psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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!

Robin is quick to comply, a reward for good obedience.

"Thank you."

Not that it's all that hard to dote on them when they're nudging into him like that. He wraps them up nice and snug, rubbing their arms and torso dry before folding the top of the towel in around their collar. A quick duck towards that crate produces a smaller, less hideous towel, which he promptly uses to try and sponge some water out of Phalanx's new, adorable ringlets.

"Perfect. Cleaner than you've been in a while, I'll bet..."

Phalanx's arms are bundled up inside the towel, but they still manage to snag the cloth with their fingertips and clutch it even closer. Having another blanket draped like a hood, scrubbing out the worst of the water, is sheer relief. And they still stick pretty close to the only significant source of warmth here, despite being wrapped up.

"Yeah. Cleaner. And... air?" Phalanx rubs their face against the towel that Robin is trying to dry their hair with. "There's too much air."

Robin lets go of the head-towel, but it's just so that he can put an arm around their shoulders and start guiding them out of the bathroom. The soggy blanket will likely remain forgotten until one of them tries to take a shower and finds a cold surprise at the bottom of the tub.

"We'll fix that, don't worry." He walks them past Vincent, who is sitting at the table and eating a bowl of something noodley, seemingly ignoring the both of them. Robin continues as if his friend isn't even there. "We'll go through Vincent's stuff, he should have some things you can wear."

"--I still live here, you know," says Vincent, the conversation suddenly and irritatingly relevant to his interests.

"Uh huh," Robin agrees pleasantly, not even slowing their journey back to the bedroom.

Vincent has no way of knowing that there is a mostly-naked inhuman creature being marched through his home, but he can at least hear the dainty slap of wet, bare feet doddering after Robin.

The ghost kid is at least tracking water all through the house.

Water tracking through his house is, unfortunately, the least of Vincent's worries. He grumbles some non-words and goes back to eating his food, resigned to his fate.

Robin brings Phalanx back into the bedroom, depositing him near the bed. Then, he crawls over the mattress towards the dresser. He reaches down for a lower shelf, but he can't open it very far before it runs into the bed; there's just enough room for Robin to stick a hand in, fish around blindly, and pull up a small wad of half-folded shirts.

"Okay... Let's see..."

He pulls up a pair of pants, next, and another pair... Some socks... More shirts... All of which are too large for most humans, let alone Phalanx.

He eventually finds a long-sleeve black shirt, holding it up with a smile.

"Yesss, we'll start here." He gestures with it out in front of him, for Phalanx to take, "Put this one on."

Phalanx can do this. Phalanx both recognizes clothing and enjoys wearing it. There aren't many things in this world that the disorganized bunch of spirits can handle with confidence, but this is one of them.

So, with no hesitation whatsoever, Phalanx takes the article of clothing, finds the largest opening, and sticks a foot in.

Good, he's confident. Robin figured that would be the case. He turns back to the drawer to fish for more clothes, glancing back just long enough--wait, wait, wait wait wait.

"Hey?" he says, surprised and maybe a little appalled. "No? That's not how you do that."

He points in a circular motion. "It's upside-down."

Phalanx stops when admonished, looking back and forth between Robin's gestures and the shirt, full of thought and concern. They're really trying to understand the problem here...

...And when they're pretty sure that they understand what Robin is trying to say, they reach down and flip the shirt ride-side-up. However, one leg is still stepped most of the way into one sleeve, so they're really only succeeding in twisting the shirt up and trapping themselves more thoroughly into it.

Goodness, the look on Phalanx's face is one of someone following instructions that they really can't see the reason behind. What good is this doing?? Phalanx is clearly questioning Robin's sense, here.

"No, that's..." Robin trails off, realizing fairly quickly that his words are falling on deaf ears. Suddenly, the bundle of rags that they had previously been wearing makes a lot more sense. Rather than taking twenty hilarious minutes to try and guide them through the process, Robin just crosses back to Phalanx and takes over for him.

"Here, it goes like this..."

He takes the shirt, tugs if off of Phalanx's leg, and bunches it up to drop the neck-hole over their head and around their shoulders and down their torso like any sane, clothes-wearing person would do.

Maybe Phalanx is suddenly dragged back to memories of being a toddler, being unwillingly wrangled by much bigger, bullying humans. Maybe all of the memories filling Phalanx's head just happen to be from souls who'd never had the experience of wearing civilized clothing.

Whatever the reason, when that shirt shoves down over Phalanx's head, the creature seems to... panic. Just a little bit.

Luckily, said panicking is completely ineffectual, mostly just resulting in a startled gasp and a round of aimless arm-waving and pathetic full-body wriggling.

If Robin has ever wondered what it would be like to try and dress a giant, flopping, half-dead fish, he now has an educated guess.

"Stop, just... hold still..."

Robin used to be good at dressing toddlers, but that was a very, very long time ago. As it is now, he may have put too much stock into thinking that this was the one area he wouldn't have trouble with.

While he's trying to make this whole shirt thing work, Vincent appears in the doorway, blocking what little light was coming in from the room outside.

"What is going on in here?" he asks tiredly, like a parent taking care of two teenagers.

When Vincent's (much more authoritative) voice suddenly speaks up from the doorway, Phalanx immediately freezes in struggling either into or out of the shirt, and turns to glance back toward the giant man.

...Unfortunately, the shirt is still covering most of their head, so they can't really see a whole lot. But at least the wriggling has stopped.

Vincent, who cannot see, does not look back at either of them.

"I was just--" It's funny how much Robin sounds like a kid, all of a sudden, "It's fine, I'm just trying to--"

"Okay, yeah, no," Vincent cuts him off, waving his hand. "Phalanx, what's going on?"

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