Mini Crobby ficlet
Summary: Bobby gets a rude awakening, but at least Crowley made him breakfast.
Characters: Bobby, Crowley
Pairings: A sort of pre-Crobby moment.
Wordcount: 671
Warnings: None.
Bobby sat straight up in bed, eyes narrowed as he listened.
There was something downstairs. He could hear it clattering about in the kitchen. Nine times out of time, that didn’t end too well. He stood slowly, quickly throwing on an old tee - because he slept in just pyjama bottoms, damn it, and he didn’t need some damn demon ripping out his chest just ‘cause he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
He stopped still again halfway through creeping down the stairs with a shotgun in his hand. The voice was low and baritone, but well in tune. “Take me back to the Black Hills, the Black Hills of Dakota…” He’d heard it before. No idea where, but he had.
Who in the Hell was singing in his kitchen at - he glanced at the clock on the wall. Damn. Nine already?
He padded the rest of the way down, and darted to the kitchen doorway, holding up his shotgun and aiming. Then realized who it was and dropped it again.
“What in the Hell do you think you’re doin’ in my kitchen?”
“Smoked kippers, toast and bacon. Such a sunny morning man, aren’t you, Robert?” Crowley purred, looking at the taller man over his shoulder with a smirk before going back to frying bacon.
“Maybe I’d be if there weren’t a stinkin’ demon in my kitchen.”
“Well, I can get a different cologne if you feel so strongly, darling.” Crowley forked the bacon onto a plate, setting it down next to a steaming bowl of fish that Bobby definitely did not trust on the table. Crowley caught the toast as it popped up with suspiciously good timing, adding it to the pile of toast on the middle plate and seating himself at Bobby’s table as easy as you please. “Too good to eat with me?”
“You were singing.”
“So I was. Black Hills of Dakota. Lovely little ditty.” He gestured for the hunter to sit with him.
Bobby scowled, but sat across from Crowley, reaching out for a slice of toast before stopping to stare at the black stuff Crowley was spreading on his.
“What in the heck is that?”
“Marmite.” Crowley looked up, catching the other’s eyes and conveying amusement. “Of course, you plebs don’t have it much over here, do you? Try some.” He held the slice out.
“No.”
“Ooh, coward.” Crowley jibed. Bobby scowled again, snatching the toast out of the demon’s hand to take a bite. One which he nearly immediately spat out.
“What the-“
“You either love it or you hate it.” Crowley pronounced gleefully, taking the slice before Bobby dropped it to eat it himself.
“Why’s there fish?”
“It’s kippers.” Crowley mumbled, mouth half-full of toast.
“For breakfast?” Bobby asked, skeptical.
“Try ‘em.” The hunter picked up a fork - the demon had set the damn table - and speared one, nibbling at it carefully. This, apparently, warranted a chuckle from his demonic companion.
“Piss off.”
They ate without talking after that, Crowley texting on his phone with one hand and Bobby wondering why the Hell there was still a demon in his house and why the Hell he hadn’t gotten rid of him.
“Your mother never told you it was rude to do that at the table?” Crowley looked up, bemused.
“My ma died when I was a lad, love. And way back then, we didn’t have these.” He waved his iPhone with a little grin.
“What was she called?”
The question caught Crowley by surprise, he guessed, because the King of Hell just stared at him, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. “Alva. Her name was Alva.”
“How old were you? When she died?”
“I was only a wee lad. Six or seven.” Crowley was uncomfortable, Bobby could tell.
“I’m sorry.”
“This was centuries ago, mate. You don’t need to be.” He picked up his phone again, and this time Bobby let him text without interruption. He supposed he could get used to this, really.
Crowley wasn’t all that bad.
Characters: Bobby, Crowley
Pairings: A sort of pre-Crobby moment.
Wordcount: 671
Warnings: None.
Bobby sat straight up in bed, eyes narrowed as he listened.
There was something downstairs. He could hear it clattering about in the kitchen. Nine times out of time, that didn’t end too well. He stood slowly, quickly throwing on an old tee - because he slept in just pyjama bottoms, damn it, and he didn’t need some damn demon ripping out his chest just ‘cause he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
He stopped still again halfway through creeping down the stairs with a shotgun in his hand. The voice was low and baritone, but well in tune. “Take me back to the Black Hills, the Black Hills of Dakota…” He’d heard it before. No idea where, but he had.
Who in the Hell was singing in his kitchen at - he glanced at the clock on the wall. Damn. Nine already?
He padded the rest of the way down, and darted to the kitchen doorway, holding up his shotgun and aiming. Then realized who it was and dropped it again.
“What in the Hell do you think you’re doin’ in my kitchen?”
“Smoked kippers, toast and bacon. Such a sunny morning man, aren’t you, Robert?” Crowley purred, looking at the taller man over his shoulder with a smirk before going back to frying bacon.
“Maybe I’d be if there weren’t a stinkin’ demon in my kitchen.”
“Well, I can get a different cologne if you feel so strongly, darling.” Crowley forked the bacon onto a plate, setting it down next to a steaming bowl of fish that Bobby definitely did not trust on the table. Crowley caught the toast as it popped up with suspiciously good timing, adding it to the pile of toast on the middle plate and seating himself at Bobby’s table as easy as you please. “Too good to eat with me?”
“You were singing.”
“So I was. Black Hills of Dakota. Lovely little ditty.” He gestured for the hunter to sit with him.
Bobby scowled, but sat across from Crowley, reaching out for a slice of toast before stopping to stare at the black stuff Crowley was spreading on his.
“What in the heck is that?”
“Marmite.” Crowley looked up, catching the other’s eyes and conveying amusement. “Of course, you plebs don’t have it much over here, do you? Try some.” He held the slice out.
“No.”
“Ooh, coward.” Crowley jibed. Bobby scowled again, snatching the toast out of the demon’s hand to take a bite. One which he nearly immediately spat out.
“What the-“
“You either love it or you hate it.” Crowley pronounced gleefully, taking the slice before Bobby dropped it to eat it himself.
“Why’s there fish?”
“It’s kippers.” Crowley mumbled, mouth half-full of toast.
“For breakfast?” Bobby asked, skeptical.
“Try ‘em.” The hunter picked up a fork - the demon had set the damn table - and speared one, nibbling at it carefully. This, apparently, warranted a chuckle from his demonic companion.
“Piss off.”
They ate without talking after that, Crowley texting on his phone with one hand and Bobby wondering why the Hell there was still a demon in his house and why the Hell he hadn’t gotten rid of him.
“Your mother never told you it was rude to do that at the table?” Crowley looked up, bemused.
“My ma died when I was a lad, love. And way back then, we didn’t have these.” He waved his iPhone with a little grin.
“What was she called?”
The question caught Crowley by surprise, he guessed, because the King of Hell just stared at him, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. “Alva. Her name was Alva.”
“How old were you? When she died?”
“I was only a wee lad. Six or seven.” Crowley was uncomfortable, Bobby could tell.
“I’m sorry.”
“This was centuries ago, mate. You don’t need to be.” He picked up his phone again, and this time Bobby let him text without interruption. He supposed he could get used to this, really.
Crowley wasn’t all that bad.