Kings Racetrack- A Sprace fanfic

2- You'd think I be lyin' but..

"woah there-" Spot to his best ability against Race's heavy body, caught him by the under arms.

Spot couldn't believe the scene that played out in front of him. He felt like he was watching a moving picture. He now found himself holding the practically unconscious arms of one of Jack's boys in his hands. With a grunt he pulled Race's limp body into the alleyway he was originally hiding in. He pushed the blonde to sit up.

"okay. you can wake up now." Spot smacked Race's pale cheek. For a moment the blonde didn't respond. "Mm.. I'm up, I.. I'm up." Race's words slurred; his eyes opened heavily. "i's gonna need you to keep you's eyes open." Spot demanded as he pulled Race back up on his feet. "I don't feel real well." The blonde chuckled.

"the hell- did York soak ya'?" The other just shrugged, Spot rolled his eyes. He slung Races arm around his shoulder. He was off into the alleyway, dodging debris and garbage with ease. Spot in an open patch watched closely at his boys at the docks, watching if any of them saw their leader. When no one batted an eye, he was turning the corner for the Brooklyn lodging houses very own fire escape.

His calves screamed at him as he hit the last set to his room. Being the king had some perks. Like having your own private room big enough to fit a nice bed, bedside table, and cramped desk. Spot with Race giggling all while draped over his shoulder set the other down gently onto his bed.

"You.. get your own room?" Race took a look around the medium sized room, almost in awe. "yeah, bein' king has its perks." He smirked lightly. He turned to dig into his desk, while walking Race to the house he noticed his knee was scraped up as well. He pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of gauze.

After patching up Race's wounds, which left the other with gauze wrapped nicely around his right knee. "wait here for a second." Spot stood up and opened his door with a creak. He closed it behind himself leaving Race alone.

Race ended up lying upside down over the edge of the bed with his cigar dangling out of his mouth, which didn't help his headache nor the fog one bit. There was a small knock on the door, Race perked up. He sat himself upright and cursed when the blood rushed to his head. The door creaked back open once more.

"Boss, have you's-" Hotshot poked his head in. Instead of Spot he was greeted by Race's surprised expression. "Racetrack?? What are you's doin' here's?" Hotshot, to say the least, looked flabbergasted.

"Smacked my head." Race blinked, his reply muffled by his cigar between his teeth.

"Boss didn't rough you up did he?" Hotshot with caution shut the door behind her. Race shook his head, hissing when his headache spiked. "Nah, wasn't him. That vazey bitch, York." The Manhattan boy grumbled; Hotshot audibly laughed. "Makes sense, boy can't handle his anger real well." The other clutched his stomach. She dragged over Spot's desk chair to be in front of Race.

"So.. where's Boss anyway'"

"Went out."

"..where?"

"To get somthin'"

"Very descriptive. Thanks for you's wise words." Hotshot rolled his eyes. Race's eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted in a confused manner.

"I wouldn't call my words 'wise' but.."

"Race. I's was bein' sarc-"

The door opened without a knock. Spot stood in the doorway with a glass jar wrapped in a towel.

"Heyy Boss, there you's are..." Hotshot sat awkwardly, his lips pressed in a thin line. "shot, what are you's doing here's." Spot asked. However, with the tone of Spot's voice it sounded more like a statement than a question.