Lane walked alongside Dipper, keeping her head down.

She didn't know if she could really pass as a boy who was being sold off by his mother, or if the Brooklyn newsies would even let her in, but what she did know, was that she was in dire need of a head scratch.

Soon enough, they reached the other end of the Brooklyn bridge, and were greeted—more or less—by its guard. The boy's eyes narrowed. "Who's-"

Dipper quickly threw herself into the act. "Take my Patrick, I beg you! I can't support him, and he has no where else to go! P-Please! I... I can't...!"

The boy's eyes widened, while Lane was cursing Dipper for the name she chose. "Oh, woah! Look, I'll go get Spot real quick! Jus... please stop cryin'?"

Dipper nodded, still sobbing, and Lane held onto her hand to sell the act.

The boy raced off, looking like his life was quite literally in the line, and she turned to look at the girl. "I never knew cryin' freaked guys out so much."

Dipper shrugged, wiping at her eyes nonchalantly, smearing the makeup that Medda had lent them the slightest bit. Dipper had seemed convinced that, despite having stayed there for three months, none of the newsies would recognize her. "Ya learn some stuff aft-ah travelin' around fa so long."

"It really works though, don't it?" Remembering her last visit to the Refuge when she'd gone to save Race, she added, "Even on some goils."

"Right?"

Before they knew it, Spot Colon was striding towards them, the boy on his heel. "So, ya got a newsie fa me."

"Yes sir, I do," Dipper sniffled, instantly falling back into the story. "His name is Patrick, and, well, I just can't look at him without seeing my dead husband who died in the trolley strike!"

Lane spun towards her, shocked. Well, that was a bit morbid.

Spot seemed to have thought the same by the way his eyes narrowed, but he nodded regardless. "He's safe wit us, ma'am. Ise sorry 'bout yer loss."

Dipper pressed a hand against her mouth, feigning relief. "Oh, bless you! I'll never forget about this good deed of yours!"

And if all went well, neither would Lane.

"... And dis is where you'll sleep," Spot concluded, showing Lane her bunk. "Nutcracker sleeps on tha top, but Ise sure she won't mind switchin' if yer picky. Goil's got a heart a' gold, if I've ev-ah seen one."

"Why Nutcracker?" Lane questioned.

Spot chuckled, rubbing his face thoughtfully. "She kneed a guy who was lookin' too closely at her chest one time."

"Still don't explain the name."

"In tha nuts."

Lane stared at him in shock. A heart of gold, alright.

"So, yer good?" Spot asked when she said nothing.

Lane nodded, hardly able to wait for night to fall so that she could do what she needed to do, then scram. "Ise great, thanks."

"Oh, 'n... Patrick?" Spot called, sighing when Lane turned to him. "Sorry 'bout yer Ma jus droppin' ya he-ah. I know dat must ta been hard. Jus know dat yer safe wit me. Wit us."

"Thanks," Lane mumbled, thinking about the irony in his words. Here she was, trying to keep them safe, while Spot and everyone else remained none the wiser. "Ya make a good leader, Spot."

Spot patted her shoulder, before walking off.

Lane sighed and gazed around the place, thinking about where she would start once everyone went to sleep. The lodging house was only so big. But she had no doubt that the place they'd chosen to hide the object would be nonexistent to everyone but the hider.

"Lane?"

Lane spun around at voice, dreading the thought of seeing the face of the boy whom the voice belonged to.

"Sorry, who?"

Hotshot scrutinised her, before shaking his head. "Ya can't fool me. I could never forget yer face."

She believed him. "It's..."

"Been a while," he finished.

Hotshot. One boy among dozens of others that she'd allowed herself to be thrown around by. It hadn't lasted long between the two, only about two months, but then... a lot could happen in two months.

"How's life been?" Lane questioned quietly, stepping forward.

"Unpredictable, lately," Hotshot answered. "With Brock, and Smalls, and Three..."

"Right."

Both stood there for another moment, unsure of what to say.

"You doin' okay?" Hotshot asked.

"Pretty good, aside from all tha..." she gestured vaguely, referring to what he'd said moments before. "I may have learned how ta finally get a relationship down long term."

