psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

Phalanx nods at Robin's question, but the dry part of the blanket is still anxiously looped up and over to form a makeshift hood and hugged close. The creature is settling down comfortably in the warm water, but they're still watching with vague concern as the fabric floats on the surface of the bathwater--turning wet and dark and sinking as it absorbs.

Yeah, the water is warm enough, but Phalanx is already beginning to wonder if there is maybe going to be a blanket problem here soon. Right now, it's just a guess.

The blanket problem doesn't seem to be of any concern to Robin; there are a variety of soaps and things in labeled bottles in a small box next to the tub, and he's busy sifting through them to find something to use on Phalanx.

He brings up a bar of soap and a washcloth, pausing only to roll up his (fairly expensive) sleeves before lathering them together.

"Ever had someone give you a bath before?" He asks this in an off-handed way, though he hopes that jarring a memory or two might remind the strange collection of spirits what a bath is and how it normally goes.

Robin is catching on. Phalanx's attention is wrangled and focused on the soap and bubbles, their head lolls to the side within the blanket hood, and the memories start floating up. It's something to look at, something easy to scan bits of lifetimes for.

Information comes together in a very roundabout way, but it still makes a picture that Phalanx can understand.

"Small ones. Small, like... small bowl, small water, small... me? And-- what is it?"

Phalanx lifts their hand under the waterlogged blanket--probably intending for a gesture while they think--but the resulting slosh of water is distracting. The rest of the thought is immediately gone.

Probably when some part of them was a child, then. Robin thinks he gets where this is going, and only laughs amicably when Phalanx surprises themselves by sploshing their blanket in the water.

"Bigger bowl, bigger you, but the principles of this will be pretty much the same. Here."

He then reaches out to take the arm that is partly out of the water, tugging back some of the soggy fabric and running that soapy washcloth over their forearm.

When in whatever someone might call Phalanx's "focused" state, with features showing some variety of color and life and individuality, it seems as though at least a little of that is reflected in their skin as well. There still isn't anything identifying like scars or freckles, or even skin with enough pigment to hint at the sort of variety that humanity tends to have, but Phalanx at least looks alive now. There's at least some warmth there, instead of the washed-out, unhealthy pallor of a corpse.

And Phalanx watches Robin slosh layers of dirt off of their arm with the detached curiosity of someone who isn't actually attached to the limb. Phalanx might as well be watching some completely unrelated, but still marginally interesting, project that just happens to be occurring in the vicinity.

This seems less like giving someone a bath and more like cleaning off an old toy--the joy of it comes from revealing the priceless porcelain doll that is hidden beneath. Phalanx has a beautiful paleness, he thinks, and it will be nice to see it on more than just their face.

But this will take a while. He's not out to get every speck of dirt, but he would like to take them out in public and pass them for more than a pile of walking laundry. He wrings out the cloth, he scrubs in more soap, and he draws on of his oldest conversational time-wasters.

"Phalanx, would you like it if I told you a story?"

Phalanx's attention returns from their fingers (where the real scrubbing is going to be needed) and drifts eagerly up to Robin's face. The smile is a little delayed, but it's a big one.

"Yes. Listening is easy."

There's probably more to it than that, but that's the only one that Phalanx manages to put into words.

"Oh, perfect," he smiles back, just as wide, "You are a good listener."

So while he starts to scrub the grime from Phalanx's fingers, he begins a story. He's a very good storyteller, having a lot of experience over many thousands of years talking to all manner of audience. This particular tale is about a young brother and sister who lived in a cave very, very far away. Their mother died of sickness and their father remarried, but the woman he married was secretly very cruel and despised the children.

As Robin reaches for Phalanx's other hand, he begins to tell of how one day, the stepmother killed the boy by cutting off his head, and then cooked the rest of him into soups and pies. The father ate of it, not realizing it was his own son. The sister would have as well, had she not had a dream where her brother's head appeared to her and warned her not to believe their stepmother for a second.

As Robin moves on to the rest of Phalanx's arms and shoulders, the mood of the story lightens somewhat. The sister is sad and lonely, yes, but she is visited by more dreams that tell her to gather and burn the bones of her brother so that his spirit may rest peacefully. Robin carefully wipes dirt away from Phalanx's face, explaining that she does so, and that that night, she was visited by a large, beautiful bat with soft, red fur.

