ancient and green and gently-rounded landscapes

[goodfella]

He'd gotten the call the other night, not from Anzhelika herself, but from an acquaintance. Not quite a friend -- a recent roommate. She'd gone missing, for weeks now, and nobody that she knew, human or otherwise, the real her or otherwise, had been able to produce any ideas as to her whereabouts.

There was no money involved. Normally, Robin might be hard-pressed to be interested, as busy as his schedule has been. But he'd slept with her a few times, before Ishiah's arrival. Anzhelika was a meadow nymph, human-looking enough, with only a tint of green in her hair and pupil-less green eyes. Goodfellow recalls that she'd smelled of clover, and it had lingered on his sheets for almost a day afterward.

It's a good memory, and he gets so few of those from others that he holds some respect for those that allow for them.

Robin isn't going to let anything happen to her.

But he's going to need help, and it isn't his usuals that he approaches for it this time. He won't ask Ishiah, and he turns down the idea of someone like Dean, or like Mike, immediately. No -- it's Sam Winchester that he approaches.

After Ishiah has left for the evening, once the kitchen has closed and Semele's has slowed to a crawl and cleanup has begun, Robin slinks out of the office to find Sam. He sidles himself in front of the much taller man, considering how to approach the subject. As with most things, it is not in Robin's nature to do so entirely directly, not when it could be made more twisting and turning.

He holds out a cold beer from the chest under the bar in offering.

"The Valentine's specials are doing well," he starts with. "I used to love this time of year before I was, you know, in an actual relationship. Lots of angry, desperate singles of all kinds. Now it just looks like a business opportunity. Rather than ... an opportunity for some nasty, oily business."

Comments

[theprodigalson]

Though it's not really unusual for Robin to spark up a conversation for no discernible reason, it's also not particularly routine, so Sam doesn't think he can be judged too harshly for raising an inquisitive eyebrow as the beer is held out to him.

After wiping his hands dry, Sam tucks the rag back into his pocket and takes the bottle with a nod of thanks, sniffing it casually before taking a sip.

"Hmm," he says, swallowing the cool, bitter liquid, still eying Robin skeptically. He's not as wary of the man as he once was; in their day-to-day interactions, he's proven himself well enough. And Dean's still alive, after all, with Robin's having done nothing to put that into jeopardy. Exactly the opposite even, given the vampire assault a month or so ago. So Sam's not as uneasy around him anymore. Just... cautious.

"Don't you have that backward? It's always been my impression that Valentine's Day is intended for those in relationships. The angry, desperate singles are the marginalized majority."

[goodfella]

Sam is suspicious; Robin can sense it and see it. Not the average characteristic wariness he usually holds with Robin, and for that matter with nearly everyone (as he often seems to keep the world at arm's length, even more at bay for whatever reasons than his brother). He has good instincts. He knows when someone is approaching him with the traditional offer. The one you're not supposed to refuse.

"It is intended for those relationships. Which is why so many people who aren't in one of them are so much easier this time of year. There are some things wherein the thrill of the chase is greatly exaggerated. These things are better served up on a silver platter."

The inappropriate joking falls flat even on Robin's end, and by the time he's finished, the jocular tones are already being replaced with something more measured. Robin darts out a pointed pink tongue to wet his lips, sucking in a deep breath.

"So. I know that you are still actively hunting supernatural creatures. I also know that you've been doing it for quite some time, and that you are damn good at what you do." It is Robin's turn to be every so slightly wary. He prefers to have Sam, and Dean, both here where he has an eye on both of them, and not just because he likes them and they're useful as hell. There is a small part of Robin, his instinct of self-preservation, that can't help wondering ... if one day it might be his turn. If and when.

"You must be very good at finding what you're looking for. Well, more than a what, it's also a who. A she, actually."

[theprodigalson]

Robin's reply is hardly surprising and Sam doesn't bother hiding a quiet laugh behind another sip from his bottle. Of course the puck would look at it that way, of course he'd find opportunity in the weakness of others.

And, if Sam's completely honest, it doesn't sound too unlike Dean. The Dean of his past, anyway. The one he'd lost so long ago.