"Finch." He scratched the back of his neck. "How long?"

Lane bit her lip. "'Bout four months."

"Right." He paused. "What are ya doin' he-ah?"

She pulled him over to her bunk, making sure no one else could hear their conversation. "Dere's somethin' I gotta do. Somethin' dat'll end all 'a dis, hopefully. But I can't tell ya."

"What?" He searched her eyes. "Why not?"

"I jus can't," she told him. "I'd be puttin' ya in danger if I told ya."

"I don't care."

"I do," she hissed. "Look, it really ain't worth riskin' yer life fa, trust me."

"Alright," he said at last. "I trust ya."

Her eyes shut in relief. "Good."

She turned to leave then, but he grabbed her arm before she could. She turned back towards him warily, but he only smiled with a sad look in his eyes. "I won't tell anyone."

It was how she knew he still cared.

She didn't have the heart to watch as he left, his shoulders slumped with the pain of an old wound being reopened.

"Hey."

Lane looked up quickly, seeing a girl leaning forward on the bunk on top of hers. "Um, hi."

The girl shot her a small smile, glancing over to where Spot and Hotshot were now talking. "You're... uh, Patrick, I take it."

Her eyes narrowed. "And yer Nutcracker?"

The girl scooted back on the bed, leaning against the wall. "Yessir."

"Is it true dat...?"

"What?" she questioned, before she laughed. "Ah, that. Nah, Spot likes to start rumours, but it's nothing but a lie. Well, more of an inside joke. I just really liked nutcrackers as a kid."

"Right." Lane said, laughing along. "Why don't'cha have an accent?"

The girl shrugged. "I'm not from here. And I never stick around long enough for an accent to develop."

"Where's ya from?"

Nutcracker sighed, shrugging again. "Not a place you know of. Not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?"

"Patience," she chuckled. "There's someone I know with the name Patrick. He goes by Finch, now. You know him?"

"You know Finch?" Lane asked.

"Not personally, but..." she twirled a finger in the air. "I know he has secrets."

Deciding that this girl was clearly out of her mind, Lane shook her head and got settled into the bunk below, dreading the long night of waiting that was to come.

"Oh, and... Patrick?"

Lane turned onto her side to hear the girl, and jumped when she saw her face hanging upside down from her bed.

She grinned. "Happy Halloween."

Definitely out of her mind.

Once Lane was sure that all the newsies had fallen asleep, she crept out of her bed, and started wandering around softly, desperately hoping she wouldn't be caught red handed.

She had gotten fairly far, actually, but her luck seemed to have run out when she got to the top floor, and had been looking behind a shelf.

For it was that moment she felt someone's presence behind her.

"Guess it's too much ta ask dat the person behind me ain't tha king a' Brooklyn?" She asked flatly, already knowing that her luck had fled. Who else would be up on the top floor in the middle of the night?

Other than her, of course.

"I had a feelin' it was you."

"Wow, good fa you." Lane turned to face him, staring into his hard, glaring brown eyes. "Or, dat's wha I would say, if I didn't know dat it was a lie. Ya bought it as much as everyone else did."

"Yer one ta talk 'bout lies," Spot spat, clenching his cane in his hands. "Wha d'ya think yer doin'?"

"Nothin', now dat yer he-ah," Lane grumbled. "Our mission is as good as failed, thanks ta you."

Spot looked mildly curious. "Ise listenin'."

Lane sighed, rolling her eyes. "Dere's dis... thing back in Manhattan. In tha newsies lodgin' house. It's real valuable, apparently, 'n some guys is willin' ta kill ta get their hands on it. I was sent he-ah ta bring Brooklyn's back ta 'Hattan so you'd be outta danger. Thing is, we didn't know where yer things was, so me 'n a couple oth-ah goils decided ta split up, 'n search tha oth-ah lodgin' houses across tha city."

"So yer 'ma'..." Spot trailed off.

"... Was one a' tha goils," Lane finished. "And now, you've ruined everythin'."

