I do not own Newsies (surprise, surprise) therefore I do not own any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge they are owned by Disney.
I am making no money from this story (another big surprise).
Humor, Fluff, Language, Mild Slash.
Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. (This is a one-shot that grew into three chapters.)
A/N: Beta credit to pennylayne who graciously pulled an all-nighter to beta this story.
Strawberry Day
Chapter Three - Final Chapter
"You've poisoned me!" Spot hissed at Racetrack.
"You're not poisoned," Mr. Kloppman laughed. "It's an allergy. Lots of people have them."
"This is great! This is just great!" Spot grumbled. "I'm the toughest guy in New York, and I've been beaten by a little strawberry? If anybody finds out about this, I'm through!"
"Don't go gettin' all excited," Kloppman said. "Nobody is going to find out. Race, take Spot up the fire escape to the sickroom and lock the door. I'll be up in a few minutes."
The two did as instructed and climbed through the sickroom window.
Racetrack sat in the chair and watched as Spot paced back and forth.
"Ya better sit down, Spot. The guys are gonna hear you walkin' around and know that someone is in here."
Spot flopped onto the bed and glared at Racetrack. "I can't believe that you did this to me. You're my best friend and you've gone and poisoned me!"
"Oh, stop overreacting," Racetrack huffed. "You heard what Kloppman said. It's an allergy. He's gonna fix you right up . . . And besides, how was I supposed to know that you are allergic to strawberries? I mean, you are supposed to be the toughest guy in New York, and you can't even eat a strawberry? It is kinda funny when you think about it."
"Funny? You think that this is funny? You little weasel. I'm gonna - -"
Spot's words were cut off by Mr. Kloppman knocking on the door.
"You'd better keep your voices down," he said when Race unlocked the door. "I could hear the two of you arguing half way up the stairs."
Mr. Kloppman began to unpack the box he was carrying. "Okay, Race. Here's what you gotta do. Put some of this witch hazel on the cloth and wash him down every now and again. It will help to soothe the skin and heal the rash. Then take a little of this baking soda, and mix it with water to make a paste. Then dot it on all of the red spots. This should stop the itching. The paste is gonna dry out after a while, then you're gonna have to do the whole thing over again."
"What's the whiskey for?" Race asked.
"That's to make Spot here relax and get some sleep. . . . You'd better have some yourself, Race. It'll keep you from wanting to kill him after listening to him complain all night!"
Spot didn't respond to Mr. Kloppman's remark. He just glared through the mop of bangs that were hanging in front of his face.
"Nobody should bother you, but keep the door locked anyway. I told the guys that Race came home sick and that he might have the measles. They all know that nobody is to come near that door until I say that it's okay. Now, Race. If you need me, you're gonna have to go back down the fire escape and knock on my window. Then I'll come up and give you a hand."
"Will do," Race said. "And thanks a lot, Kloppman."
"You're welcome, Race," he replied. Then he looked over at Spot. "You're welcome, too, Spot."
"Yeah, um . . . thanks, Mr. Kloppman," Spot grumbled.
"Well, goodnight, boys. And try not to kill each other, okay?"
They said goodnight and Racetrack locked the door. "Okay, Spot. Take off your shirt and let's get started."
"I don't need your help, pal. You've done enough already."
Race watched as Spot poured the witch hazel on the cloth and started to wash his body. When he couldn't reach his back Spot took the bottle and poured it over his shoulder. The cold liquid made him shiver as it ran down his back and collected in the seat of his pants.
"Are you sure that you don't need any help?" Race grinned. "You're gonna get awful wet by morning if you keep trying to do that yourself."
Spot ignored his friend and continued to wash. When he tried to pry the lid off the tin of baking soda it slipped in his hand and a shower of white powder covered his already wet pants. "Son of a bitch!" he spat as he dumped some of the powder into the cup. Spot glanced up through his bangs to see if Racetrack was watching.
Race took his playing cards out of his pocket, and began to shuffle the well-worn deck. Then he laid them out on the table for a game of solitaire.
Spot took the pitcher and poured some water into the cup. He stuck in his finger to stir the mixture, but instead of a paste, he ended up with something that looked like watered down milk.
