Chapter Text
Two weeks before semester starts, Professor Robert Singer is sitting at the counter of a bar in downtown Amherst, drinking whiskey and idly watching the baseball game on the bar television. Someone takes the stool next to his, and orders. “A glass of scotch, on the rocks; top shelf, if you’ve got anything good.”
The voice belongs to a young man, English, if the accent’s anything to go by. Probably a graduate student, if he’s in town over the summer. Might be slightly unethical to sleep with a grad student, but then again, Bobby’s worked his way through most of a bottle of the cheapest shit money can buy and it’s still not killed the loneliness.
Bobby offers the kid a cheesy conversation starter, and yep, there’s the long, slow measuring gaze of someone who’s interested, but not entirely sure that a hook-up is what’s on the table. Bobby expects this to be a bit of a dance around, the kid not wanting to assume and him not wanting to be too forward about it.
“Well, I’m game if you are. Got a place we can go to, or is this gonna be a back alley blowjob?”
Bobby re-evaluates the kid’s confidence level, mentally marking him up several points, and mentions he lives a few blocks from campus.
“Sounds like we’ve got a deal then. The name’s Crowley.” ‘Crowley’ drains his glass of Scotch and pays for it, looking expectantly over at Bobby.
“Bobby.” He pays his tab, nodding at the bartender, who waves back.
It’s not a long walk to Bobby’s house, and Crowley’s a good conversation partner; the man knows how to tell a story.
They’re barely through the door before Crowley drops to his knees, and Christ, Bobby hadn’t expected such a talented tongue in a kid in his mid-twenties.
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Bobby wakes up naked and pleasantly sore, and that’s such an oddity that he opens his eyes. There’s a slightly possessive arm around his stomach, and an equally naked Crowley sprawled out next to him. He groans and gets up, craving his morning dose of coffee. He’s not quite thinking clearly when he leaves the bedroom door open, and is halfway down the stairs when he hears the barking of his very-much-a-one-man-dog Rottweiler. He’s expecting a scream as he runs up the stairs, but he only hears a commanding yell of “DOWN!” followed by a quieter “Who’s a good boy?” and the whuffing that means his normally irritable dog has made a new friend.
“How the fuck’d you do that?” Bobby asks, and Crowley laughs.
“Just got a knack for dogs. My nanny was an English mastiff the size of a small horse. You get used to it.” He smirks and raises an eyebrow. “So, if I’ve passed the dog test, does that mean I can stay for breakfast?”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Eggs and bacon. I’ll be downstairs.”
It was supposed to be a one-night-stand, but anyone who ate his food, liked his dogs, and was as much a demon in the sack as Crowley… well, Bobby could get used to having the kid around.