Spot merely chuckled, and the key around his neck gleamed in the dim light. Lane wondered briefly about its significance, before his voice drew her attention away. "Why didn't ya jus explain everythin' at tha beginnin'? Me boys woulda searched tha place fa you."

"'Cause ya weren't s'posed tha find out," Lane huffed. "Even our own boys don't know wese doin' dis, 'n- ugh."

"Me middle name is Patrick, y'know," Spot told her, even if she most definitely did not know. "Sean Patrick Colon."

"Why's ya tellin' me dis?" Lane questioned. "Wha does dis have ta do-?"

But she couldn't continue.

Because Spot had stopped her lips.

With his own.

Lane pushed him off just as quickly, revolted. "Dere's only one Patrick I care 'bout, 'n his name ain't Colon!"

Spot just stared at her, before sighing and backing up. "Alright, dat was a mistake. But... dere's somethin' you should know."

"What, dat ya secretly liked me?" Lane demanded. "Cause it's a bit too late fa dat now. And, Ise sorry, but Ise pretty sure ya owe me a bit more of an apology-!"

"Shh!" hissed Spot, already walking away. "I'll show ya wha yer lookin' fa, but it might jus cost me my life. I had ta kiss ya. At least once."

Lane frowned, but followed him nevertheless.

He led her through the hallway, stopping in front of a room, the door slightly ajar.

"Yer room?"

Spot didn't reply, pushing open the door and heading over to the bed. Lane stood by watched with crossed arms as he gripped the underneath of it and hauled it away from the wall, revealing a trapdoor with a latch.

"How'd ya know dat was dere?" Lane questioned, drawing closer.

"Cause I made it," Spot replied shortly. He then pulled the key from around his neck and stuck it inside the latch, smiling grimly when the sound of something unlocking was heard. She watched as he then opened the trapdoor and reached down slightly, pulling out a glittering crown. Lane gaped at both him and the crown, wondering why he got something so... so mesmerizing while they were stuck with a noisy violin. And why he was even aware of his own object!

But she said nothing, observing the boy as he held the crown delicately and went over to a small desk. Letting out a soft sigh, he placed it down on the rough surface. Lane waited a moment before joining his side.

"A Brooklyn crown for a Brooklyn king," Lane murmured.

"I agree wit ya," Spot told her, staring down at it.

"Huh?"

"Dere's only one Patrick I care 'bout, too. But his name ain't Colon no more." Spot exhaled slowly once more, and she wondered if he was talking about his father. Had he died as well? "Lane, when Ise gone... tell Finch tha throne a' Brooklyn is he-ah waitin' fa him."

Lane felt her heart drop at his words. "Spot?"

"It really ain't me place ta tell ya, but Finch ran away when we was seven." Spot took a regretful step backwards, turning the other way. "He always had a bit of a memory problem, y'know. Couldn't rememb-ah anythin' fa his life. But maybe he jus didn't wanna rememb-ah." He chuckled bitterly. "I'd say he dropped his name, 'n came up wit a new one. He always did like dem boids."

"Yeah, he remembered his name while we was in tha Refuge," Lane said, still trying to wrap her head around his words. She didn't bother telling him that his childhood was the one thing he'd been glad to leave behind. "But he nev-ah remembered anythin' else. Why would he run away?"

"Our faddah was abusive," Spot admitted gruffly. "It was real bad, Lane. No food fa days, beaten to a pulp every night... but I was tha oldest sibling, technically. I couldn't jus leave—I had Finch 'n Brigid ta look aft-ah..."

"Brigid?"

"Named aft-ah our aunt," Spot told her. "Young-ah den both Finch 'n me. I don't know where she ended up. Maybe in tha orphanage."

Lane shuddered at the thought.

"I changed me middle name aft-ah Finch left," Spot continued. "He wasn't jus me bruddah, he was me twin. So I changed me middle name ta Patrick. So I would always have a piece 'a him wit me."

Lane put out a hand, needing a moment to sort out the new information. "Spot, where did tha name Cortes come from?"

Spot winced, like he'd been hoping she wouldn't ask. "Our muddah. Before she married."

Finch Cortes. The boy who, all along, had really been Patrick Colon.

