking me to the future?”

He nods again.

“What, can you not talk or something?”

“I can talk,” Davey bursts out, annoyed. “It was supposed to be for dramatic effect.”

“I think Katherine and Crutchie already covered that,” Spot grumbles. “Let’s get this over with.”

Davey sighs. “You know, you’re supposed to be learning lessons from this—“

“All I’ve learned is that you like to stick your tongue down Kelley’s throat,” he retorts. “Let’s go.”

Davey blushes, but he turns on his heel and they’re standing on a Brooklyn street corner. Stripes, the little newsie, is standing next to a huge stack of papes, and he’s about a foot taller. Spot frowns. He doesn’t let them hawk on Christmas.

A Queens newsie passes by. “Sorry to hear the news,” he says. Stripes presses his lips together by way of response. He looks tired and sad. Spot begins to worry.

“What happened?” he asks Davey. “Come on, I made you up, you have to tell me.”

Davey just shakes his head. “Come inside.”

They enter the Brooklyn lodging house, where a similar atmosphere of doom and gloom hangs in the air. Everyone is quiet. There’s none of the usual roughhousing or card playing. Davey leads him up the stairs to the landing in front of his bedroom door. Hotshot is standing there with her selling partner.

She looks really rough. So rough that it scares Spot.

“I keep expectin’ him to walk out that door like everything is fine,” she says.

Her partner puts an awkward arm around her shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures.

She sniffles. Hotshot is crying?

“I know. I just can’t believe everything went so wrong. I’m gonna have to be in charge now.”

Spot has a terrible idea. He doesn’t want to believe it. He grips Davey’s arm.

“Take me somewhere else,” he pleads.

Davey nods grimly, and then they’re under the Sheepshead bleachers. Jack Kelley, of all people, is sitting there with his head in his hands. Spot can’t help but stare. Did he really care about Spot that much that he’s here, in Brooklyn, on Christmas morning?

“I’m not the biggest fan of this part,” Davey admits. “Don’t like to see Jack cry.”

And holy shit, Jack is crying. Spot only dares to inch a few feet closer but he’s crying so hard his shoulders are shaking.

All of this? For Spot? What happens to him?

“Can we leave now?” he asks quietly.

Davey takes his arm again. “We, uh, got one more place to go. You’re not gonna like it.”

They materialize in a church graveyard. It’s hard to tell exactly where in the city they are, because it’s dark and foggy, but they’re surrounded by gravestones.

“Davey. I don’t need to see this part,” he begs. Davey just points to a gravestone underneath an apple tree.

“Okay. Okay.” Spot takes a few steps through the snow. “But I learned my lesson, okay? I’m gonna be a better person. I’m gonna be a good leader. I know what to do.”

Davey doesn’t budge. Just points.

Spot closes the remaining gap between himself and the grave. He braces himself to see his own name, swipes the snow off, and reads the inscription.

Anthony Higgins. 1881–1902. Beloved friend and brother.

“Race. What? No, no, no.” Spot whirls around and Davey is crying. “No! It’s supposed to be me! How did this happen?”

“He gets lonely, you know,” Davey says. “You leave town when you turn 21 and it’s really hard for him. He steals Snyder’s gun.”

“No.” Spot feels the contents of his lunch about to come back up. He grabs wildly and manages to balance himself on Davey’s shoulders. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“You know how,” Davey whispers. A strong wind blows around the graveyard, kicking up dead leaves and bits of snow. “Change. For him.”

“Okay.” Spot tries to control his breathing as Davey begins to fade. It feels like this time, he’s fading too. “Wait, Davey.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you and Jack do it?”

Davey is half-transparent but gives him a small smile. “You just have to be brave, Spot.”

The wind blows stronger and Spot throws his arms up to protect his face.

•••

He wakes up in his bed. It’s light outside. When he stumbles to his feet, he looks around wildly for another ghost, even checks under the bed. The clock tower says it’s eight in the morning.

Hotshot knocks on the door.

“Spot?”

He must look terrified, because she gives him a weird look.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. What’s going on?”

“Some of the little kids wanna know if you’d like to take a day off selling. Eat breakfast with us. Get fat on candy.”

Spot calms his beating heart with a deep breath and tamps down the remains of his anxiety. “Sure, Hotshot. Just let me get dressed.”

•••

That day, to Manhattan’s amazement, Spot Conlon crosses the bridge alone for the first time in years. On Christmas Day, no less. He marches straight up to the lodging house and pounds on the door until Romeo answers.

“Spot? What the hell are you doin—“

“Get out of my way,” he barks, and pushes his way into the central room. Just like in the dream, all the newsies are gathered around for dinner. Race is staring at him from the windowsill.

“Higgins,” he says, feeling much more self conscious now. “We need to talk.”

They end up upstairs, in a huge room full of bunk beds.

“What the hell is goin’ on, Spot?” Race demands. This is one of the first times he’s actually seemed concerned about something.

“Look. Race. Fuck.” He walks in a small, angry circle. “I’ve been thinking about some things lately. And I realized I can’t afford be afraid anymore.”

“Spot, I think half the city is afraid of you already. What are you talking about?”

That’s good, he’s at least half joking. Spot is going to get a smile by the end of this conversation.

“I mean, there’s one thing that’s been really scaring me. I don’t really talk about it. Obviously. But…sometimes you just have to be brave.”

He leans forward and kisses Race. They enjoy about a half second of it before Race lurches back, looking terrified.

“That ain’t funny. I’m serious.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“What?” Race’s eyes shine with something that looks part fear, part excitement, and part something else.

“I mean, I—fuck it. I am in love with you. Have been. You dumb fuck.”

Race stares at him like he’s a crazy person. Then he laughs, that beautiful laugh that Spot loves.

“I was ‘bout to piss myself, I was so scared,” he cackles. “Jesus, Spot, you know how to terrify a guy.”

“So…you feel…do you feel—“

“Holy Christ, you’re stupid. I love you too, Spot,” Race says, and kisses him. “I love you so much that it’s embarrassing.”

Spot cradles his face like he’s wanted to do since that first day he met him under the bleachers. Race is so beautiful, especially like this with his blue eyes crinkled up and his hair all messy. Spot will not let him get hurt, ever.

“I love you,” he says again, firmly.

Race giggles. “Youse already said that, idiot. Now kiss me again before I change my mind.”

They spend the afternoon curled up in Race’s bunk, kissing and staring at each other and insulting each other and kissing. It’s probably the best day of his life to date.

For him. Yeah, Spot gets it now.