Butter, sugar, flour
for @rudeflower I am SO sorry this is so late I just. hated everything I wrote but I am finally (mostly) happy with this so!! without further adieu...... Spot/Race, bakery au.
Race tried to push his glasses up using his shoulder, hands too covered in flour and dough to use them.
Of course that was when his phone started chiming in quick succession, cutting off his music.
“Ahh,” he grunted, kicking his leg up to try and reach his phone across the counter. “Jackie! Gimme m’phone,” Race said, still straining.
Jack hefted the two coffee urns in his hands for Race to see as he backed through the swinging door into the cafe. “Can’t. Hey, c’mon, Race we gotta standin’ mixer for a reason.”
Groaning when all he managed to do was kick his phone further away, Race shook his head as he dropped his leg. “Don’t like usin’ the mixer f’r bread,” he said by way of explanation. “Elmer! Check m’phone, who’s textin’?”
Elmer shifted the pan of brownies to set on his shoulder and picked up Race’s phone. “Ugh,” he tossed it back on the counter. “Grindr messages.”
“Wait, no—” Race groaned when Elmer continued out the door. “I ain’t on Grindr. Anymore,” he amended when Elmer gave him a look. “Who was it?”
“I ain’t readin’ your booty call-texts,” he shot back, lifting the pan over his head when Jack suddenly opened the door to the kitchen again.
“Hey, strawberry shortcake guy’s back,” Jack said, ducking under Elmer’s pan.
“Who?” Race asked as Elmer lit up.
“Where ya been, Higgins?” Elmer asked, askance.
“Oh yeah,” Jack said, waving a hand, beckoning him to follow. “You’s used t’ workin’ nights. C’mere.”
Race followed him out the door, wiping his hands on a towel. “What’s the deal with strawberry shortcake guy?”
“He’s some guy who comes in once a week and gets a slice of strawberry shortcake and a small coffee.”
“And?” Race wasn’t getting the fascination. Strawberry shortcake and coffee wasn’t the weirdest order they’d heard, not after the Shapiro wedding cake of 2012.
“Just wait. He’s pacin’ out there on his phone.”
Race rolled his eyes. “Jackie, we’s in New York, a dozen people’ll have walked by on their phone ‘fore I’m finished sayin’ this.”
Jack waved him off. “Hold ya horses, he’ll be here. That’s him.”
Race shook his head, looking towards the door as the bell rang, announcing a new customer.
He had to give it to Jack, the guy didn’t look like the type to order strawberry shortcake. With a stocky build and a suit that looked like it was worth more than Race’s whole apartment, “Strawberry Shortcake guy” looked completely out of place in Medda’s little bakery in the Bowery. He looked more like he belonged… well, wherever guys in suits belonged, he guessed.
Smalls waved him forward with a “Hi, welcome to The Bowery Bakery. What can I get for you?”
Strawberry Shortcake Guy glanced up at the menu behind her and said, “Yeah, uh, the strawberry shortcake an’ a small coffee, thanks.”
“Sure thing,” she said, ringing it up. The whole interaction took maybe thirty seconds, including Strawberry Shortcake Guy paying, before he moved to the side to wait for his cake and coffee.
Jack elbowed Race when the guy’s back turned. Race rolled his eyes.
“Rivetin’,” he said, pushing off the door jamb and heading back to the kitchen.
Before the door swung shut behind him, he looked back in time to catch Strawberry Shortcake Guy watching him.
When he caught Race’s eye, he smirked as he took the box from Smalls, and then turned to leave.
*
“They call me what?” Spot asked from his perch on the kitchen counter.
“‘Strawberry Shortcake guy’,” Race said with a laugh. “You don’t order anythin’ else, and, face it, you don’t look like the kinda guy who’d order it.”
They were at Race’s apartment after work, cramped in his little kitchen so he could practice with the brownie recipe Medda had given him. As her old night baker, he was more used to the breads and didn’t have enough experience with desserts. While he was melting the butter and beating it with egg yolks, Spot was sitting on the opposite counter, where he’d been banished after trying to “help”.
“Ain’t that discrimination or somethin’?” Spot grumbled.
Race shrugged. “They ain’t denyin’ you the shortcake, they just think it’s weird.”
He heard Spot huff behind him. “Wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“If that don’t hold up in court, you’s really bad at ya job,” Race said, turning to pull the flour from the cabinet behind Spot. “You’s just mad ‘cause they’s gotcha pegged.”
“So I gotta ‘casional sweet tooth. Where’s the harm in that?”
