Chapter Text
At first Bobby thinks it's a dog. It looks small enough, all curled into a ball, only a mop of brown visible.
"Get off him you good-for-nothing sissies!" He gets to the free-for-all that four kids are having against the poor mutt at their feet and grabs them by the backs of their shirts, throwing them off the ... kid. It's a goddamn kid.
"Shit, let's go!" They're yelling and shoving each other out of the way.
"What the hell," he starts, but the punks have already taken off running. "Yeah, you better scatter for your worthless lives! I saw those jerseys, you idiots! We're gonna slaughter you at next week's game! Cowards!"
It's the sniffling coming from behind him that finally distracts him from his enraged pacing and he kneels by the bundle of arms, legs and hair.
"Shit, kiddo. They really did a number on you, huh?"
He's not moving so Bobby shifts closer and pats the kid on the head, trying to be as gentle as he knows how. The kid jerks away, startled. "Hey, hey, hey. Just me, kid."
He puts both hands up to show he's harmless. Finally, that mop of hair moves and the kid lifts his head. Jesus, it's no wonder those savages ganged up on this poor guy. Kid's got the whole innocent Bambi thing going on. He's all gangly limbs and big, brown, doe eyes and a starburst of freckles across a thin, pale nose. He practically screams prey.
He sighs, standing and scrubs the back of his neck. "Well, kid, you can stay here and wait to see if they'll come back or you can come with me and get cleaned up. What's it gonna be?"
The sniffling has stopped but the kid is still looking at him with those big distrustful eyes. "I'm not going with you," he spits out.
Bobby grins. "Good to know they didn't kick the backbone out of you. Come on, kid you're caked in mud. You can't be walking around like that." He moves up the steps of his house, leaving the door open. "By the way, I'm the an economics teacher and the lacrosse coach at Beacon Hills High." He walks inside and is just heating some milk up in the microwave when he hears the creak at the front entrance.
"I left an old sweatshirt of mine in the bathroom down the hall to your right. Can't do much about your pants, I'm pretty sure even if I was a freak and still had clothes from when I was ten, they'd still be too big for you."
He waits but his only response are hesitant steps dragging down the entryway.
"You're welcome!" he yells, just to be an ass.
A giggle floats back from the bathroom and he rolls his eyes, tries not to grin. A giggle, for godsake. The kid's lucky he even made it to eleven.
The shower starts running and he sits, grabbing his lesson plans. The school year is well underway and he still hasn't finished them. Not that the little ingrates he teaches appreciate all the hard work he puts into preparing every school day. Every single lesson is a gift from him to those hormone-addled, higher-function-impaired teenagers. And what does he get in return? Terrible pranks every year, that’s what. For once he’d a like a nice, normal present for his birthday.
He's so busy berating the little brats in his head he doesn't hear the brat in his own home until the kid is standing right next to his chair.
"Jesus! Make some noise, kid!" He wasn't scared, no siree, that was not him jumping. He just has crazy panther reflexes.
The little imp grins at him and it - well, it doesn't transform his face, but it’s definitely a good look. The kid is cute, no question. He's also swimming in Bobby's old college hoodie.
“Have a seat kiddo.” He gets up and reheats the milk, tossing some cookies onto a plate. Kids are all about milk and cookies, right? Or is that Santa Claus?
The chair scrapes back as the kid settles in, hunched over the table.
“Here, kid.” He sets the goods down and has a seat himself. “You’re welcome,” he says pointedly, when the little punk glares at him.
“I’m not a kid.” Small fists are clenched on top of the tabletop.
He sighs. “No? How old are you? Ten? Eleven?”
The glare intensifies. “I’m thirteen,” the kid grits out. “And my name is Alex Greenberg, not kid.”
“Yeah?” He gazes down his nose in his best ‘stern coach’ look. “Pull the other one, kid. You’re not a day over eleven, and that’s me being generous.”
“I’m thirteen,” he insists, stuffing his face with chocolate chip cookies. “I’m starting high school next year.”
Bobby eyes the kid. The bones of his wrist are delicate, almost fragile-looking where he’s shoved the hoodie’s sleeves up. He has clearly outlined blue veins, his skin a dainty sea-shell pale. High school will not go easy on him. He looks ... well, sensitive or delicate would be the PC way of describing him. Weak, feeble or girly is more accurate.
“What high school are you going to?”
The kid pauses in licking his fingers and Bobby manfully resists the urge to shove a napkin at him.
“BHH,” he says, smiling. “I’m gonna join the Lacrosse team!”
“No, you’re not,” he snorts, before he can stop himself.
The kid’s eyes shimmer with anger and hurt, lower lip quivering before he clamps down on that pinkness with his teeth. The slim chest expands as he takes a breath. “Why?”
He leans forward and gets a nose-full of the lemon-scented soap he uses, chocolate, and something that is uniquely the kid. Warm and sweet and bright. “Because. You wouldn’t cut it, kid.”
Tears well up in those brown eyes making them luminous like backlit honey and the kid shoves to his feet. “Yes. I am,” he says with steely dignity. “Thanks for the food,” he mutters, turning away.
“You wouldn’t cut it the way you are now. The guys’ll have you for breakfast,” he says bluntly.
The kid turns his head, his hand on the front door.
“If you wanna make the team, you better start coming to practice when you get out of school. You’re going to have to work hard, and I’m damn well gonna give you a harder time than anyone. You got that? But you might make it, even if it is as a benchwarmer. You’ve at least got more guts than the sad wimp I call my lacrosse captain.”
“But you said-”
“I said, not the way you are now. You gotta practice. Drop in tomorrow and you can meet your future teammates. Just wait ‘til I tell them what happened today. They’re gonna pound those THS idiots into the ground.”
“Yes, Coach!” the kid gives him a silly salute, laughing and Bobby grins.
Then stops grinning when all 5 feet of bony teenager hurl into his chest. Skinny little arms wrap around his waist, squeezing tight for a short eternity before the kid turns and flees through the kitchen door, beet red.
It’s a full minute before Bobby sits down again.
“Shit. That was my favorite hoodie.”