Deception In All Its Forms
Title: Deception In All Its Forms
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Newsies
Characters: Spot/Race
Word Count: 288
Warning: None
Summary/Prompt: It's not like Race had specifically picked it out. And it's not like he was being all sentimental, giving Spot the present. Besides, presents are for girls. Why is he doing this again?
Race has a bottle in one hand and a bag in the other when he appears in the doorway. Spot raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything, waiting for Race to tell him why his face looks worst than the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon.
"Happy fucking birthday," Race mutters, slamming the bag onto Spot's desk and guzzling from the bottle.
"It's not my birthday." Spot doesn't so much as glance at the bag. He knows better.
Race sneers. "Think I don't know that? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Spot crosses his arms over his chest and cocks up his head, meeting Race's stare and raising him one. "Want to say that again?"
"You heard me the first time, you no good bastard."
Spot rubs the side of his mouth. There are two ways he can go about doing this: the hard way or the harder. Saying nothing, he sits there, letting the silence grow. When Race speaks it's all he can do to hide his wince.
"Some fucking friend you are."
"We aren't friends." Spot lifts a shoulder, silently daring Race to object.
Race takes another long pull on his bottle, draining it dry. He tosses it against the wall where it shatters, raining glass onto the faded wooden floor. "You can say that again." He leaves without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.
Spot waits until the front door bangs shut before grabbing the bag and emptying it onto his bed. Three shooters, two nickels and a note fall out. Spot pockets the money, admires the marbles and tears the note to bits. He doesn't have to read it to know what it says.
On the docks. Ten minutes. Don't be late.
Fun Fact: More comment fic! \o/ Oh... wait... that means more of me not knowing if I've posted this somewhere already and hunting through my archives and then muttering to myself and trying to think up a name and yeah. Not \o/.Oh look, I already posted this on The Refuge. So it had a name COMPLETELY different from what I just gave it. *winces* But, whatever, I like this one better. So I'm changing it over there.
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Newsies
Characters: Spot/Race
Word Count: 288
Warning: None
Summary/Prompt: It's not like Race had specifically picked it out. And it's not like he was being all sentimental, giving Spot the present. Besides, presents are for girls. Why is he doing this again?
Race has a bottle in one hand and a bag in the other when he appears in the doorway. Spot raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything, waiting for Race to tell him why his face looks worst than the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon.
"Happy fucking birthday," Race mutters, slamming the bag onto Spot's desk and guzzling from the bottle.
"It's not my birthday." Spot doesn't so much as glance at the bag. He knows better.
Race sneers. "Think I don't know that? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Spot crosses his arms over his chest and cocks up his head, meeting Race's stare and raising him one. "Want to say that again?"
"You heard me the first time, you no good bastard."
Spot rubs the side of his mouth. There are two ways he can go about doing this: the hard way or the harder. Saying nothing, he sits there, letting the silence grow. When Race speaks it's all he can do to hide his wince.
"Some fucking friend you are."
"We aren't friends." Spot lifts a shoulder, silently daring Race to object.
Race takes another long pull on his bottle, draining it dry. He tosses it against the wall where it shatters, raining glass onto the faded wooden floor. "You can say that again." He leaves without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.
Spot waits until the front door bangs shut before grabbing the bag and emptying it onto his bed. Three shooters, two nickels and a note fall out. Spot pockets the money, admires the marbles and tears the note to bits. He doesn't have to read it to know what it says.
On the docks. Ten minutes. Don't be late.
Fun Fact: More comment fic! \o/ Oh... wait... that means more of me not knowing if I've posted this somewhere already and hunting through my archives and then muttering to myself and trying to think up a name and yeah. Not \o/.Oh look, I already posted this on The Refuge. So it had a name COMPLETELY different from what I just gave it. *winces* But, whatever, I like this one better. So I'm changing it over there.