Yes, I'm back from the dead. Sorry guys. Got chapter three of When it Gets Dark up. Both of these stories have no plot, they are just going, so I hope that explains all the unrealistic situations and whump overload. I'm a sucker for H/C. Anyways, sorry for the unedited stuff. If it says something that sounds weird it's probably definitely my autocorrect. My old readers know this when I say that I have the weirdest autocorrect in the history of autocorrect. It will literally take the correct word and switch it into the incorrect version (I'll type Medal, and it will turn it into Metal. Really irritating.) Another note on this story is that I don't know the racing season dates or whatever for New York in 1899, so I've made them up. I've helped train racers, but I am clueless as to their schedule. But Sheepshead does come in later, so that's why I mentioned it.

Thanks for bearing with me, and as you know…

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. But we'se practically bruddahs, me an' Jeck, so who's judgin'?

Crutchie was able to sit up the next morning, but he was still pretty weak. His time upright caused him to sleep even harder when Race finally did wake up.

Race found his way to consciousness through the torching pain that his leg provided.

Probably missed the afternoon races…. He thought as his eyes cracked open. The branches of a skeleton tree with stiff and pale buds outside the window shuddered. Oh. Sheepshead wasn't open for another month at least. How much time did I lose? Where was Jack?

He tried to sit up, but unseen daggers began to peel the skin off of his leg. He laid back, gasping. So, that's how it was.

"Fine," he ground out, "Youse gonna play dat card? Fine!" He swung his legs over the bed in one go, doubling over. While his head was still pounding, he could feel an arm across his chest, and another pair gently moving his legs again. When his head cleared, Jack and Specs were standing over him. The other guys were throwing down jackets, and kicking back onto their bunks.

"How's it, Race?"

"How's what?"

"Dah leg, stupid." Jack shooed Specs away and crouched down, folding his arms on the edge of the bed. "Oh, 'an Crutchie's good, 'danks for askin'."

"I didn't-"

"I ain't stupid, Race. Sarcasm. Evah heard of it? What where you thinking? You woulda been killed!" Jack stood up and started to pace, gesturing wildly. Behind him, Romeo snickered. A dime novel flew at his head a moment later.

"I know I know! But it's not my fault Jeck, look, I'se got dah leg now, tah prove it!" Race scrambled for words, feeling helpless on his back.

"Well dats great, dats just great. Two crips, bettah than just one, ain't it?"

"Crip?" Race asked slowly. "I'se not gonna…. Jeck, I'se not gonna be a crip!" But it sounded so much like a question that Jack put his hand on his forehead and pushed back his dark hair.

"Ugh, Race. Truth it I was worried for yah. Look, you barely made it. Youse got tah take it slow. I'se just sayin'... Well, I don't know what I'se sayin'. You got a fat chance of nevah walkin' dah same." Jack's eyes started to lose their anger, but they were still firm. "But I hav'tah know it wasn't 'cause of your stupidity."

Race let it all fall over him. His hands twisted the thin fabric of his shirt over his chest. "Jus' a goyl, Jeck, jus' some goyl Crutchie saw. Delancy's sistah."

"Delancy's- what dah heck, do dey even have a sistah?!"

"Take a looksee," he gestured to his leg. "Look, Ise not tryin' to pass dah blame."

"I know, Race." Jack's eyebrows drew together. He looked away. "You think you could eat?"

"Yeah."

Jack turned to leave the room to get something for Race.

"Uh, Jeck… do you happen tah have a cigar, by chance?"

A dime novel flew across the room from Albert's direction, "It's a little spitty, but it's yours in a heartbeat, buddy boy." Race heard Jack laugh and jog down the stairs.

"If I weren't flat on my back you'd be rollin' on yours!" Race waited for the reply.

"Hey, knock it off!"

A cigar appeared on Race's chest as a figure walked by.

"Thanks Romeo."

"Anytime."

….

Crutchie, though he took a good soaking, went back to work two days later, selling closer to home. Race, however, had to recover, and relearn how to walk.

The first days, about a week after the incident, were hell. He could only take laps when there were people around, and those people were usually Jack and Specs, the only two tall enough to support him. The sharp, grinding pain in his thigh didn't improve with a month. Not with two. Sheepshead opened again, and he gave his winter selling spot- the theatre- to Crutchie, at least while the racing season was underway. But the races went on faster than he could and Race slowly sank deeper in despair into the idea that his leg wasn't the same. The scar was ugly, and thick, and made his skin tight and reddish. The leg felt a little crooked when he walked. The doctor couldn't come again to tell them any more; they could barely afford to feed Race while he was out. What made things worse was Crutchie gifting him a new crutch, which Race could only assume he'd bought with his own money. He couldn't bring himself to touch the thing. Not until he had to.

One morning in late May, Race had had enough. He woke earlier than all the other Newsboys, straightened his long-unused cap, and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He glanced at the crutch. Eventually he would have to use the hateful thing. Eventually had come. He left a note and tried to walk using as little support on the crutch as possible. But he fell four times. Four. A new record for him.

So he hobbled. Racetrack Higgins, known for darting around the races like a pro, known for escaping the consequences of a fake headline by disappearing in a flaming sprint…. Racetrack Higgins did not hobble. Well, he didn't used to.

Race got his papes before the others even got there, ignoring Weasel's grim glare, and the Delancy's slightly astonished faces as he limped past.

On his way to Sheepshead, he sold twenty-two of his 100 papes without even shouting the headline. It was only eight o'clock, which wasn't a bad time to start work, but it felt like a dreaded number for Race, who was used to getting into the races by before seven-thirty. It was a long walk from 'hattan to Brooklyn. It felt longer today.

His limp made women look sad, and pause as he went by. It made men look away uncomfortably. But mostly it made people point and whisper. Sure, most of them didn't care at all. But Race could only see the ones whose eyes held pity or shame for him. Crutchie could have never explained with words how this felt, but Race knew now. He couldn't weave in and out of the boxes. Instead he had to stay with the flow of the crowd. Weak with frustration, he finally settled on a corner next to a pile of crates near one of the entrances. Beautiful ladies in pale blues and charming wine reds swept past him. Fine men took their arms, silk vests glistening, shoes gleaming, watch chains polished to a fine shine.

Race's sweaty hands felt his pocket, fingers caressing the perfect gold of his own watch.

Finally he got down to business. He decided not to be too obvious, and so leaned back against the wall.

"Mayor's biggest scandals revealed! Read it now!" he called, waving the pape around wildly.

With this and other like headlines, he tightly but discreetly folded the paper before he handed it to the customer so that they would be a distance away before they realized they'd been cheated. By then he could hobble to the next main entrance and get a fresh reputation.

This exhausting routine continued all day, until night fell and he realized he hadn't seen a single horse that day. That was half the reason he sold at Sheepshead. Disappointed and cold, Race stumbled home, four lonely papers fluttering in his bag, alone in the dark.

Thanks for reading! Cheers!