Ahaha, so I was prompted with writing Rob/Ish (I've been unable to write anything else for months, now ) and the title had to be 'Another Sticky Occurrence'. And I can't write smut. At all. So, this is what happened.

•

It wasn't raining, but for the mood they were both in, it might as well have been.

Confined inside Ishiah's apartment (which was only really 'his' anymore by virtue of the fact that no one really wanted to see Robin's reaction if they should point out that he, too, was... 'nesting') above Ninth Circle for the better duration of the day, fear had become boredom.

The Auphe were back. No longer legion, not anymore a numerous faction of the preternatural scope, they were back, and they were pissed off. Even more specifically, they were pissed off at Cal Leandros. And that meant they didn't much like Robin Goodfellow, either, which did bleed into Ishiah, he supposed, but, currently, that wasn't really his biggest worry. At the pressing, more immediate moment, Ishiah was more bothered by his patience with Robin.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take of this.

"If you could just take off your shirt..."

"No."

"But, Ishiah, you do the best strip-teases. Well, second-best, but-"

"Shut up, Robin."

The Auphe were back. Niko had called early this morning, gruff voice haggard from another sleepless night of nursing his brother through nightmares of caves and blood-red eyes, warning that they were back, and on the offensive. Stress stole the tact the boy usually had, and he said in a voice demanding genuflection that wherever Goodfellow was, he'd better get someplace safe and protected, and quick; they didn't have the time or the resource to find the Puck, Ishiah'd better do it.

Luckily, all Ishiah had to do was roll over.

But, currently, that point was moot. The bastard was bored, gods help them all.

Going outside had been prohibited via divine fiat (wings included for effect), along with sex and drinking, both were good ways to make them miss, or just... ignore signs of outward attack. Which wasn't really a strategic imperative.

So, for the past seven hours, Ishiah had been stuck in an apartment above a bar with the most 

oversexed creature on God's green earth, unable to drink or-- as Robin had just put it for maybe the nineteen thousandth time-- do anything else of merit.

Fear had kept the both of them relatively compliant, originally, but fear ebbed when nothing happened, and, at some point, Robin had...

Well, he was poking around Ishiah's apartment, right now. Ishiah, who had lived alone for the past millenia, who still technically did, was essentially having his apartment inspected by his... well, Robin.

He wondered how this would end.

"Alright, alright, no shirt... you could just take off your pants?"

He hoped it'd end soon.

"No."

"Spoilsport." Robin huffed as dramatically as possible, and the furtive look shot directly after it to see if Ishiah had rolled his eyes (he had) and the smile afterwards (triumph! Success!) told Ishiah that the Puck was enjoying this. Needy bastard.

"Yes, Robin, my only aim is to make you miserable." He shrugged and looked away, hoping Robin would know that he only wanted the opposite, "It's only my due."

"And a mother hen instinct. How charming." But there was no malice in the statement. Maybe he did know.

But, hands folded out in front of him, he decided not to dignify that condemnation with an answer, and continued to watch Robin sift through his closet. He was mumbling in Greek about getting him some new clothes that wouldn't make it painfully embarrassing for them to go out in public together in an effort to save what little of a reputation Robin still had (or something) when he saw the box.

He tapped it, glanced up at an impassive face, poked again and then opened the thing, all in stretched silence.

Then, "Model airplanes? Are you trying to tell me something?" Robin shot a questioning look at Ishiah's back.



Ignoring the implications he'd have to deal with later, possibly when he wasn't on the verge of a headache, Ishiah answered from his seat on the sofa, "This may come as a shock to you, but not everything in my residence pertains to your welfare and knowledge."

Robin just smiled and delved his hands into the box with alacrity that spoke to the level of his boredom (model airplanes) and said, "No, just the important things."

For the thirteenth time yet today, the Ishiah huffed and put his head in his hands. "They were a gift."

"From?" Robin looked suddenly attentive and Ishiah reeled to note the cause of the change... was he surprised?

Jealous?

Ishiah's smile was subtle and vague, but he could tell in Robin's equally subtle and vague facial shift towards annoyed pouts that it'd been picked up on. Which amused him far more than it should've, probably. Time to change the subject. Or, at least, reassure him ...Probably best to start with reassurances, yes.

"A patron's daughter. A little girl, human. I seem to remember mentioning I liked flying. Characteristic of her race, she took it the wrong way."

Robin pouted, and Ishiah briefly entertained the notion of smacking him. "Robbing the cradle. Really. You should stick with older men."

"I intend to."

Ishiah didn't receive a smile or a hug for that (and was maybe a bit disappointed), but an hour of relative peace (silence made up for it, somewhat) as Robin decided they needed to construct the airplanes, which was enough to satisfy the throbbing headache, at least until the amount of glue accumulated to the point where it started to produce fumes. But it was better than the hour previous to this where he'd had to sit on the alcohol cabinet to keep Robin out of it. The last thing he really needed was a drunken Robin, right now especially. The bastard just couldn't be a sleepy drunk, now, could he? No, had to be a talkative, emotional, incoherent ass.

...Which was surely different from his sober state, or someone needed to invent some new adjectives.

Though, by this point, a drink was starting to look very tempting. Ishiah's table was irreparably 

ruined; Robin had long ago gotten bored of actually constructing the planes in favor of pretending like he was while pantomiming crude ways they could better spend their time with the pieces, all while giving a commentary on recent events in order to see, really, how much of an ungodly mess he could make right under Ishiah's nose. They were even, he thought, but somebody should be keeping score... scratch that, Robin probably already was.

And to top it all off, the bastard was, of course, taking every opportunity stain Ishiah's clothing with glue. Ishiah wasn't as much concerned with his clothing as Robin was, but after the fourth glue-emblazoned hand print on the seat of his pants, this was becoming ridiculous.

Luckily, Ishiah didn't even need to ask the question. A pointed glare would do.

Robin's answer was an incredulous grin, and the urge to smack him rose again. Possibly seeing this on Ishiah's face, Robin shrugged and waved a propeller between them to emphasize his point further.

"If I'm going to get myself covered in sticky white goo, Ishiah, I am going to touch your ass. It's only my due."