dressed up, out the door, so damn ready for

[goodfella]

Robin stands just inside the entrance they'd taken to the sewers that Ishiah had been staking out, and he lifts an LED headlamp to slip it onto his forehead and flip it on. His night vision is better than human, but in the wide world of supernaturals, nothing much to tout. Tipping his head from one side and to the other, he sighs, low in his chest.

He's worn one of the few pairs of denim jeans that he owns, but he is still not wading into this mess with his shoes. He doesn't have any sports shoes. The leather loafers are carefully peeled off, followed by Robin's button-down shirt. Once he's half-bare, he decides it's worth risking it. He can lose the pants, and the underwear. He doesn't give a shit.

"Oh, Hades," he declares. It is a stinking pit. He'd almost forgotten how much he hated sewers, and how much they stank. Robin had done most of his wading into them in company of Caliban. "Our first date. Our very first date as an officially engaged couple, and you take me to a sewer. You couldn't have heard rumors about a monster that hunts in a chocolate factory, or a hothouse garden. No. Why should I have such luck? A sewer. Abysmal."

He hefts his sword, a finely-made Roman cinquedea with delicate copper decoration, over one shoulder with a lengthy and nasal sigh. He regrets it. The more he sighs and the more he bitches, the more stagnant air he breathes in.

"I may vomit."

Comments

[priorcommitment]

As much as is possible for the peri, his expression approaches petulant, hearing the exasperation in Robin's voice and the gentler tone he takes in trying to broaden Ishiah's view. Where Ishiah gravitates towards the rules that he knows well, Robin prefers to keep options open, to acknowledge the strengths of each. Jaw hardening, Ishiah shakes his head once — the concession being more in his dropping of the subject than in his words.

There isn't time to discuss it further anyway, the reflection of Robin's blade flashing in Ishiah's eyes. He quickly glances at the unbroken surface of the water, cursing the distraction. "It's swimming against my right ankle. I can't see it clearly through the murkiness of the water," says Ishiah, voice clipped. "I think it's headed in your direction; you should turn around and get on higher ground."

[goodfella]

"Ay gamisou," is Robin's only reply, as he immediately takes Ishiah's advice, clambering for higher ground and out of the water slowing him down, in time -- just in time -- for the creature to rear its head out of the dank water.

Its hood snaps open like lightning, followed by a hiss, but Robin simply keeps his sword limply at his side, staring dimly. The colors are swirling. The colors are magnificent.

It's only too late that a part of him realizes that he's nearly been had by the creature, and he drags himself out of the stupor with a heartbeat to spare, catching the thing by the fangs with his sword and keeping its gaping mouth open. He curses again, loudly. He can smell its dank breath, the necrotic smell of slow digestion and the venom leaking from hollow-pointed teeth.

"Ishiah," he calls out for help. "Fuck it. Fuck me. Fuck this sewer. Fuck all of the god and their bastards, every last one."

[priorcommitment]

Even when only faced with the back of the hood, Ishiah is immediately struck with a dizzying headache, blinking blearily in the direction of the large serpent as his hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. It's the hiss that shakes him out of his reverie, but his vision swims in the serpent's colors as he steps closer, forced instead to close his eyes and operate by sound.

He regrets not training blindfolded more often, straining to listen past the lapping water. It's Robin's voice, of all things, that helps Ishiah orient himself.

"Don't move," he says in warning, stepping forward and opening his eyes only enough to see through a blurred slit, but it's enough — a long slash of the sword, and the Scitalis thrashes, head only held on by a thin sliver.

A perfect hit would have lobbed the head cleanly off.

[goodfella]

The head falls heavily to the cement with a wet thud, managing only to drag a long tooth in a thin line down Robin's shoulder, leaving a sizzling wound. It is little more than annoyance, to a puck, as prodigious as Robin's natural tolerance for poisons of any sort is. It is still enough to piss him off, because he should have known better.

