Unlike Robin, Vincent spends a lot of time with children. This one may be tall and made of dozens of ghosts or something, but he knows the sound of a little one winding up into a meltdown. Robin probably means well, but he's being an impulsive dipshit about the shirt. And about everything in the last hour, really. It's one thing to be a freak around rational adults, but that kind of shit won't do anything to help a kid.

"There y'go," a soft confirmation when he can feel their wrist at end of the sleeve, "And the other one..."

Which is much easier; Vincent's blind grabbing is even more informed as he finds and tugs a half-crumpled sleeve back into its tube shape. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still can't believe he's even doing this, even humoring that this thing is in his house--but he's never been one to hold genuine ill will towards anyone who seems like they're just having a hard time.

Robin has been watching, of course, his arms crossed over his chest. He isn't sure if he's jealous, entertained, or even charmed. This is what he wanted out of bringing Phalanx here in the first place, after all, and Vincent has always had a natural knack with people that Robin just can't seem to duplicate.

Once there are two arms in two sleeves, Vincent leans back from where he is still crouched in front of Phalanx. He aims his face upward, but misses "eye contact" by a good half a foot.

"There's hands," he says, "Does Robin have anything else for you?"

"Yeah," Robin finally rejoins, picking up some socks and, with another second of consideration, leaning down to pluck up a wadded-up knit blanket from halfway under the bed. He hands them generally in the direction of Phalanx and Vincent. "They can just wrap up in this."

He does not give directions for the socks, but at this point, he maybe just wants to see what will happen if Phalanx is given socks without guidance.