Muscle-memory snatches the spool from Robin without hesitation and threads the needle with only a little bit of fumbling. Without a word, Phalanx aligns the torn edges of the shirt, leaves a little bit of seam allowance, and begins to sew.

It's a perfect repeat of earlier that morning--Phalanx forgets the rest of the world in favor of zooming in on little stitches, trying to make them neat and perfect despite the fact that they're going nowhere. Getting lost in the process without a reason or goal to guide it; a perfect echo of something that must have been useful in some other place and time.