By the time Robin is lathering up something to go into Phalanx's hair, he is telling them all about how, because of the sister's bravery and kindness in giving him a proper funeral, the brother's spirit was able to come back into the world as a bat. Once there, it was even able to surprise their stepmother--by dropping a large rock on her head and killing her.

The father, who had at this point found out what had happened, was happy to be free of the evil stepmother. Robin finishes up rinsing Phalanx's hair (shielding his eyes from soapy water, of course) by telling them that the father and the daughter, and the bat, all lived together happily ever after.

The creature seems to be listening attentively to the whole thing, appropriately distracted from all the bathing going on. Phalanx even weathers the hair-washing without a fuss... though rinsing inexplicably leaves behind tighter brunette ringlets instead of washing out the slight waves that had been there before, as should have happened.

Phalanx doesn't notice the change, of course. The swamp of blanket, water, and suds all around is far more interesting. With mostly-clean hands, they squeeze handfuls of soaked cloth until the bubbles are wrung out, then they dunk it and do it again.

"Ever after? ...Ever, ever. Until they died, probably."

"Probably," Robin agrees, chuckling quietly. All things die eventually, unless they're him. The next part comes naturally and easily, as if it was actually a part of the story, "But they were very happy up until then, and their spirits were at peace when it was time to go."

That's the ending he would have wanted. Humans rarely phase him, but unsettled ghosts always leave a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach--one of the many reasons he intends to keep this nest of them until he can find out why they are here in the first place.

"The last thing is your feet," he says, dunking his arm in the water and fishing around for an ankle. "Are you ticklish?"

Right then, there are either too many things to think about, or there is something about the topic itself that does it, but Phalanx trips up a little.

"Ticklish. Ticklish..."

They're thinking about the question, but an answer isn't happening, and they move around in the tub while they work on it. The water and blanket slosh while the creature rearranges, until they're finally sitting on their feet. It's probably more of an unconscious response to the word 'feet' being mentioned than it is a protective measure, but it's still going to make things more inconvenient.

And at the same time, at least half of whatever constitutes as Phalanx's mind is still hooked back on the story.

"What about the bird?" Phalanx manages to ask, but immediately realizes the error they've made with one of the words. The mistake makes them frown, and they try again, but the result doesn't sound easy. "Bird. B--ird. ...Bir--bat. The bat."

Robin frowns a little as well, at the repeat mention of a bird... Though, honestly, his frown could just as well be because he has paused elbow-deep in dirty bathwater and his subject is hiding their feet.

"It used to be a bird, in the old stories."

Maybe that's It. Maybe they're struggling with conflicting accounts. Robin remembers all of those tangled souls bumping around, knocking clumsily into each other.

"So both are right. Sometimes a bird, sometimes a bat."

He tilts his head. "You want to know what happened to it?"

Robin still can't get to the dirty little feet he wants, but he can at least ease Phalanx' mind a little bit. The creature looks relieved when Robin translates things correctly, and they nod.

Ah, there. He's cracked the code. It puts him at ease too, knowing that this particular insight wasn't some crack at Robin's own fortune.

"Well..." He swirls his arm around in the bath a little. The water is cooling, becoming more lukewarm than anything. "I think it lives too, until it dies again. But the spirit is a lot happier about it that time. No coming back as a severed head in people's dreams, or anything."

He reaches ineffectually in the direction of Phalanx's legs, not intending to grab so much as to suggest. "Can I have one of your feet?"

Surprisingly competently, Phalanx slumps back until they can unfold one leg out from under them and poke a few toes above the surface of the water. A knee clunks loudly into one wall of the tub along the way, but it's just another thing that Phalanx doesn't seem to notice.

And of course that's what the creature had meant. What else could it have been?

"...Am I a bird?"

The offered foot gets covered in a soapy washcloth and scrubbed. Robin wonders if he can get Phalanx some shoes, and how long they would continue to wear them if he did.

That pondering goes sideways as they ask him another question, something much more abstract. Or is it? Robin assumes, at first, that they're speaking in metaphor--but he doesn't actually know if Phalanx is capable of metaphor.

