He really has no idea why he's at the bar. He's never been much of a public drinker – he's loud enough, saucy enough, and plain old rude enough without the sharp strum of scotch coursing through his veins. No, Bobby Finstock prefers to drink in the quiet of his house, alone – save for his cat, who is the best cat ever – and yell at the television. Or Greenberg.
But today is that day and the thought of sitting at home, by himself, drunk and yelling at long gone ghosts has him slinking out to the local dive, hunched over in a corner. Still alone, yeah, but the steady murmur of noise from the other patrons is more soothing than the TV. And his cat. Who is an awesome cat, but not very sympathetic on that day.
He's surprising himself with how quiet he's being, eyes focused unsteadily on the drink in his hand. Vaguely, he toys with the thought of just sucking it up and going home. He switches his attention to his car keys, lying on the small table he's taken nest at. Lost in thought, he doesn't notice when someone drags a chair over to join him in his one man pity party.
"Hey there 'Cupcake'." The voice is low enough no one else will hear it, and the words make a shudder of desire curl low in Bobby's gut. He glances up, meeting light green eyes as the Sheriff settles across from him, drink held loosely in hand.
He swallows, thickly, and shifts in his seat. "Sheriff." He nods, playing cool.
The Sheriff of course, would know about Greenberg. He hadn't been the Sheriff then, or even anywhere near the Greenberg case, but he knew. Probably. Bobby narrows his eyes a bit, taking a deep sip off his glass as he slumps forward, head tilted to the side. Yeah. Yeah, he knows. He can see it in the other mans eyes, the way they're tight at the corners, soft in their color.
He distantly remembers the death of a pretty, dark haired woman, a death that happened years ago. He wonders if the understanding is on his face when he sees the Sheriff smile, humorless, as the other man drains his own drink. He doesn't bother to get another one, simply setting the glass on the table, watching as the leftover condensation begins to add another ring to the old wood.
"Did you need something?" Never one to filter himself, the liquor makes him blunter, adds the soft snap of a bite to his words. He slams his own drink down, loud enough that a few people milling about nearby look over curiously.
The Sheriff's not wearing his uniform though, just a black t-shirt and jeans. Off duty. A boring thing, to be sure. The watchers look away.
The Sheriff – and fuck, if he can't for the life of him remember the man's first name – rests his chin on his hand, sighing through his nose. "Not really. You looked lonely." Bobby knows then, that the Sheriff is lonely too. He twitches in his seat, body thrumming with nervous energy.
"I was just getting ready to go. Actually." There's a bit of a sneer on his face as he stumbles to his feet.
A steady palm smacks over his keys and the soft green eyes hold a small amount of amusement now. "I'm not on duty, but I really don't want to hear about you getting pulled over for a DUI. Or crashing. What kind of Sheriff would I be if I let you drive like this?"
The shudder from earlier is an ache now, the heat of his face and neck from more than the alcohol. He scoffs, though, eyes rolling upwards. "I'll walk then." He feels a little bit like a teenager again, and shrugs that thought off with a grimace. The Sheriff is older than him by a few years, and the comparison is weird, even for him.
"Good plan." Stilinski – and ah, yeah, that's his last name isn't it? He should probably stop calling the kid Bilinski then, crap – stands and makes his way to the door. He pauses at the bar to pay his bill, something Bobby has already done, and then hesitates at the door.
There's something about the way he looks, hands on his hips, shirt stretched tight over muscle that's normally hidden by that damn bulky jacket of his. Bobby's keys are dangling from Stilinski's fingers, and now? The heat he's feeling has nothing to do with drink, and everything to do with desire. The Sheriff merely tilts his head, eyebrows hitching upwards into an expression that looks well practiced. Curiosity, with a little bit of exasperation. Bobby knows who the guy's kid is, and yeah, that look definitely makes sense.
He manages to get out the door without falling and making an ass of himself. He's grateful for that, but more grateful for the quiet, reassuring presence of the taller man just behind him, keeping up with his pace, and not bothering with questions like why are you being so quiet, what's wrong, do you want to talk about it?