"Son of a - - "
"Okay, Spot," Race grinned as he handed his friend the whiskey. "I think that you need this more than you need that stuff right now."
Spot uncorked the bottle and took two large swallows. Then Race handed him a cigarette.
Spot watched as Race added more baking soda to the water, mixed it up with his finger, and magically created the paste.
"Turn around," Race ordered.
Spot hesitated for a moment. Then he took another swig of from the bottle and turned his back toward Race. Spot continued to sip the whiskey as Race dotted him with the baking soda mixture.
"Stand up," Race said as he covered the path of Spot's spots over the shoulder and down onto his chest. He was a bit surprised to see how well-developed his friend was. Spot looked much thinner with his shirt on. Race was sure that his face was bright red as his finger dotted down the muscles of Spot's arm then back up to his strong chest. He began to sweat when he glanced up and saw Spot watching him from under his bangs.
"How do ya feel," Race asked as his finger dotted across Spot's chest.
"I dunno, Race . . . You tell me," he replied with a smirk. "How do I feel?"
Spot's warm breath ghosted Race's ear and a flash of heat washed over him. He was sure that his entire body must have been blushing.
Spot wasn't sure why the sight of Race blushing pleased him, but he knew that it did. He didn't know if it was the whiskey, or the baking soda, or the care he was receiving that was making him feel better, but he was beginning to feel very good.
"What's the matter, Race? Your face is all red."
"It's a little hot in here," he replied without looking up.
"Gee, ya think so? I guess that you would feel hot, seeing as I have my shirt off and all."
"Yeah . . . Um . . . What? . . . Hey, whadda you mean by that!"
"Nothin', Race. It's just that you have all your clothes on. I've just got my pants and shoes. You should feel hotter than I do."
"Yeah . . . Okay," Race said as he put down the cup and reached for the whiskey. He took three healthy swallows, then coughed a bit as it burned his dry throat.
Race glanced over and saw Spot grinning.
"What the hell are you lookin' at?" Race huffed.
"Oh, nothin'," Spot smirked.
"Well, that should stop the itchin' for a while."
For a moment, Spot thought that he might be going too far, but watching Race squirm was too good to pass up.
"But what about the rest of me?" Spot smirked, gesturing down at his pants.
"Excuse me?"
"These spots don't end at my waist you know. Whadda you gonna do about the rest of me?"
"I think that you can handle the rest of it by yourself."
"Oh, come on, Race. Have a heart," Spot said as he wiggled his eyebrows. "You wouldn't want to see your best friend suffer, would you?"
"I wouldn't want to see my best friend's anything!"
"Be a sport, Race, and help me out here?"
"Look, Spot. You're the best friend that I've ever had. I'll stand side-by-side with you in any fight. I'll give you my last nickel if you need it. I'll even give up my life for you, if it comes down to that. But there is absolutely no way in hell that I'm going to dot your privates with itch medicine!"
"Okay, pal," Spot grinned, being satisfied that he'd made Race squirm enough. "I guess I can handle this part myself."
Race shuffled his cards and laid out another game of solitaire.
Spot removed his pants and tossed them onto the bed, then turned away and pulled his longjohns down to his knees. He took the cup and began to cover his spots with the soothing paste.
Race tried to concentrate on his card game, but he couldn't help glancing over at Spot. He could see the remains of last year's suntan as the darkness of Spot's back faded down to the pale white of his Irish skin. He watched the muscles in his friend's back flex as he bent over to treat the spots on the lower half of his body. Race knew that he should look away, but he did not. The heat that covered his body had now settled in his groin and he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"You sure that you don't wanna help me out here?" Spot asked as he turned slightly and pointed at his behind.
Race choked on his cigar when he saw the smirk on Spot's face. He was sure that he had been caught sneaking a peek. Race squirmed in his seat as Spot's steely eyes examined him. The discomfort in his trousers became more noticeable, so he slid his chair further under the table to hide the evidence.
"Pull up your drawers already, and let's play some cards," Race grumbled, trying to regain his composure.
"Okay," Spot laughed. "But are you sure that you don't want to take another look? You seemed pretty interested in looking at my ass a minute ago."
"It was hard not to notice. It's so damn white, it was like looking at a snowman's ass in a blizzard!"
