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Spot Oneshot-No Mercy

     I limped up the stairs of the lodging house, my uneven footfalls barely making a sound as I gripped the railing for support. My trip to Queens had taken an unwelcome turn, hence the limp. And the split lip. And if we're counting, the gash on my shoulder didn't use to be there a few hours ago either. Queens didn't have problems hitting girls. Apparently, they didn't have problems ambushing them either. As I pushed myself further up the steps growing closer to the second floor, I resisted the urge to spit the disgusting metallic taste out of my mouth, instead allowing it to linger. I'd just have to clean it in the morning if I spit blood all over the stairs.

     Nearing the last step, I stomached a groan. As much as I wanted to just quit and lay myself out on the stairs, I had to make it to Spot. I could feel a trickle of warmth flowing stickily down my back, urging me on. If I wanted any help, Spot was my best bet. Our fearless leader could be rough at times, well, most times really. But he always took care of us; that's what good leaders do. Sure, some boys got soaked and put back in their rightful places, but it's their fault for testing the line. Spot ain't called the King of Brooklyn for nothing; it's a hard-earned title. Even if I wanted to bypass his help, it just so happens he keeps the bandages in his room.

     I kept a steadying hand on the wall as I passed by the open doorway of one of the bunkrooms. I couldn't make out anything apart from the darkness and several snores, and the familiar musty smell, so on I pressed, slowly ambling down past several more dark open doorways before facing my destination. The closed door of our leader's private room loomed before me, almost making me second-guess my needs. However, necessity took precedence and gathering my courage; I brought my hand up to rap against the old wood.

Almost instantaneously, I heard a very harsh yell.

"What??" He clearly hadn't been able to fall asleep yet. 

"Its past time foa sleep if its somefin stupid yous got three seconds to get outta hea befoa I soak ya"

Instead of scurrying away, I rapped my knuckles again, harder this time to get my point across.

"Aw just open the dang doa youself wouldja?"

     My sore hand gripped the old copper handle creaking the door open, allowing me to just make out the owner of the voice. Moonlight streamed through Spot's room, leaving strange angles working their way across the floorboards as I did my best not to hobble into his presence. His silhouette was prominent on his occupied bottom bunk, although his face and any other details were totally obscured by the shadow. However, I could easily tell by the annoyed angle of his shoulders he was quite bothered at the moment.

"Just me Spot."

"Oh," I could practically picture the way his face relaxed. "Y/N." The edge quickly left his tone as he explained, "'pologize foa yellin, da boys always think da dead o night is da best time a talk ta me. Come in. How may I help yous?" he asked as he leaned slightly into the moonlight, elbows on his knees. The soft blue light exposing his wiry arms and white tank top which clung to his form, in addition to highlighting his dirty blond hair. A small blush came up my neck from his rare apology, and I thanked the shadow in which I momentarily stood. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

"Hold on, dis gon take moa den a minute?"

"Yeah, I reckon." I managed.

     He grunted in acknowledgment standing up to grab a matchbook from on top of the small chest of drawers before striking it and lighting the oil lamp. Without a second thought, he waved to extinguish the match sending a miniature whisp of smoke upwards as he dropped the blackened stick into a small tin ashtray. It really was quite nice of him; wasting a match for me. I shifted my weight uncomfortably, now I couldn't hide in the darkness.