Title: Will This Kill Me?
Summary: Newkirk really wants to know.
Author: kirinsaga
Rated: G
A/N: Written for the Speed Writing Contest. First line comes from The Hogan's Heroes Duck Shoot by Atarah Derek.
One of these days, I will figure out how to be serious when writing for this fandom.

"Try this, Newkirk."

Newkirk gave Carter a dubious look when the American sat a large mug full of... something... bubbling in front of him on the table. "Will this kill me?" He poked nervously at the mug, wincing when a puff of... smoke drifted from the mug and down to the table, drifting over his other hand. He quickly moved his hand out of the way.

Carter looked hurt, but Newkirk didn't know if it was honest hurt or not. Some days, it was hard to tell. "What a thing to ask. You know I'd never hurt any of you," he said as he dropped down next to Newkirk on the bench. "Besides, if I really wanted to kill you, I'd use a bomb, not poison."

That was almost comforting, in a rather disturbing way. Newkirk reluctantly pulled the mug closer to him, startled at the chilled feel of it. "It's boiling... but cold?" He was wanting to drink it less and less. "No offense, mate, but are you sure this is safe?"

Carter sighed, but Newkirk could tell he was amused, and reached out to pick up the mug, making a show of taking a large swallow. Smiling, he sat it back in front of Newkirk, pushing it closer, and gave him an expectant look. "Just don't eat the ice."

Newkirk grimaced and picked up the freezing mug, wondering briefly if all that time spent in his lab had given Carter some kind of immunity against poisons, before taking a cautious sip.

Newkirk promptly began coughing.

Carter caught the mug before a single drop could spill, having expected this kind of reaction. "Good, huh?" He took another long sip, eyes shining with silent laughter as he watched Newkirk trying to recover. "It's an old family recipe, though I added the dry ice."

Newkirk, eyes watering, wheezed and tried to gather his wits. Finally, "What's in that? A gallon of vodka?" His voice was raspy, and he could tell Carter wanted to laugh. He appreciated the American's restraint. He still felt like punching him, though. Once he got his breath back. If. If he got his breath back.

Carter shook his head, frowning in mild disappointment down at the mug still in his hands. "I couldn't find any vodka, so I just got a couple of bottles from one of the stills. Moonshine, I think. Or something like it."

Newkirk was seriously starting to wonder what Carter's tolerance for alcohol was, if he could drink that concoction without choking. "What else?" He was pleased to notice his voice wasn't as raspy now, and that the burning was starting to go away. But still, what had Carter put in that?

Carter frowned at the half empty glass for a moment, as if trying to remember, before handing it back to Newkirk. "Ginger, honey, and a little black pepper. For kick."

Newkirk honestly didn't think it needed the pepper; the moonshine provided enough kick on it's own. He stared at the mug, wondering why he had accepted it again, before reluctantly taking another sip. It went down easier this time, though he still found himself coughing a little at the burn. But he had to admit, it was growing on him. Though that probably had something to do with the fact that he was already feeling a little buzzed. And only having had two sips. Or three.

Carter had had half a mug. How was he still upright?

"Heck, Newkirk, I grew up on this stuff."

How did Carter know what he was thinking? Newkirk stared in complete bewilderment at the mug, empty but for two unmelted cubes of smoking ice, as if it held all the answers. Wait... empty? How had that happened?

Carter smiled brightly, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter, as he listened to Newkirk talking to himself. It was always fun to watch someone drinking the Carter Family Tonic for the first time. It never failed to entertain. Plus, he could show the Colonel how well it could be used to incapacitate the German guards at that armoury London wanted taken care of tomorrow night. He'd have to leave out the dry ice, of course, but that wasn't important.

Carter caught Newkirk as he finally collapsed, the mug clattering to the floor, and carefully dragged his friend over to his own bottom bunk, removing his boots and tucking him in. He'd worry about the mug and ice later. They weren't going anywhere. He really hoped Newkirk didn't mind being used as Carter's guinea pig, but the tonic didn't contain anything harmful. Other than the ice, of course, but Newkirk had remembered not to eat it. Besides, Newkirk always enjoyed a good drink, and this was a good drink. The best, even.

Still, though, Newkirk would have one heck of a hangover once he woke up. They always did. His former CO had likened it to having someone jabbing hot metal rods into his brain. And then he had threatened to court martial him if Carter ever made it again. Carter was certain he hadn't been serious. Almost. Besides, he had calmed down once Carter had made him that hangover cure.

Carter frowned, and wondered if Newkirk could be convinced to try the Carter Family Hangover Cure. He could make it just in case. He was sure Lebeau could spare a tomato or two, and he had a swig of moonshine left, and maybe he could find some kind of hot sauce. He could improvise if he needed to.

Newkirk let out a loud snore just then and Carter glanced down at him... and promptly broke into quiet giggles, hands clamp tightly over his mouth to avoid drawing attention. Newkirk's face was all red, and he was making little whistling sounds between snores. It was just too funny. Much better than when he had made the tonic for his CO. All that man had done was drool a lot.

And Newkirk had always said that Carter couldn't hold his liquor.