“They’s got nothin’ else to talk ‘bout, s’harmless. What I don’t get’s the coffee,” Race said, sifting the flour into the melted-butter-egg-yolks-sugar mixture.
“What about the coffee?”
“You get a small, regular coffee. You don’t even like hot coffee.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Hand me the cocoa.”
Spot hopped down to cross the three foot space with the canister of cocoa. “That? I just get that ‘cause I lost a bet with my neighbor.”
“The redhead? What kinda bets’re you guys makin’?” He’d only seen the girl who lived across the hall from Spot a couple of times, usually stumbling into Spot’s apartment late at night, but he certainly wasn’t paying much attention to anything besides Spot’s mouth those times. He hadn’t known they were on speaking terms, let alone bettin’ ones.
Instead of answering, Spot started coughing hard. “Ach!” he gagged, shaking his head. “What the hell’re ya puttin’ in those?”
Race looked up from his mixing bowl sharply. He hadn’t even pulled out the cayenne pepper yet, what was Spot talking about?
Looking around wildly, his gaze fell to Spot’s hand, where he saw, streaked across his palm—
“Did you taste the cocoa?” Race asked incredulously.
Finally finished coughing, Spot glared up at him. “What?”
Rolling his eyes, Race went back to mixing. “One, I ain’t feelin’ sorry for ya for tasting unsweetened cocoa, dipshit. ‘Course it ain’t gonna be any good. Two, since when do you have a gag reflex?”
“Fuck off,” Spot coughed, swiping a half-full water bottle from on the counter and taking a swig.
Shaking his head, Race finished sifting the flour and cocoa and mixed them into the batter, then reached for the cayenne and cinnamon.
“What’s with the spices?” Spot asked, no longer choking like an idiot.
“S’Medda’s recipe. Double fudge spiced brownies. Double cocoa, double vanilla, add cayenne pepper and cinnamon.”
“Does it make ‘em spicy?”
“Nah, just gives it an extra kick. Makes the cocoa taste better. ‘Sides, she’s from New Orleans, cayenne pepper’s like sugar to her.”
He folded in the cinnamon and cayenne pepper, mixing the batter one last time before transferring it to the pan. Scraping the last of the batter into the pan, Race handed Spot the spatula. “Here. Since you’s a good helper an’ didn’t get in my way, you can lick the spoon,” he said with a smirk.
He bent to slide the pan into the oven, popping up to set the timer. Turning, Race was surprised to see Spot standing so close to him.
With a smirk, Spot swiped the spatula across his bottom lip. Tossing it into the sink with a clatter, he hauled Race towards him, kissing him hard, sucking his bottom lip.
“Mm,” Spot hummed, pulling back a fraction of an inch. “Think I got better use f’r m’mouth here, huh?”
“Hnnghh.” Race’s eyes rolled back in his head as Spot’s lips attached to the side of his neck. Way better use. “We got forty-five minutes ‘fore they burn.”
“I can work with that.”
*
“Hey Race,” Jack poked his head through the door, brow furrowed. “This guy wants to talk to ya.”
“No,” Race said, not looking up from his dough. It was in that in-between state, where it wasn’t completely sticking to the counter, but it was still in danger of being over-floured if he wasn’t careful. “You know the recipes better’n me, you tell him what’s in it. S’whole reason I’m back here, so I don’t gotta talk to people.”
Jack shook his head. “Nah, this guy wants to talk to you specific’lly. Called ya Race an’ everythin’.”
Frowning, Race deemed the dough ready for proofing and gathered it into a bowl. Covering it for time being, he’d deal with whoever was asking for him, then put it in the proofing drawer, he wiped his hands on a towel and followed Jack out of the kitchen.
He raised an eyebrow when he saw Spot standing behind the counter. “C’n I help ya?”
Spot nodded slowly, pretending to look at the menu behind him. “Yeah, uh. Heard a rumor ‘bout this place. Seems th’ employees don’t got anythin’ to talk ‘bout.”
Race shrugged a shoulder. “An’?”
Shifting his gaze, Spot looked at him with a glint in his eyes Race didn’t recognize. “An’ I thought I’d give ‘em somethin’ to talk about.”
Before Race could even begin to imagine what that meant, Spot reached for him across the counter. Fisting the front of his apron in one hand, he pulled Race to him, crushing their lips together.
A soft “oof” escaped Race’s lips as his stomach slammed into the hard counter, but that, and every other thought, of the line to the door, the list of desserts he still had to make, Jack, Elmer, and Smalls right behind him, getting the full show, flew from his brain as he sank into the kiss.
Behind them, Elmer and Jack stood with twin looks of shock on their faces while Smalls looked smug.
“Pay up, boys.”