But he can't mean literally, right? The demigod goes quiet while he tries to think of an answer, sifting through layers upon layers of connotations that only he (and maybe a semi-omniscient pack of ghosts) would have.

"I think you're a person," he finally states. "At least, you're in the shape of a person."

But that is a very boring answer, one he finds vaguely distasteful, so he expands on the thought with a growing smirk: "But maybe in some stories, you're a bird. Do you know what a magpie is?"

Those fingers and toes might never lose some of their charcoal stain, no matter how clean they are. Normally half a lifetime of working with gears and oil or digging in black soil is needed for that kind of that kind of dedication embedded under fingernails, but Phalanx has somehow managed it (presumably) without that kind of work.

"...Something that drops rocks on people's heads?"

It's a guess. At least all the words are in the right order.

He shows his teeth again, a sliver of a grin. Guess or not, he likes the answer.

"If it tries hard enough, sure. It's a kind of bird. Magpies collect shiny and colorful things and bring them back to their nests."

He lifts his arm entirely out of the water, pausing for a moment to rest on the rim of the tub, propped on his elbows.

"Though I've heard of myna birds, who also gather up little shiny things... And have a habit of repeating what other people say." Pleasantly, he adds, "Sounds a lot like you."

Phalanx looks pleased. As Robin props there on his elbows to settle and talk, he's met with just as much focus from the creature, complete with childish grin. They seem to be following without confusion--leave it to Phalanx to understand the abstract better than the literal.

"A lot like me," Phalanx repeats, and it's easy to believe that maybe this one is a little more intentional than their usual. A little bit of humor. The next question sounds like an honest one, though.

"Is that what you are?"

Damn, if it isn't endearing to at least imagine Phalanx attempting humor. Robin shakes his head, but it's with the same good nature.

"No, I'm a robin. Robin Redbreast. Bringer of spring, omen of death, the one who buried the lost children with leaves to send their souls to the Kingdom of Stars."

After rolling this off of his tongue, he reaches down into the water again. "At least, that's what the old stories say. May I see your other foot, please?"

How many folks down here wouldn't bat an eye at a description like that? Getting undressed is a concept that is beyond Phalanx's understanding, but this doesn't even wrinkle their brow.

"Did you drop a rock on someone's head?"

Slosh, slosh, slosh, and Phalanx trades feet for him.

The old foot is traded for the new, and it gets the same treatment. He doubts that he will ever get all of the dirt off, but no one would believe that they belong in the underground if they were completely clean anyway.

"Well..." He shrugs, but his face is still full with half a grin, "I may have, once or twice."

Soon, the work is done. Phalanx is, technically, clean. Robin reaches down to pull a stopper out of the drain, and the water starts burbling away down some pipes into the network of water systems lacing the whole city.

"All right, all done. Time to dry you off."

Hearing the water burbling down out of the tub, Phalanx begins to protectively (and rather ineffectually) gather up the sopping folds of blanket. The poor fabric is unwieldy and heavy, but the pack of spirits still tries to loop it around their arms like a big, waterlogged shawl.

"Once or twice. Once or twice... you came back, then. Birds come back."

"They do... In all sorts of funny ways."

In more ways than even Robin knew about, apparently. He steps away for just a moment, skirting around the things still scattered along the floor and reaching down into what looks like a large, plastic crate disguised as a pile of old, wrinkly clothes. It turns out that it holds towels and washcloths and dish rags--and Robin pulls out the biggest, fluffiest towel that he can find.

It's an ugly shade of dirt-green. Someone, at some point, put it upon themselves to embroider little green flower knots periodically throughout the fabric, which are just waiting to be picked off by fidgety fingers.

Robin comes back with this, opening it up near the tub for Phalanx to step into.

"Here, leave the blanket in the bath. We'll wrap you in this instead."

Robin is lucky that the towel looks temptingly big and fluffy, because it's still a struggle for Phalanx to decide to leave the soggy blanket behind. There's a frown, a vague fidget of indecision... but they eventually totter up to their feet and let the blanket slough off their arms to splash back into the tub.

With that decision made, Phalanx hurries into the center of the towel and huddles roughly toward Robin's chest. Swaddling time!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject