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Race doesn’t get home in time for dinner.
Which isn’t necessarily cause for concern. Not like they always have dinner together—sometimes Race works late at the dance studio, and he eats leftovers on the couch while Spot nods off with Racer’s legs in his lap. Sometimes Spot gets caught up in a project, and it’s after ten by the time Race finally drags him in from his workshop and all but forces him to eat. And sometimes, like tonight, Race has auditions in the city. And logically, Spot knew he probably wouldn’t make it home. It’s just that Race also happened to take Spot’s truck, and it’s starting to get dark, and it’s not that Spot’s worried, exactly, it’s just… okay, fine, he’s worried. Race isn’t the best driver in the daylight, and navigating out of Manhattan before driving an hour back to Woodvale?
Listen. It’s a lot.
And it’s not that he doesn’t trust Race, he does, of course he does—but he knows how easily distracted Race is, and how much he’s grown to love the city since he moved home last year. They’ve even been talking about moving there, after they found out the hard way how much it sucks when Race does eight shows a week in the city and Spot still works the early shift back home. The idea of living in a city like that is still a little incomprehensible to Spot, but he has to admit it’s a little exciting to think about. Even though they’re going to wait until Finch graduates—they wouldn’t dare uproot his life at the beginning of senior year—it’s something Spot almost looks forward to, now. Almost.
Race doesn’t answer when he calls, but he calls back before Spot can even put his phone back in his pocket. He sounds a little out of breath, but happy, his ever-present energy infectious even through the phone.
“Hey, baby,” Spot says, a fond smile forming even as Finch dramatically rolls his eyes from his seat at the kitchen counter. Spot returns the gesture, and Finch scoffs before turning his attention back to his homework. “Just checkin’ on ya.”
“That’s awfully sweet of you, Spotty,”
“What can I say, I’m a sweet guy,” Spot’s eyebrows raise when Finch snorts, and he reaches over and snaps his textbook shut.
“C’mon,” Finch groans. Spot grins.
“Uh huh,” Race agrees. Spot can hear the smile in his voice. “And you’re definitely calling to check on me, not your truck?”
“What? No. What? C’mon,”
“Yeah, thought so,”
“Obviously I’m checking on you... too,” Spot adds, too late. “I just-”
“Don’t trust me with your truck, no, I get it,” Race says airily. “Slide off the road one time and I never live it down, it’s fine-”
“Oh my God,”
“What’s it been, eight years? Can’t let shit go-”
“Racer, please,” Spot groans.
“Never mind that it was icy as fuck and one hundred percent not my fault-”
“One hundred percent, really? You hit a stop sign-”
“At, like, two miles an hour, Spot! There wasn’t even a scratch,” Race laughs. After a pause, he adds thoughtfully, “Now, though...”
“Jesus Christ,”
“I’m kidding,” Race says placatingly, and Spot can almost see him rolling his eyes. “I know you’re gonna inspect it when I get home, anyway.”
“When’s that?”
“I dunno,” Race sighs, voice sounding a little faraway as he undoubtedly glances at his phone to check the time. “It’ll take me an hour to get out of the city, and then the drive…”
“Got it,” Spot says with a nod, looking idly through the freezer. “I’ll go pick something up.”
“Too bad you can’t drive there,”
“Shit.”
Race only cackles in response. “Oh, I’m almost to the truck. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“‘Kay, love you,”
“Love you, Spotty.”
Spot steadfastly ignores the teenager—a skill he’s perfected over the last nine months—on his way to his room to change into gym clothes. Might as well kill two… well, you know. But when he returns home two hours later with dinner from the Italian place downtown, and Race still isn’t home, he feels justified being slightly concerned. By the time he’s got the food laid out on the (now unoccupied) counter, though, he hears the front door swing open, and his heart calms down. That is, until Race starts speaking before he’s even in sight.
“Now, listen, before you say anything-”
“Oh, God,” Spot mutters, anxiety spiking again as images of his truck, front end smashed beyond recognition, flood his mind. “What’d you-” Spot stops dead as Race rounds the corner into the kitchen, messenger bag slung over one arm, a kitten tucked in the other. He’s- wait, back up. A kitten tucked in the other. “...do?” Spot finishes weakly, reaching a hand out to steady himself against the island. He’s relieved Race isn’t hurt—and the truck is okay, as far as he knows—but he sprinted from anxiety to terror to surprise so quickly, he’s almost whiplashed.
“Listen,” Race says again, dropping his bag carelessly on the floor and moving to cradle the kitten with both hands. It’s tiny and mostly grey, barely old enough to be away from its mother, if at all; more a little ball of fluff than anything. Its tail is nearly as long as the cat itself, and it’s making those short, high-pitched squeaks that make you want to scoop it into your arms. Almost exactly like how Race is holding it right now. “Lemme explain,”
“Please,” Spot says, making a vague gesture with his hand.