"You mother of all bitches," he swears, finishing Ishiah's job with enthusiasm, and a deft stroke. He doesn't stop at that, however, instead taking his frustration out on the dying beast. Frustration over the sewer. Over Dean's absence from work and lingering injury. Over Castiel's issues. Over fucking Darrow. "You picked the wrong bastard to eat tonight. I am not on the thrice-damned menu."

He strikes again, and again, four more times than necessary, stopping only when the splatter of deep blue blood - like a succubus', he thyinks - sprays across the sharp edge of his chin.

He takes a breath, sliding his eyes apologetically to Ishiah. They differ in this way. Which of them does this for the greater good, and which does it chiefly for the pleasure.

"Enjoy being my next fashion statement," he grinds out, wiping at his mouth with the back of his bare arm.

[priorcommitment]

The mission is, by Ishiah's standards, a failure. It's possible that without the distraction of conversation, he could have managed slaying the serpent on his own, but it seems just as likely that without Robin's keen instincts, Ishiah would have missed the snake entirely. And although Robin is likely to heal from his wound in short order, that he sustained one at all is reason enough to review their actions, find the mistakes, and train until they're less of a concern in future hunts.

But he doesn't have the chance to relay these thoughts before Robin starts to hack away at the snake, deadly precision in his strokes in spite of the lack of need, splattering blood and viscera everywhere.

Ishiah doesn't ask directly after the apparent frustration, instead making his way to Robin's side, blue eyes alert and focused as he brushes a soft thumb parallel with Robin's wound, noting the hint of burnt nectar in the air. "Do we need to see a healer?" he asks.

[goodfella]

"No," Robin says idly, peering between his small wound and Ishiah's closeness, the other man's blue eyes sparking wetly in the beam of his headlamp as he turns. Leaning forward, he grabs a quick, soft kiss from the other man's lips, pulling away with a slow breath. "I don't feel anything spreading. You taste like swamp," he adds, a trickle of amusement finding its way back into his voice.

Stepping away, he squints down at the carcass. "I am sorry," he apologizes belatedly to the Scitalis. "But you couldn't be tolerated, not so close to people who I care about. But you were a magnificent creature. You were truly beautiful."

That said, however, Robin quickly sets to work skinning the thick, scaly hide away from pale white flesh. It may be true that he is a romantic, but he is also a pragmatist, and he wants his spoils.

[priorcommitment]

He breathes a sigh of relief at Robin's assessment, just in time to receive a small kiss on the lips, the touch acting much like a smooth stroke down the spine of a cat. Newly placated, Ishiah idly runs a tongue over his own lips, trying to find the taste that Robin speaks of. "Seeing as how I haven't put my mouth on anything until now, I have to assume you passed the swamp over to me," he remarks lightly, standing still as he watches Robin return to pay his respects to the serpent.

A relatively new development.

"You find everything beautiful," remarks Ishiah, though not without fondness. Not yet joining Robin to skin the beast, Ishiah instead steps over to the severed head, rolling it gently with the tip of his sword before unearthing from his pocket a couple of small glass vials. With his fingers carefully pressed against the top of the head, Ishiah works on collecting the venom, and then a small patch of unusable scales, enough perhaps to explore their properties in time.

Robin has made good work of the hide by the time Ishiah finishes, but still he joins to offer whatever help he can. "The hide no longer seems to affect me now that the serpent has died," he remarks, focusing first on the delicate tail.

[goodfella]

"In its own way," Robin agrees, which is true enough. Ishiah's beauty was far different from the dead serpent's, but both were a dangerous sort of it.

"And good," he adds, folding and tucking the still-pliant hide under his arm to take with him. He wasn't kidding about the shoes and wallet. He has a ruck-sack prepared for it, left just outside of where they'd entered the sewer.

"I want my things to be figuratively stunning, not literally. There is a talent that would come to be a pain more often than assistance. Work's done, though. Let's quit this awful hole and find ourselves a hot shower together somewhere."