Newsies Oneshots 2.0

I'll Do Anything-Sprace

No one kill me please.

If you cry, I sincerely apologize.

TRIGGER WARNING: Blood, Guns, Language, Kidnapping, and Crying. If any of this triggers you, please read at your own discretion.

Again, I'm so sorry. I promise, I love Spot and Race with my entire heart, even though Race can't dress to save his life.

EDIT: Also, this was written before I began developing Jet as a character, and he was meant to be an active psychopath. He's not anymore, but there was a point where he was. (He's still a jerk, tho.)

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Spot finally found it. He's here. A phase of relief washes over him, but he knows it's not over yet.

Race had been missing for three weeks. No one knew where he was or where he could be, everyone was hopeless. Except Spot, who forced Jack and their friends to do everything but give up until they found Race.

They looked around all of Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens. They even went all the way to Staten Island, but nothing. Not one Newsie knew where he was.

With no help from the police or any pitying adult, Spot was practically on his own. Everyone told him to give up- which he couldn't believe was coming from Jack and Albert at the time- but he didn't. Something told him Race was alive, like a spark that wouldn't seem to dim.

He chuckled in relief and fear as he walked into the Refuge, a place of haunting memories and solitude. He hated it there, despite having never gone. He knew of the stories Race told him, and he swore to never set foot on the creaky wooden floors.

Some promises are made to be broken.

"Hello?" Spot looked around, having nearly no light shining to aid him. There were stairs and doors all around, and something told his Race wasn't in there. But he was here.

The story was Oscar and Morris took him, which wouldn't be shocking, and it would explain their absence at the time. But Morris showed up to work the next day, and everyone stopped thinking about it- who would complain about Oscar Delancey missing a workday?

Spot wiped his nose on his hand, looking at every corner. His heart was beating hard in his chest, almost like it was ready to explode. He's here, Spot. He is.

"Argh!" He looked around quickly at the sound of someone's voice, an impatient tinge to it. "Will you get here already?! God, you Brooklyn boys sure do like to take your time!"

Spot furrowed his brows and walked faster, beginning to run when he heard feet walking. "Let's go! I have things to do!"

Spot almost whined when he showed up to a another empty room. Where is he? He's here somewhere.

His body froze when the sound of shot went through the room. "RACE!"

He booked it to where the gun sounded off, a large room in front of him. He imagined there were tables filled here, telling from the kitchen that assumably fed a countless amount of children, boys mostly. But that didn't matter.

He ran towards the figure on the floor, on their knees, gagged and blindfolded. He slid down onto his knees, ignoring the tears coming to his eyes. "Race? Racer?"

He pulled the gag down, recognizing the lips he'd kissed so many times again and again, biting down the sob he wanted to let out. "Racer?"

"Hey, Spotty", Race responded, barely able to speak from the soreness of his throat. He licked his lips and tried to smile, but all Spot could do was cry. "Hey."