The impression is short-lived, however, as Robin's easy smile fades, his tone turning more serious in a way that catches Sam's attention immediately, that wariness in his gut winding tighter as he listens. He isn't used to being praised for hunting, has never found it something to be particularly proud of. And he can't help but wonder what it is Robin wants from him.

"A she," Sam repeats, watching him carefully. "A friend of yours?"

[goodfella]

"Something like that." A friend. An intimate friend. Raising a hand, Robin holds up a palm with unusual sheepishness which lasts only seconds, before being buried again by another mercurial mood shift into business-like, jovial detachment.

Robin is very much considering getting a cold drink for himself as well. This should not be as difficult as it is. But it is. He is asking for help, which is something which he so seldom does, and he can't help but think that as much as Niko and Caliban and their people were a strength, that he would have solved this on his own years ago.

Maybe it would have been better that way.

But that's not what is, right now. "Whatever she is to me personally, she is a good person. She has never hurt a fly in her life unless it flew into her mouth when she was eating her vegetarian lunch on break at work from her job as a waitress. She isn't the sort of non-human who is just going to disappear without a trace and not leave a note for her mother. I just want to see her returned to the people who care about her. Failing that, I want to see someone suffer in turn for whatever suffering they've caused in making her disappear."

[theprodigalson]

Sam gets the implication and, again, isn't particularly surprised. The fact that Robin seems to care about this woman as much as he does catches his attention, though. From what Sam's been able to garner, Robin enjoys his sexual conquests, enjoys people even, but hardly spends too much time worrying about them for any particular length of time.

So Sam listens and watches intently, trying to catch everything Robin isn't quite saying.

He doesn't miss the non-human, either, eyebrow arching slightly. Intellectually, Sam knows that not every supernatural being is vengeful and evil just as he knows not every human is purely good and worth saving. But, in his experience, both personal and observant, non-human, if not pertaining to a plant or animal, means only one thing.

"You want my help," he says once he's sure Robin is done speaking, his own voice clear and calm. "I'm assuming you've already tried?"

[goodfella]

"I've tried," Robin admits, with a small shrug of his shoulders. "For a lot of reasons, however, my skills lay in running, not in chasing. I've tried contacting everything I know, which is no small number. But it's no large number either, and I haven't found a clue or any piece of information that I'm looking for. My black book is only so large in this city; I haven't had very much time to fill it."

He presses his lips together until they are thin, and finally decides to go digging for that drink after all. Robin pulls a bottle, his own bottle, from under the bar, and sets it down between them. It's joined a moment later by two tumblers. One for Robin. If Sam wants to join, Robin has no preference for drinking alone.

"I would prefer that this wasn't true, but there you have it. And there are only so many directions in which I can turn at this time."

[theprodigalson]

Gaze dropping to the bottle Robin pulls out, as well as the two small glasses, only one of which Robin bothers filling, Sam considers. This is about the last conversation he'd have ever anticipated from his employer. After all, they'd had something of a rocky start and, though Sam isn't quite as suspicious of his intentions as he once was, they're still hardly friends.

Though, of course, this doesn't have to be an arrangement between friends. In fact, Sam is positive it isn't.

"Okay," he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he meets Robin's eyes again. "So what makes you think I'll have any better luck? Why me?"

[goodfella]

"Finding what doesn't want to be found," Robin starts carefully, pausing to toss back part of his glass smoothly without so much as a wince or a hard swallow. "It's something that I suspect you might have more recent experience with than myself. I don't go looking for what doesn't want to be found. I go looking for things with something to sell, and I mean that in a lot of ways. The girl who's gone missing, she is a meadow nymph. Very beautiful, charming, very long-lived and youthful for much of it. And of course, they don't reproduce sexually. An enticing creature. To many. For a variety of reasons. Reasons which I am just pessimistic enough to believe are the likely ones."

He finishes his drink, sets it down, fills it, and has another.