Spot grimaced as he pulled up his longjohns, and Race realized that he had gained the upper hand.
Spot sat down at the table and looked at the cards. "The red queen goes on the black king," he huffed. "And move that five over to the six. And . . . "
Spot got up and walked around the table. "Jeeze, Race. If you're gonna play the game, do it right. The seven goes on the eight, then you can move this whole stack over onto the queen and . . . And what the hell is that!" Spot hissed glaring at Racetrack's lap.
"What is what?"
"That!" Spot said, pointing at the article in question.
"Are- - are we gonna play cards or not?" Race stammered.
"Not until you explain that!"
"There's nothin' to explain," Race said in an attempt to cover his embarrassment. "You know damn well what it is. All of us guys have one."
"Yeah? Well, they usually don't look like that!"
"How the hell would you know? Do you make a habit of looking at my personal parts? What is it that you guys do over in Brooklyn, anyway?"
Spot's face flamed red. He lifted Racetrack up by his shirtfront and pulled him so close that they were nose-to-nose. "Whadda you mean by that, Higgins?" he spat.
"Look whose face is red now," Racetrack smirked. "I guess it's hotter in here than you thought."
Spot pushed Race away and went to sit on the bed.
After watching Race play several hands of solitaire, Spot began to feel guilty about their argument. After all, the entire thing was his fault. He had been pushing Race pretty hard. So what if he got more of a reaction out of Race then he expected? Things happen. It didn't mean anything, he told himself.
Spot dragged himself off of the bed and sat at the table. "Deal me in," he mumbled.
"What do you want to play?" Race asked.
"Well, I'd say strip poker, but I'm already at a disadvantage," Spot grinned.
Racetrack laughed and the tension between them was gone. They played cards, sipped whiskey, and talked for an hour or so when Spot's itching returned.
"Dammit!" Spot grumbled.
"You'd better keep your voice down. The fellas are gonna start getting ready for bed soon. I'm supposed to be in here by myself. Remember?"
"But this itchin' is making me crazy!"
"Okay, pal. Let's see what we can do to make you feel better."
Racetrack took his handkerchief and whisked the dry baking soda from his friend's body. Then he gently washed Spot's skin with the cool witch hazel.
"Damn, that feels good," Spot sighed.
Race prepared more of the paste and began covering Spot's hives. This time, he was determined not to look Spot in the eye. He did not want a repeat of the earlier incident.
The scent of shaving soap, bay rum, and cigar smoke filled Spot's senses as Racetrack gently soothed his skin.
Spot touched the side of Race's face and ran his thumb along the cheek.
"Um . . . Spot?. . . What the hell are you doing?"
"You've got some baking soda on your face," he said.
"Oh," Race mumbled, realizing that his attempt not to blush was failing miserably.
Spot did not remove his hand and kept rubbing Race's cheek.
"Damn, Spot. It must be gone by now. How much of that stuff is on me anyway?"
"I don't know. Let me get a better look," he said as he tilted Race's face up toward his own.
Spot gently pressed his lips against Race's, and a warm surge ran through his body.
Race jumped back and fell over the bedpost. He tumbled backward, and landed headfirst on the floor.
"Are you all right?" Spot asked, climbing over the bed to reach him.
"I'm not sure," Racetrack mumbled. He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling spinning over his head.
Spot helped him off of the floor and sat him on the bed.
"Am I bleeding?" Race asked pointing to the back of his head.
"Nah. But you are going to have one hell of a bump by tomorrow."
Race shook his head, and when his vision cleared, he noticed the bulge in Spot's longjohns.
"What the hell is that?" Race asked.
"What, this?. . . I'm pretty sure that you know what this is," Spot smirked.
"I know what it is, you ass. But why is it . . . Well, why the hell does it look like that!"
"Oh, that's the way it always looks."
"The hell it does!" Race huffed.
"How the hell would you know? Do you make a habit of looking at my personal parts?"
"A habit? . . . No. I wouldn't exactly call it a habit. It's just something that I've recently found interesting," Racetrack grinned.
Again, Spot touched the side of Racetrack's face.
"More baking soda?" Race asked as the warmth of Spot's hand radiated through his body.
"Nope . . . Do you mind?" Spot asked with a tentative smile.