“So right when I hung up with you, right, I was like a block away from the parking garage,” Race launches into the explanation, shifting the kitten from one hand to the other as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over a stool. “And honestly I probably wouldn’t’ve heard her if we didn’t hang up when we did,” He goes on, abandoning all logic and sliding onto the counter. He moves the kitten to the crook of his arm naturally, like he’s not even thinking about it, gazing over Spot’s head as he recalls the story. “Anyway,” He sighs wistfully, gently petting between the kitten’s ears. “I heard her squeaking, and it took me, like, five full minutes-”
“So three minutes,”
“Sure, yeah, three full minutes to even find her, ‘cause it was juuust dark enough, you know, like when the sun’s mostly down but it’s still kinda light but also dark enough that it’s hard to see?”
“Yeah, babe,” Spot sighs, running a hand over his face. “I know,”
“Right, well,” Race shrugs one shoulder, scooping the kitten into both hands and bringing it level with his face. Spot can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he watches Race’s eyes sparkle when he kisses the tip of her nose. “I mean, that’s pretty much it. She’s a tiny stray baby who needed me, so I brought her home.”
“Mmhm,” Spot nods. “You definitely did.”
“We’re keeping her,” Race says flatly, tone offering no room for argument as he nuzzles his nose into her fur.
“Racer…”
“Sorry, it’s too late,” Race says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m her dad now.”
“Babe, we already have a teenager,” Spot says quietly, only half serious as he tilts his head toward the hall. He knows it’s no use; he does. The second he saw the little bundle of fluff in Race’s arms, he knew how this would end. “Now you want a pet, too?”
“I didn’t plan on this happening either, Spotty,” Race says with a shrug that says it’s simply out of his hands. “But we’re here now, and she already has a name.”
“Oh, God,”
“Ask me what her name is,”
Spot narrows his eyes, drawing out the beat of silence. “What’s her name?”
“Pearl,” Race says immediately, smirking as he shifts Pearl back into his arms. Spot can hear her purring from here. “Ask me how she got it,”
“Christ,”
“C’mon,”
“Fine,” Spot sighs, reaching out to pet the cat, and resting his hand on Race’s thigh at the last second, instead. “How’d Pearl get her name?”
“I found her outside a place called The Fancy Clam,” Race says proudly, and Spot can’t help but chuckle, both at the bad joke and the wide grin on Race’s face. “Get it? ’Cause she’s grey and white, and clams have-”
“Yeah, I get it,” Spot laughs, shaking his head. “‘The Fancy Clam,’ God, that sounds awful,”
“Yeah, it was,” Race agrees, finally noticing the food on the counter and glancing curiously at it. “No windows, neon lights with some of the letters burned out, the works. I didn’t go in,” he adds with a shrug. “Anyway. She deserves better, Spotty.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Spot says, lifting his hands in surrender. “Just… I dunno, babe,”
“Well, while you think about it, I’m starving,” Race says brightly, hopping off of the counter, invading Spot’s personal space, and shoving Pearl into his arms in one fluid motion. Spot stutters a response, scrambling to secure the wriggling, squeaking kitten while his heart pounds in fear of dropping her. When he does get her settled into his hands, sniffing curiously at his thumbs, he can almost feel the warmth radiating through his chest. It’s fucking ridiculous. She’s so tiny, a fluffy, purring ball of warmth and she fits so easily into his hands—even if he wanted to protest, Spot knows it’s no use. They’re keeping the cat.
“Goddammit, Racer,” He sighs in defeat. Race only giggles in response, leaning over to kiss Spot’s cheek as he starts to take the lid off of a container.
“Love you,”
“Mmhm,” Spot hums, turning to raise an eyebrow at him. “Show me how much by putting all of that food in the fridge,”
“What? Noo, why?” Race pouts.
“What do you expect to feed Pearl, exactly? Lasagna?”
“Oh my God,” Race gasps, brandishing the container in his hands. “Like Garfield!”
“Racer-”
“But-”
“You’re the one who brought a child home, Tony,” Spot says sternly, his tone betrayed by the smirk on his face. Race narrows his eyes at him.
“This time,”
“Yeah,” Spot snorts, tucking Pearl into one arm to grab the truck keys from the counter. “This time.” He doesn’t look back when he hears Race groan, and the telltale sound of the fridge opening—he just lifts Pearl up to kiss the top of her head and mutters, “Y’know, your dad is lucky he’s so cute.”
Spot stops by the front door when Finch saunters down the hall from his room with a frown.
“What-what is that? Where are you going? Is there food?”
Spot chuckles. “This is a cat, we’re going to get pet supplies, and yes, it’s in the fridge,”
Finch blinks. “We got a cat?”
“We got a cat,” Spot shrugs. Finch narrows his eyes, stepping closer and crouching until he’s looking Pearl in the eye. Pearl sniffs at him for a moment, then squeaks; Spot could swear the corner of Finch’s mouth twitches before he nods and stands up.
“Okay, it can stay,”
“Oh?” Spot raises his eyebrows, resisting the urge to reach over and ruffle Finch’s curls. “Just like that?”
“Excuse me? That’s my baby brother,”
“Sister,”
“Excuse me? That’s my baby sister,” Finch amends without missing a beat, giving another of his famous eye-rolls. “Of course she can stay.”
“Ask me what her name is!” Race yells from the kitchen. Finch raises an eyebrow in question, and Spot only laughs in response.
“Tell him to hurry up,” Spot says, one hand on the doorknob, the other cradling Pearl against his chest. “And that we’ll be in the truck.”