"You because, firstly, I have reasons for which I cannot ask my first choice, and bigger reasons for which I am not even letting my second choice know about any of this." Being Ishiah -- who Robin was, for all purposes if not intents, cheating on when he was carrying on with the nymph in question. "And secondly, because I think that you might be as much a pessimist as myself."

[theprodigalson]

It doesn't take much effort for Sam to pick up on what Robin's implying. It's unsettling, he can admit that. Sam's never personally met a nymph of any kind, but if what Robin's saying is true, Sam can easily assume just why she'd be valuable.

And not just to other supernaturals.

He watches Robin down his first drink and takes a sip from his own bottle, still waiting for his answer. When it comes, he arches an eyebrow, but listens, his lips quirking into a faint smile by the end. "I'm your last resort is what you're saying," he says, though he's not particularly insulted. He does wonder who Robin's two other choices had been, though. As far as he's aware, he and Dean are the only two hunters around, but there are a handful of others who are perfectly capable. Mike, for one. Andrea. Even the angel.

Pulling a breath, Sam crosses his arms loosely over his chest. "Okay, do you have any leads here? How long has she been missing? Who was the last to see her and where? Anything at all?"

[goodfella]

"I suppose that that is what I am saying," Robin admits with a shrug. But Sam's inquisitive turn has voided some of Robin's tension, and his body visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping as he leans his elbows on the bar to pour another drink for himself. He fills the second glass, this time.

He's committed now, after all. If Sam doesn't take this one, Robin will drink it himself. He hasn't gotten good and truly drunk in a month, and tonight seems as good a time to half-stumble back to his apartment as any.

"I know where she works, I know the time frame that she disappeared in. Her boss was the last person to see her. When she didn't show up for her shift the next day, one of the other waitresses called her to see if she'd not gotten her schedule wrong, because it wasn't like her. No answer. Two days later, her boss called me. We are business contacts, of a sort. I mean purely food-service related contacts."

Robin gives a long sigh, tremulous on the end though he tries to disguise it with a long draw on his the single-malt in his glass.

"That was a week ago." Now Robin is desperate. "So, ten days altogether. No news of a body. So. Here I stand."

[theprodigalson]

Listening intently, Sam's gaze drops to the glass Robin pours and, assuming it's for him, reaches for it. He still has a half a bottle of beer in his other hand, but he's not about to turn down some good, hard liquor and he knows Robin keeps on the best.

Plus, by the sound of things, he thinks he might need it.

The liquid burns a little going down and Sam relishes it, finally nodding in acknowledgment as Robin finishes up with his explanation. Strangely, Robin actually appears genuinely upset by the woman's disappearance, and it's that more than anything that solidifies Sam's decision to help. Whether or not he'll be any more successful than Robin's been so far, he isn't sure. But it can't hurt to try and Sam certainly has plenty of time.

"Do you have any suspects?" he asks before taking another sip from the glass. "Or I could start canvasing the area, see if there's anyone who saw anything suspicious around the time of her disappearance."

[goodfella]

"No suspects." Robin scrubs at his eyes with one hand with a lengthy, tired sigh. There are times when knowing the wide variety of sorts that Robin does doesn't come in handy. He can think of a hundred directions from which trouble might have come, and none of them more likely than the other.

"Truthfully, any help that you can offer would be a boon. Better than where I stand right now, shameful as that is to admit. If nothing else, I can pay you for your time. What's more, I can offer a fair recompense of my own at a later date, should you need it. Sleuthing may not be a personal skill, but those that I have are many and well-honed. That is ... if your interest is a 'yes.' I don't doubt that this is a lot to ask. Someone like you, to help someone like me. But asking your brother ... is off. I am not sure any of the others I might approach have the skill in years as you do. And the one other who might ... is Ishiah. And that ... no. Absolutely not, no."

[theprodigalson]

It isn't the first time someone's offered to pay for a Winchester hunting service, but it's the first Sam's encountered here. All the cases he's taken on so far, few as they've been, have been of his own choosing. But even outside of Darrow, back in the world Sam left behind, it wasn't hunting that ever really brought in any cashflow. Sometimes they got lucky, sometimes an exceptionally grateful survivor would send them away with a couple hundred. But they never asked for it. That wasn't ever the point.

