Chapter Text
“Stop glaring at me, Bobby,” Alex has the gall to huff. He’s moving around Finstock’s kitchen, putting away pots and pans and all sorts of crap that he’s brought with him. “You have orange juice. Why don’t you pour us some and start on the omelets?”
“What?!-- That’s-- Hell--!”
“Food, Bobby. I’m going to start on the seasoning for everything we’ll need later, so I need you to take care of breakfast.” He turns, giving Finstock a doubtful look, “You can fry an egg, right?”
“Of course I can fry an egg! And I wasn’t glaring,” he retorts brilliantly, glaring. He moves sulkily to the fridge and pours the kid his drink, but he’ll be damned if he drinks orange juice. “I need coffee, dammit,” he mutters. Coffee sounds good. It sounds necessary. And it’s sounding more necessary by the second because his blood pressure has been creeping up since waking up at six a.m. on a Saturday to find Greenberg already camped out on his front door.
“You really don’t, Bobby. I can practically see your blood pressure rising,” the little brat unknowingly echoes.
“And whose fault is that?” he grumbles, poking Greenberg in his side to move him out of his way. His fingers make contact with a warm, bony shoulder and he’s reminded that the kid really should put on some weight before he’s swept up by a brisk wind never to be seen again. “Didn’t you say you were bringing donuts?” Alex shifts out of the way barely an inch so that Bobby has to reach around him, catching the light scent of something delicate and fresh with hints of bergamot.
“I brought fruit. You said you wanted to be more careful of your cholesterol. Remember?”
“Hmm?” He shakes his head, replaying the kid’s words in his head. “Ahh, dammit,” he groans. Never should have mentioned that around the brat. He sighs, pulling out the eggs, ignoring the sunny smile Alex sends his way as he sets about cracking and scrambling them. “What do you want on your omelet?” he asks, defeated.
They eat breakfast at the dinner table, the kid sitting catty-corner from him, their knees brushing. “I knew you were going to be here way too damned early,” Bobby is grumbling.
Alex bites his lip against a grin. “If you’d given me a key, I could have just let myself in and you’d still be warm in bed.”
Bobby takes a sharp breath to yell at the kid. Unfortunately, it’s just as he’s taking a sip of his coffee so he inhales the hot liquid. “The hell--” cough “is--” wheeze “your--” cough cough cough. “Oh, goddamn it, Greenberg!”
The candles are still sitting on the table and the kid reaches out to push at one with a slim finger. “You didn’t get rid of them,” he observes, ignoring Bobby.
Finstock lifts a careless shoulder, wiping at the tears in the corners of his eyes. He stands and collects both their plates to wash them. “Why would I? Anyway, my date might like them.”
There is a pause, a silence that feels weirdly strained. “Your date? What date?” Greenberg queries, sounding … careful.
Bobby doesn’t turn, scrubbing harder at the pan. “A date, kid. You must have heard of them.” His muscles lose some of their tension when Alex moves to stand at his side, their shoulders brushing. He takes the pan after Bobby is done abusing it and rinses it, placing it on the dish rack.
“I haven’t,” he teases, disingenuously, “why don’t you take me out and show me?”
Finstock rinses his hands and wipes them on his shirt, frowning. “You’re a regular laugh riot, kid,” he grouses, flicking him on the arm. “So what’s the plan for today?”
“I’ve got the meat marinating. That’ll be a few hours. When does the team get here?”
Bobby covers a yawn and stretches. “Not for a few hours. Any ideas to fill the time?”
He really doesn’t like the smile that stretches the kid’s lips.
They make popcorn and settle in for a horror movie marathon, starting with some foreign flick the kid assures him is the best horror movie of all time. Alex grabs a blanket and spreads it over them, setting the popcorn on his lap. Bobby raises an eyebrow at him when the kid sits too close, but Alex only grins innocently at him and offers him a Coke.
When the doorbell rings an hour later, he and Alex both jump, spilling the popcorn. Bobby swears creatively and illustriously and Alex starts laughing. Soon enough Bobby joins in, his heart still beating at ninety-nine miles an hour. The kid is never going to let him live down his wimpiness. “Your Christmas present is definitely going to be a nightlight,” the kid announces cheekily, right on cue. Bobby shoves him back into the couch cushions as he stands, making him laugh again. It’s a good sound.
His easy contentment dies a gruesome and instantaneous death when he swings the front door open. “Ma,” he greets after a noticeable pause. He cringes internally. He’s going to pay for that.
Sure enough, anger twists her features and he braces for her barrage.
“Mrs. Finstock?” Alex peeks from around him, leaning into the older man, smiling charmingly. “Hi, ma’am, I’m Alex Greenberg. Wow, it’s so nice to meet you,” the kid effuses, throwing the door open completely. “Bobby was telling me how excited he was that you were coming.”