And he had no clue.

"What did ya mean when ya said dis might cost ya yer life?" Lane questioned, forcing herself to stay focused.

Spot sighed, lightly placing the crown atop his head, before taking it off and putting it back down. "Forget it. Someone told me dey might come 'n kill me, but I don't really believe dat. Ise tha King 'a Brooklyn. I've dealt wit worse. Thought ya deserved ta know 'bout Finch, anyway."

She turned towards him, aghast. "Really? Someone tells ya someone wants ya dead, 'n yer jus gonna brush it off like dat?" When he didn't say anything, she needled, "Who was it? Who was tha person dat warned ya?"

"Ain't important." Spot hesitated, staring blankly ahead. "Ya know they's watchin' us right now, don't ya?"

Lane froze, although this had not been news to her. "I know."

Spot chuckled brittley, lowering his voice. "Ya oughta ignore what I said 'bout dyin' before. Death is inevitable. It don't matt-ah when it finally gets ya."

"Three lead-ahs have already died, Spot."

"And what's one more?" Spot questioned, but his voice shook on the last word and it occurred to her that Spot Colon was scared. Scared of death. Scared of the inevitable.

She predicted that this secret messenger was more of a trusted source than the boy had let on. It was too risky to say anything when they were so clearly being watched, though.

"I-If I ev-ah do end up takin' a bit of a trip," Spot began, "'n if I don't return—me own choice, 'a course..." Whether it was because he knew he was being watched, or his own pride, Lane knew he was attempting to cover up the fact that he could be very close to his own demise. "Jack promised me— promised Brooklyn—somethin' in return fa our help when we broke Finch 'n yer rear end outta dat Refuge."

"Alright?" Lane prompted impatiently. "What of it?"

"I nev-ah did fig-ah what it was I wanted," Spot elaborated. "But I know now. I want Finch. On dat throne."

Lane sucked in a quick breath. "Finch might not wanna be on yer throne."

Spot looked at her with sharp, glowering eyes. "He's me bruddah."

"Yeah, but..." She sighed. "He's always said how he's glad he ain't a lead-ah. Ya can't make him change his mind."

"Then..." Spot winced and looked away, swallowing hard. "Then will you?"

"Will I... become lead-ah 'a Brooklyn?" Lane scoffed. "Colon, listen ta yer-self. Ya barely know me. I ain't even a newsie. Yer jus willin' ta give away yer throne ta a strang-ah, jus like dat?"

"Yer no strang-ah," Spot insisted, grabbing her shoulders. "And yer close ta Finch. If ya show him dat yer willin' ta take Brooklyn, den..."

"... You think he might wanna join me," Lane finished, almost laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea. "But what about yer second in command, Hotshot? What about all yer loyal kids right he-ah?"

"None 'a dem is Finch," Spot said. "None 'a dem is me bruddah."

Lane stared at him, contemplating her decision.

"Jus promise me," he ordered, "promise me you'll get Finch up dere on me throne, if anythin' ev-ah happens, or even when I... leave. Leave tha newsie life."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Fine. Fine, alright, I promise."

She could hardly even think about the promise she was making.

(2823 words)

Guys.

Guys.

I cannot stress enough how long I've planned this chapter. Literally most of it (2000 words of it, exactly) was written at the time I was writing ASP. Even the beginning with Dipper and Lane.

And now it's finally published.

Not to mention how much just happened.

This chapter is dedicated to Takiyomaay!! Thank you for taking the time to read these books, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

** I should probably note, when Spot was referring to a Brigid, he was not talking about Lane. The Delancey's are very much her brothers lol. Just like how Finch and Spot are very much siblings.

Which cracks me up because in the first book, Finch mentioned having a (fake) sister, but little did he know she was actually real.

Some incorrect quotes (because I miss them):

Spot: I am a positive person!
Lane: You just said that you're sure you're going to die.
Spot: No, I said: 'I'm positive I'm going to die.'
Lane:
Spot: Positively.

—

Spot: Why are you on my throne?
Lane: Why are you on my nerves?

~ nutcracker645