They hesitate only briefly at the Beacon Hills Cemetery, and he listens to the Sheriff mutter something about Lahey under his breath, before a hand is on his shoulder, gently urging him forwards.
They make it to his house in one piece, and it never even occurs to him to simply say, snide, "thanks for the help, Sheriff" and slam the door in his face. Instead he finds himself absently asking "Want a drink?" Not waiting for the answer before pouring two glasses and flopping down on his old, ragged couch.
He's so used to either being alone or screaming that he doesn't quite know what to do. It appears that Stilinski is just as awkward about it, though, as they settle beside each other. There's over a foot of space between them on the couch, and knees are turned outwards. The silence that falls over the room is tense, unwelcome, not something either of them are used to.
For Bobby, it's the TV or the sound of his own voice. For the Sheriff, it's the endless chatter of his son, or the worries he tries to soothe daily.
Bobby really can't help it when his leg starts to jump.
And the Sheriff, more than used to dealing with the jitters, doesn't even think as his hand – large, warm, stead, calm – curls just above Bobby's knee, fingers stroking the inside of a thigh. There's a brief pause as they finally look at one another, and it just clicks.
The first kiss is sloppy, and embarrassing, as their teeth click and noses bump, and Bobby snarls out a really? Before those fucking hands tighten over him. The one on his leg squeezes and the free one wraps around the back of his neck, softly forcing him to tilt.
The second kiss goes much better, and Bobby takes a moment to think I'm not gay? And then the Sheriff's tongue is lapping into his mouth, tasting of whiskey and mint, and yeah. It doesn't matter if he's gay or not, because he's had a hard on for this guy since the first teasing, sarcastic, Cupcake.
He lets himself be pressed down into the couch, shifting his legs open for the other man to settle more firmly against him. They both start at the feel of their cocks brushing, but then Bobby throws the rest of his caution to the wind, rolling his hips up and moaning like a whore. The Sheriff rumbles in his throat, an odd noise, and tugs at Bobby's hair, forcing his head back against the cushions.
Stubble scratches at his face as Stilinski nips his chin, sliding up further so the tip of his tongue can trace over Bobby's upper lip. "I have no idea what it is." He breathes through the third kiss, tongue dipping in to the mouth slack under his. "About you." He adds, nails scraping Bobby's scalp.
"Feelings mutual." Bobby grumbles, sucking lightly as he rolls his hips again. His cock is hard enough that it hurts but he's too into this to ask that they move it to the bedroom. "Come on." He adds, eyes falling shut. "Fuck, come on, you can do better than that."
The Sheriff huffs against his mouth. The hand on his thigh shifts, gets a better grasp, and lifts. His leg is hitching over a hip then, and he whines, low and needy in the back of his throat. It's not really that comfortable, but it feels good, hard lines of their dicks rubbing against each other through cotton and denim.
They're both a little too drunk for this, unable to coordinate properly from the buzz crackling through their bodies, the air. Their foreheads press together, and then the Sheriff starts talking.
Come on baby, that's it, there we go sweetheart, just like that as they rut together helplessly, barely managing to actually stay on the couch. Bobby's making fucked-out noises in his throat, scrabbling at the Sheriff's hair; toes curling as he rushes straight for the white-hot pleasure that signals his orgasm.
The sound the Sheriff makes it absolutely wrecked muttering half formed thoughts and sweet pet names, until they have to stop moving against one another; too sensitive, hurting deep down.
The quiet is content now, no longer awkward. Stilinski nudges his nose against the underside of Bobby's chin, lying heavily across the shorter man. "I've never..." He starts, hesitant.
"Yeah." Is all Bobby says, wiggling to get more comfortable and trying to ignore his sticky pants. "Yeah." He repeats, giving himself a second to card his fingers through short hair.
In the morning they wake up on the floor, still clothed. Their heads are pounding, their eyes are foggy, and Bobby waves Stilinski out the door. It's the first morning in over ten years where he hasn't rolled over and muttered a fucking Greenberg to his house.