A/N: This is going to be a series of oneshots. Each newsie in his happy place, his Elysium. Some slash, some het, some neither. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: No son míos. Pero yo puedo esperar...

First up: King of Brooklyn himself.


To Spot Conlon, family are the people who will love you when no one else will. They will always be there to care, to pick you up when you fall.

Spot Conlon has never had a family.

He had a mother once, and maybe even a father, but now they are just a faded photograph tucked into the farthest recess of his mind.

Spot Conlon grew up Brooklyn strong, one in a thousand mick boys peddling papes to survive. When he was fifteen, he rose above them all and became their commander, their leader, their caretaker, but never their family. Because family means love, and Spot couldn't afford to love. Love would have weakened him.

Now Spot is nineteen and tending at O'Malley's a few nights a week. He's hoping to work every night, and it looks like he will, if he keeps buttering up to sweet old Mrs. O'Malley.

No longer is he the King of Brooklyn. His torched was passed not to another monarch but to a parliament of boys, an improvement of which he is proud. He is their most important advisor, although he's been visiting the docks less and less.

Because Spot had never known love, he had never known himself. As a fifteen year old king he'd thought he'd had the world figured out, but now, pouring a scotch and nodding at a whining customer, he realizes how naive he had been. Life isn't about power. He isn't proud of who he has been. He regrets being so strong before his boys, never showing them he cared, and that is why he is helping make sure that Brooklyn will never again be cold.

Because Spot is, for the first time in his life, discovering true happiness. Leaning on the bar, he thinks of her face, the rosiness of her cheeks, the perfect Cupid's bow of her mouth. The way she sighs and giggles. He yearns desperately to be home, to hold her in his arms.

He thinks only of her until closing time, then beats it home. "Home" is a dingy two-room apartment. It is small and sparsely furnished, but he keeps it spotless and there's a warmth that makes the women of the building stop in to say hello often.

He is careful as he opens the door because he knows she will be sleeping. And as he walks across the main room, there she is, cuddled up in the rocking chair. Spot lays a hand on his wife's shoulder and kisses her quickly. It was a long day.

Slowly, his wife lifts the bundle in her arms to him, and Spot is struck by the feeling of pure joy and purpose as he holds his daughter.

"Siobhan," he whispers, and she murmurs in her sleep. His wife smiles and takes his hand, and Spot knows that he will go as far as the world will let him and then some for the girls in his life. He will do anything for them to smile, to giggle, for their red hair to shine in the sun. And he knows that he will always be there for them, to laugh or to cry or to help or to fight, because that's what families do.

Spot Conlon has his own family. And the overwhelming love he feels for them, his pure amazement at God's creation that was his daughter, is enough to fill the world.