In Between 'Hattan and Brooklyn || A Sprace Story

Chapter 75 - Mornings of Quips and Clap-Backs

- Chapter 75 - Our favorite banter between one of our favorite Brookhatten couples -
Warnings: nothing bad (yetttttttt), mostly just retorts and fluff
Third Person POV

"Racetrack, Amore." Spot smiled a bit, gently brushing Race's hair out of his face.

The boy was beautiful and if they didn't have to sell, Spot would let him sleep forever.

God knew Race needed it.

Alas, they had selling and Spot had to wake Race up.

"Racetrackk," Spot said in a sing-song voice, gently shaking him. "If you don't get your butt up, I'll throw you off the dock." He smiled.

"You wouldn't." Race's eyes remained closed.

Spot smirked. "Wanna try me, Higgins?"

Race slowly woke up, his bright blue eyes peering up at Spot. "You're scared of Davey..." he mumbled.

Spot rolled his eyes fondly. "You're in my Borough, Higgins," he reminded him. "Remember?"

Race pursed his lips. He sighed softly and rubbed his eyes. "Our Borough," he corrected him. "If you're going to call me that stupid nickname, at least give me some credit to this Borough." He shot him a look.

Spot smirked, playing off the warm feeling in his chest that filled him and made him want to kiss Race a million times. "Get your butt up."

Race sighed dramatically, sitting up. "Only if you let me wear my clothes today," he tried to bargain.

Spot chuckled, fixing his suspenders. "Nice try."

Race glared at him. "I will stay right here."

Spot turned around to face him. "Wanna try that?" He crossed his arms.

Race pursed his lips. "Not fully."

Spot chuckled. "Then get up and change, or I'll take you to the distribution center in just that." He looked him up and down. "Not that I'd mind it, but you aren't selling with me today, so you should change."

Race rolled his eyes fondly and got off the bed, grabbing his clothes and starting to change. "Who am I selling with?" he asked curiously. "And so help me, if you say Cloth, I wil-"

"Sling."

Race sighed in relief. "Thank the lord."

"Or thank your boyfriend, whatever," Spot retorted.

Race rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Spot glared at him. "You're a real pest sometimes."

Race laughed, leaving his flannel unbuttoned. "That's not the first time someone's called me that," he commented.

Spot rolled his eyes. He walked over to Race and started buttoning his flannel. "You're going to die from hypothermia and if I have to bury you, I'm going to bring you back myself and make sure you aren't let out of my sight for years."

Race shivered. "No thanks."

Spot rolled his eyes again. "You say that like it's a terrible thing," he grumbled. "I begin to question if you love me or not. I mean, Jack would do worse."

"Yeah, but let's be fair, Al and Charlie would bring me back to smack me for freezing to death and Finch would smack me for making Al sad by passing away," Race responded, watching Spot button the last button of his flannel. "Jack would be too relieved I'm back."

Spot nodded, knowing he was probably right. "Come on." He straightened out Race's flannel. "Let's go."

Race nodded. He grabbed his hat and cigar, and followed Spot out of the room.

"Racetrack Higgins! Shut the freaking door!"

"Fine! Fine!" Race rolled his eyes, sticking his cigar into his mouth and shutting the door. "There. Happy?"

Spot rolled his eyes. "I'd be happy if you remembered to close my door ever," he grumbled, sticking his pimp-stick into his belt loop.

"Remind me the day before your birthday and it can be your present," Race responded, though he was paying more attention to the different pieces of wood on the walls than the conversation.

"Remind me why I keep you around," Spot muttered to himself. He looked back at Race. "Right. Because I'm whipped." He sighed.

A few minutes later

"Where's your boyfriend?" Hotshot strolled up to Spot.

Spot didn't look up from his newspaper. "Trying to figure out if his or Ace's eyes are closer to the color of the water today."

Hotshot blinked. He looked around. "Is Ace with-"

"Yep."

Hotshot nodded, deciding not to question it. "Who's he selling with today?" he asked curiously.

"Sling," Spot answered. He folded the paper and put it back into his bag. "I figure let him sell with Sling while he can because he's been wanting to for a while and we never know when things will get bad again," he informed him.

Hotshot nodded. "Good plan."

Spot chuckled. "That's why I'm the leader, Shot," he reminded him. "I make those."

"Outside of buddy-related things, yes," Hotshot responded.

"Hey! That's what I say!" A hyper blond-boy bounced over to them, grinning smugly.

Spot rolled his eyes at the two boys. "I hate you both sometimes."

"Well, if you hate me, I guess I'll just have to run off with a pretty girl." Race smirked.

Spot scoffed, crossing his arms. "Please. You're too gay to run off with a girl, Racetrack," he responded.

Hotshot snickered.

Race's jaw dropped in offense. "Hey! Am not!"

Spot raised an eyebrow at him. "When have you ever liked a female, Racetrack?" he questioned knowingly.

"First, what's with you calling me by my full name today?" Race questioned. "Second, I did once..." he watched Spot raise an eyebrow at him, causing him to cringe, "...when I was six."

Spot nodded. "Okay. Mhm. Sure thing."

Race glared at him. "Don't act condescending."

Spot raised an eyebrow at him.

Race shrugged. "I picked it up on the street one day and Specs told me where to find it in the dictionary," he explained. He perked up when he hear something—though what it was was unknown to everyone else around him—and turned, walking off.

Hotshot watched Race walk off, before turning back to face Spot. "He sure is something."

Spot was still staring at his boyfriend as he left. He smiled a bit. "Yeah, he is, but he's amazing."

Hotshot smiled. "That he is."

1008 Words