There was no mistaking Race's answer as he firmly pressed his lips against Spot's.
-o-o-o-o-
The next morning, Race was awakened by the sound of Mr. Kloppman knocking on the sickroom door. He tried to move but realized that he was being held in place by Spot's arms and legs wrapped around him. Spot was sleeping soundly and the faint sound of snoring was escaping his open mouth.
Race gently slid away from Spot, and searched for his trousers. They had been carelessly tossed under one of the chairs. As he pulled them on, he shivered from the feel of the cold morning air on his bare chest. He opened the door with an enormous yawn, then closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame.
Racetrack's face and body were covered with remnants of the baking soda that had been on Spot's body the night before. Even his hair was speckled with clumps of the dried paste.
"Looks like you boys had a rough night," Kloppman chuckled.
"Yeah. He was pretty uncomfortable for a while."
Mr. Kloppman looked over at Spot who was also smeared with the remains of the paste. "Seems as though you found a way to make him feel better," he grinned.
"I did what you told me to do, and it seemed to help," Race mumbled.
"Looks like you did more than that!" Kloppman laughed.
"Huh . . . What?" Race yawned.
"Never mind, Race. Go back to sleep, and I'll wake you before the afternoon edition comes out."
"Yeah . . . Okay . . . Thanks, Kloppman."
Race was still half asleep when he locked the door. He removed his trousers and tossed them on the chair, then crawled back into bed. He shivered as he slid under the blanket and leaned against Spot's warm body.
"Mornin'," Spot mumbled as he put his arms around Race.
"Mornin'," Race replied without opening his eyes.
"You've got baking soda in your hair," Spot said as he ran his fingers through the dark waves.
"How ya feelin' this mornin'?" Race mumbled into his pillow.
"I've never felt better. And you?"
"I'm not the one who was covered in spots," Race replied, trying to avoid answering the real question.
"Come on, Race. You know what I'm talkin' about. How do you feel about this . . . About last night . . . Whadda ya think about what we did last night?"
Race didn't answer.
"Look, Race. I know you ain't sleepin'. If you were, you'd be snoring. I don't think that I've ever heard anyone snore as loud as you!"
"I'm awake," Race said as he rolled over to face Spot. "I'm just thinkin' is all."
Spot ran his hand along the warm smooth skin of Race's side. "Do you want to tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours?" Spot asked as his hand came to rest on Race's hip.
"Well, I've never done anything like that before."
"Neither have I," Spot said nonchalantly.
The tone of Spot's voice and his agility the night before made Race think that he was being less than truthful.
"Are you sorry about last night?" Spot asked as he stroked the remainder of the paste from Race's hair.
"No. . . . But it's not exactly the way I pictured celebrating Strawberry Day."
"So you thought that poisoning me would be the highlight of the evening?"
"There you go overreacting again. I didn't poison you. You have an allergy. It's not my fault you can't handle eating a little strawberry."
"Aah. Don't get your knickers twisted, little man."
"I ain't wearing any," Race laughed.
Spot lifted up the blanket and grinned. "Gee . . . You're right. You aren't wearing any."
Spot pulled him closer and Race snuggled against his chest.
"It's okay, Race. You can poison me any time you like if you cure me the same way as you did last night! And if this was my initiation to Strawberry Day, I can't wait to see what you have planned for next year!"
"This is kinda nice," Race said as he snuggled closer. He closed his eyes as thoughts of the previous night ran happily through his mind.
Race's eyes shot open when he felt a foreign object come between him and Spot.
"Um . . . Spot . . . What's that?"
"What's what?" Spot smirked.
"That," Race said as he pointed at the blanked covering the object in question.
"I think that you know what it is," Spot chuckled.
"Well, I know one thing for sure. It ain't no basket of strawberries," Race sniggered.
"Well, why don't you take a closer look and maybe you can figure it out for yourself?"
"I think I will," Race smirked as he flung the blanket off the bunk. "I think I will."
END Story.
Thanks for reading. Please review.
A/N: pennylyane pulled an all-nighter to beta this story. She's great and so are her stories. Please check them out. Strong Men Crumble (easily one of the best Newsies stories I've come across) and Lean on Me are two of my personal favs. They are well worth reading.