#i still haven’t figured out the tag list situation so reblogs are v much appreciated so that more ppl see this!

[thefactsofthematter]

🥺can you write a sprace piece with spot taking care of race? 👉👈

yessir!!!! a little bit of hurt/comfort, taking care of each other after a fight 🥺

1.4k; sprace, canon era; warning for a (non-fatal) knife wound and various other minor injuries

- 

"Stop, I can— I can do it myself, Spot. Okay? I don't need your help."

Race is stubbornly trying to pull off his own undershirt, as they sit in Spot's room, following a bit of a rumble with some boys from another borough. He can't move his left arm too well right now, so he's trying to wiggle out of the shirt one-handed, and the fabric keeps catching on the rather large cut on his abdomen.

"One of those Woodside boys caught you with a knife, Racer." Spot reaches out to try and help. "Just let me—"

"No!" Race squirms away. "I can do it! Worry about cleaning up your own busted lip, how bout."

Race is so goddamn prideful. He always has been. He doesn't want help from anyone, and he hates for it to even seem like he can't do anything and everything for himself.

The boys they fought with today were taunting him— they'd called him Spot's "lap dog," and acted as if he couldn't hold his own without Spot backing him up. They'd joked about Race being a suck-up to the king of Brooklyn and not being loyal to any one borough... it was fucked up and mean, and Spot and Race soaked the guys together. However, despite winning the fight, it was inevitable to come away with some injuries of their own.

"You throw your shoulder out?" Spot asks, deciding to let Race have his moment for now. "I'm gonna have one sucker of a black eye. I can feel it."

Race shrugs with one shoulder, a dead giveaway that the other one is hurting too to move.

"It'll be sore for a minute. Not that bad, though." He finally manages to pull his shirt most of the way off, but it gets stuck on his head, since he can't really lift his left arm to pull it all the way. "Damn it."

Spot laughs quietly, but it dies in his throat when he gets an eyeful of the huge gash right next to Race's belly button. That's a nasty cut.

"I know you can do it yourself, but ain't it easier if I just give you a hand?" he sighs. A glare from Race, through the threadbare fabric of his shirt, but no actual objection. "Please let me help you, Racer."

He scoots over across the floor to help whether it's wanted or not. Rather than protest, Race just leans forward to let Spot pull the bloody undershirt off, wincing as his sore shoulder is jostled a little.

"There you go," Spot continues, being as gentle as humanly possible with every touch. He tosses the shirt aside. "Now, can have a look at that cut? I think you're done bleeding... let me clean it up for you."

Race reaches down to prod at the wound, and his face screws up in pain when he pokes it a little too hard, but he immediately schools his expression back into something indifferent and neutral.

"Doesn't seem that bad," he mumbles. "I can do it myself."

Spot catches Race's hand in his own, almost by instinct.

"You're gonna make yourself bleed out if you keep poking it like that! Lookit— you nearly opened it right back up." He gives Race what he hopes is an earnest and caring look... though he's never been good with emotions. "Just relax, okay? I know you can do it, but I wanna help you anyways. What kinda boyfriend would I be if I just sat here doin' nothing when you're a bloody mess?"

Race bites down on his inner lip and drops his eyes to their connected hands. They don't use that boyfriend word very often... it feels bigger and grander than what they are. They're just a couple of boys who like each other a lot— they don't typically put a label on it.

"Just be careful," Race sighs. "Don't get too handsy with me."

Spot rolls his eyes.

"Very funny. You wanna lie down? Might be more comfy that way." He reaches for the ruined shirt they just pulled off. "I'm gonna use this for a rag, I'll go wet it in the washbasin. Don't go nowhere."

He pushes himself onto his feet as Race tries to make himself comfortable on the floor. Spot's got his own little room in the attic of his lodging house, but the nearest bathroom is down on the next floor.

He's back in a flash, to find Race laying there with his good arm draped over his eyes in a ridiculously dramatic fashion. Typical.

"Hanging in there, tough guy?" he asks with a giggle.

"Ain't dead yet," Race replies. "He barely scraped me, anyhow."

"Right..." Spot chuckles, as he sits down on the floor next to Race. "Just hardly grazed you."

Spot is as careful as possible, but Race still hisses in pain as soon as the rag makes contact. He keeps his arm draped over his face— probably to avoid looking down.

It's not as bad as Spot had expected. Once most of the blood is wiped away, it's not a particularly deep cut. It might leave a cool scar, and it'll be uncomfortable for at least a few days, but that'll likely be the extent of the damage.

"You almost done?" Race grumbles, after a while. "I think you're just takin' your sweet time so you can get an eyeful of me, you animal."

It would be a lie for Spot to say he hadn't spent a moment or two marvelling over how Race's pale torso seems to stretch on for miles... but he'll vehemently deny it anyways.

"I'm here helping you, outta the goodness of my heart! What kinda man do you take me for?"

"Oh, you're a man now, huh?" Race finally moves his arm, just to give Spot a look. "Turned sixteen and now you think you're all grown up?"

"Oh, hush," Spot groans. He's not even a full year older than Race, but he still constantly gets teased for being old. He finishes patching Race up, still being as delicate as he can. "There you go. All good." He pauses. "Wanna stay the night?"

Race's eyes close as he lets out a deep sigh. What a day they've had.

"Yeah," he says, after a moment. He almost sounds as if he's trying to rationalize the decision to himself. "It's late. I'm tired. Your bed's comfier than mine, too."

It's not like Spot would let him leave anyways— it's already dark, and the weather's been getting cool lately. It's a long walk home, and the shortcut goes through some not-so-safe areas. Spot would like to keep Race safely tucked into his bed tonight, thank you very much.

"Alright, then," Spot says, and then he scoops his arms underneath Race's thin frame and picks him up. He might be tall, but Race is ridiculously light— he's got a quick metabolism, a small appetite, and an insistence on making sure younger kids get fed before he does. "Let's get you to bed now."

Spot has tried this maneuver before— Race always screeches and protests and flails his legs until Spot puts him back down. Tonight, though, in some miraculous turn of events, he just laughs softly and puts his good arm around Spot's shoulders to help balance himself.

"I can walk just fine, you know," Race says, though there's no hint of actual annoyance behind it— just a fondness that he expresses through teasing quips. "This is ridiculous."

"It sure is," Spot agrees, before carefully laying Race down on his bed. "You need anything? A cup of water? An extra blanket? I think I could find one if you wanted it."

Race just stares up at him with an expression that's almost... soft. He's exhausted, and his messed-up shoulder and the cut on his abdomen must be aching horribly, but he just smiles a little at Spot, like he's perfectly content to be here.

"I don't need nothin' more but you," he finally says, decisive and final. "Get your ass in bed."

And so Spot does. He's so, so careful to not bump or move Race in a way that might hurt him, but he climbs into the little bed and then kisses him long and hard.

"I love you," he whispers once he pulls away, and Race snorts, amused.

"Sap," Race teases, but then after a moment, his voice goes all gentle and he adds, "I love you more."

And while the two of them may have been screwed out of a lot of good things in life— parents, an education, a normal childhood— at least they have this love. Sometimes, Spot feels as if this really is all he needs.