Here, though, Robin's offering. And Sam isn't about to turn down the promise of cash, but the offer of a favor returned is even more appealing. In his extensive experience, that can be more valuable than any sum of money.

As Robin continues, though, Sam's brow furrows. He takes another drink of the liquor and cocks his head. "Why not Dean?" He doesn't mention that Dean hasn't been hunting in awhile; he isn't sure Robin's aware of that. Of the two of them, Dean has always been the better hunter and they both know it. Considering what Dean's endured in his own timeline, Sam is sure that's still the case. So why wouldn't Robin want him?

[goodfella]

Robin keeps drinking, and Robin keeps pouring -- though after his fifth, he thinks at the very least to hold the mouth of the whiskey bottle in Sam's direction, in case he might want to top-off.

"Why not--" He sputters slightly, though he realizes he should have expected the question. Robin, after all, is at more of a stand-off than anything with Sam. There is no attachment, he is certain, from either direction, and only the beginnings of understanding. Where Dean is concerned, Robin actually gives a shit. Terrible, perhaps, but true. Robin runs fingers through the waves of his hair.

"There is something going on with Dean. It isn't any of my business. I haven't asked him about it. That isn't our dynamic just yet. But I've got two eyes, and they work very well, thank you very much. I am not going to add this on top of it, when I'm not sure precisely what this might eventually encompass. What sort of shithole I may or may not be digging myself into." He lifts his eyes to Sam's, the green dark and practically apologetic, despite the nonchalance in his voice.

"Frankly, you were the one that I felt the least concern in knowingly handing my other shovel."

[theprodigalson]

"I'm expendable is what you're saying," Sam says, though he doesn't sound insulted. He isn't insulted. If anything, he's vaguely amused, and strangely appreciative of Robin's honesty. Years ago Sam might've taken it more personally, but he's changed a lot since then. Losing the most important person in your life, twice, will do that to a person, he assumes.

He holds his glass out when Robin offers a tilt of the whiskey and then quickly knocks it back before letting out a hearty breath. His blood is warm and there's a prickle in the base of his spine. Anticipation. Excitement. Sam's not the kind to hunt just for the thrill of it, he never has been. But this feels more purposeful than it has in awhile. Robin isn't a friend exactly, but he's someone specifically seeking out Sam's help. And that means something.

Setting his beer bottle down, Sam extends his hand. "Alright, you've got a deal. But I reserve the right to call in assistance from anyone I choose should I need it."

[goodfella]

"I suppose that that is what I am saying, more or less," Robin agrees with a wry tug of his lips, a dart of one manicured brown brow.

He slips his hand into Sam's after a short consideration, and immediately gives it his customary firm pump. "Reserve any rights that you would like to, kid. I'm not big on caring how a job gets done, so long as it gets done. Results, results, results."

He finally pours himself a final shot for the night, and caps the bottle off to put it away again in its particular place under the bar. "Thank you," he adds, as if in afterthought. He disguises a sigh of relief by turning to the side to reach to the wall, flicking off the lights over the empty front of the building, all but for the few hanging over the bar which catch at the back of his irises with their yellow light. He had hoped for an agreement more than he had expected one.

[theprodigalson]

Robin's handshake is firm and short, firmly sealing the deal. Of course, Sam doesn't mention that it might be Dean he calls on for help because, regardless of what Dean says about hunting these days, he's still Sam's first choice. And he doesn't particularly care what Robin thinks of it.

Considering the conversation over, Sam quickly downs the rest of his beer and tosses the bottle in the container beneath the bar before wiping a cloth quickly across the wooden ledge one last time.

At the sound of Robin's voice, he gives a nod of acknowledgment, watching even after Robin flicks off the light. He should be wary, he thinks, of making a deal like this with a puck. After all, the last time he teamed up with a supernatural being, it didn't turn out very well for him. But Robin isn't Ruby and Sam isn't desperate this time. Not in the same way.

This could be good, maybe. But he still wonders what Dean will think when (and if) Sam ever tells him.