Bobby side-eyes the kid, amused despite himself. Greenberg is laying it on way too thick but it’s considerate of him to try. He throws an arm over the kid, dragging him forward — he’s not above using a teenager as a shield — all but pushing him into the old cougar’s claws.
His ma gives Bobby a hard stare before transferring her gaze to Alex. “Tell me another one, sonny,” she grumps. “You think I don’t I don’t know my own kid? Real piece of work this one,” she snorts.
Alex frowns and Bobby can see the kid mentally gearing up to defend him. It’s kind of touching. His lips part, but Bobby is faster. He places his hand over the kid’s mouth, pulling him back against his chest and stepping inside. The last thing he wants is for his mother to shift her invective onto Alex. “Come on in, Ma. We were just watching a movie.”
They turn off the television because his mother complains that it’s too difficult to read subtitles and watch the movie at the same time. She connects her phone to Bobby’s speaker and is soon blasting Christmas music, lighting up a smoke and mixing herself a cocktail using some gin out of the comically-sized flask she pulls out of her purse. The day can’t be over soon enough.
Alex finds him holed out in the shed, pulling out the bushes he’d bought to plant. The kid’s lips are pressed together tightly, expression unhappy. Bobby straightens abruptly. “What did she say to you?” he bites out, surprised at the wave of anger that crashes into him.
“Hmm?” The kid blinks at him, taking in the older man’s clenched hands and stiff posture. His expression eases, relaxes, and he finally gives a rueful grin. “No, it’s nothing, Bobby.” Annoyance flashes across his features for a moment before he shakes his head, stepping closer, then closer — close enough that the silky brown of his boyish curls nearly brush against Bobby’s nose. Then his arms come up, wrapping around Bobby’s back and squeezing.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, though his tone is soft, the irritation he’d intended to convey missing from his voice.
“You never got a hug before?” Alex retorts, equally soft.
Bobby huffs out a sharp breath, but he doesn’t push the kid away though he keeps his hands firmly at his sides. Alex burrows his face into Bobby’s shoulder. “Your mother is an interesting woman. I understand you so much more now,” he adds, voice muffled against the warmth of Bobby’s tee.
“No need to insult me, kid,” he grouses, mostly playfully. Finally, he pulls away, ignoring the reluctance with which the kid detaches from him. “Help me out with this.”
Once ninety percent of the team shows up, Finstock puts them to work and Alex heads inside to cook up a storm. Bobby watches uneasily as his mother follows the kid. That can’t go anywhere healthy. Still, Alex is no pushover. He trusts the kid to handle himself. In the meantime, he and the team rake the leaves, mow the lawn, get the hydrangea trees planted in a neat row along the newly washed redwood fence, and set up the mosaic tile garden stepping stones.
He’s kind of glad that Alex is busy inside because the idea of surprising him with the finished yard is appealing. Bobby can invite him back in the summer when the bougainvillea will be in bloom and the kid can spout I told you sos while oooh-ing and aaah-ing over their beauty. It’s a strange, disconnected thought that he pushes away as he steps back to appreciate the effect. Bobby’s gotta admit that the boys did a good job. Good to know their brawn works because sometimes he questions whether their brains do. Speaking of …
“No, man, he said it goes north. North means up.”
Bobby sighs. “All right, let’s head inside and hope the food is done.”
It is, and it smells goddamn divine. Kid’s been holding out on him. “Right on time. Hey, Stiles, pull the wings out of the oven. Danny, grab the iced tea,” he instructs, utterly in his element and giving orders like a drill sergeant. It’s impressive. Bobby takes the platter of avocado rolls that Alex is balancing and gets a quick thank you smile before the kid flits to the dinner table, making sure everything is in order and laid out according to his specifications.
As soon as the kid gives the all-clear, the savages tear into the food, elbowing each other out of the way and fighting over the pizza, the wings, the lasagna, the bacon and pepper jack cheese sliders, the pigs-in-a-blanket, and the steak and veggie kabobs, while mostly ignoring the salad. It’s like lions on a feeding frenzy at a watering hole. Alex made enough food to feed a small army, but not -- it’s looking like -- to feed a dozen bottomless pits, and his mother is right there in the middle of it all, diet be damned. Bobby is seriously questioning whether the food will be enough. He’s also questioning whether he’s going to get so much as a pepperoni.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Alex asks at his elbow. He’s flushed from the heat of the stove and exertion, his hair damp with sweat.
“You kidding me? I’m not reaching in there; I might lose a finger. I might lose a hand.”
Alex nods and grimaces, watching his teammates feed. “It’s a good thing I already made up our plates.”
It takes Bobby a second to process the words, then he turns to the kid whose expression remains inscrutable for all of two seconds before he cracks an ear-to-ear grin, cutting his gaze to Bobby. “Seriously?” he demands. “Holy shit, I love you!”
The kid flushes, laughing, the sound bubbling up, joyful as he grabs Bobby’s shirt, pulling him into the kitchen, the Christmas lights on the tree glinting merrily behind them.