psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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?"

"Mm--!" Phalanx had not been expecting to be called upon, and their voice is just a little muffled from the shirt partially in the way. They try to wiggle their arms through the sleeves, or something less awkward than this, but with the way one arm is somehow folded up in one of the sleeves, it doesn't work very well.

"It's... it's upside-down."

"Was upside-down," Robin corrects, rolling his eyes. The absurdity of the situation is finally starting to sink into his adult brain. "Tried to put a shirt on leg-first, this one."

And then he laughs a little, because it suddenly also hits him how dumb it looked--and Vincent drops his head with a world-weary sigh, and whatever tension may have been building in the room evaporates as the giant man scratches the back of his head and tries to decide if something this idiotic is worth getting involved in.

"You fuckin' blockheads..." Is what he grumbles, lifting his head to speak into the room again, "Well, do you need a hand, or what?"

"Hand. Hand, hands... hands..!" Phalanx helpfully answers, as the pitiful struggles begin again.

Whatever they're currently feeling probably isn't a clear emotion with a single name. A little bit of frantic, a bit of resignation, a dash of annoyance, and a touch of claustrophobia. Probably some embarrassment in there too, wherever more advanced emotions sometimes appear.

"Haaaands..."

Robin's small chuckle dies down into little more than a raised eyebrow while Phalanx starts spinning their many, many wheels. He almost raises a hand and an offer to help, but Vincent (who was not laughing and does not find any of this particularly funny) is already two steps ahead of him--almost literally.

The giant man takes a small step into the room before crouching down in front of Phalanx, his knees protesting with little popping sounds. He keeps his head down as as he reaches up, feels around for Phalanx's arms, and very patiently starts guiding a wriggling limb through a sleeve.

"Hey, now..." Vincent explains in a surprisingly quiet, sensible voice, "The sooner you put your clothes on, the sooner we can go do something else."

Some combination of Vincent's demeanor and his sheer size probably speaks right to whatever pieces of Phalanx still carry the memories of children, because the pile of ghosts calm down just long enough to be wrangled through shirt sleeves.

They're fussy but quiet while the large man pulls and loosens a sleeve off of their arm, they finally unfold the thing, and then finally go flailing and flapping into the sleeve the right way.

With one half of the shirt figured out, the rest won't be so difficult, either.

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.

What does Phalanx do with socks? Absolutely nothing when a blanket is the other available option. Those socks are either picked up and then dropped, or ignored altogether. Either way, Vincent is going to have to figure it out himself. Greedy, grubby fingers go reaching out after the blanket as soon as its held out.

With some well-practiced swaddling, Phalanx quickly becomes a ghost-cocoon.

Vincent had instinctively reached out for the socks, but when nothing falls in his hands (but rather falls on the floor), he blinks out of habit and sighs quietly to himself instead.

"Okay."

Robin watches Phalanx wrap himself up, remembering their positive response to the blankets he'd bundled them in earlier that day... His earlier thoughts of putting them in pants are quickly cast aside in favor of keeping them warm and semi-appropriate, should company come knocking.

Vincent scratches his head, still kneeling on the floor. "...So're we good here?"

"Good," Phalanx affirms. "Good-good."

Looking like exactly one half of a respectable person, Phalanx seems satisfied with this whole dressing endeavor and is ready to move on to whatever is going to happen next.

--Or, actually, they need to stop and suddenly stoop down to pick up the socks first. After those are wadded up and disappear with Phalanx's hands back into the blanket, then they're ready to move on.

Somehow, Robin is still surprised to see the socks get absorbed into Phalanx's blanketed mass. What are they doing, holding them? Did they stash them up by their shoulders? Will one of them fall out of the bundle later, halfway between the bedroom and the door?

But, much like his compromise with their clothes, he's willing to let this one slide if it'll keep everyone happy with their current lots in life.

"Great," Vincent finally agrees, climbing back to his feet with a grunt. As he leaves, his voice trails behind him, "Come eat, we'll talk about... stuff."

Robin perks up at the mention of food (or maybe the mention of negotiation, it's hard to tell) and sidles back up to Phalanx's side.

"Have you ever had the stir-fry down here? It's good." He puts an arm around their shoulders, guiding the blanketed creature back through the door to follow Vincent's very short walk to the kitchen.

Vincent says a thing, Robin answers back, the three of them all start moving... and Phalanx's only response to the whole thing is following happily along with the pack. Because it maybe doesn't dawn on them that some of those words were actually meant for them and not just being exchanged between the two normal people in the room.

Vincent has done a minimal job of making some room at the low table for more than just himself. There are a few containers of greasy-smelling things all open in the middle, and Vincent is quick to sit back down in an old, creaky chair and pile some more sauce-glazed nuggets of something onto a plate with a fork.

When Robin gets only silence, he asks again, "Phalanx, that question was for you. Have you eaten this kind of stuff before?"

His eyes are on Phalanx for an answer, even as he reaches out towards a stack of plates on the table. Other things on the table include beer cans, stained mugs, reference books, and a dusty vase that holds scrolls of parchment rather than flowers.

Oh! There's a sound of surprise as Phalanx catches up, looking between Robin's face and the mysterious meal laid out before them.

"Maybe..." The word trails out as Phalanx hugs their shroud closer so it doesn't touch anything on the table, and leans to peer into the open containers.

"...Did you make it? In a kitchen?"

All of the food in the cartons look edible, at the very least. The little mounds that Vincent has taken are the best color (a shiny, orange-brown) despite their unflattering shape. There's a mix of soft grains and pale-looking vegetables in another. The biggest container holds the soup that Vincent was eating earlier, filled with noodles and thin strands of something stringy. There's a box of thin crackers, dried strips of fish, even a shallow box that inexplicably appears to be filled with a solid loaf of cooked egg.

"Someone else made it in their kitchen," Robin explains, the corner of his mouth quirked up at the funny question, "We just brought it home."

"Ingram kept trying to give me extra 'cause of that job we did for her last week," Vincent adds, stabbing one of his glazed nuggets with his fork, "So uh, help yourself, I guess. Not a lot of room in the fridge for leftovers anyway."

Sitting down would make sense. Scooping portions of food onto a plate would make sense.

Carefully picking a cracker out of the box with bare, still-stained fingers and delicately snapping it in half is what Phalanx decides to do instead. Just... standing next to the table, breaking a cracker apart to inspect the texture.

"Good for her," Robin says, clearly towards Vincent, "So she's happy with the outcome of the trial?"

"Feels a lot safer, yeah..."

In the short term, neither of them seem to mind that Phalanx is absorbed in the intricacies of a rice cracker. Vincent may not have even noticed, as he is now paying more attention to eating his own food at the moment. Robin will probably play caretaker soon enough, but he picks up a plate to serve himself first, blobbing on a little bit of everything.

Phalanx is free to poke around, or observe, or do nothing--at least until Robin has finished.

Edited 2018-03-12 04:25 (UTC)

Phalanx does a little of all of the above. Maybe this is what spirits do when no one is watching--simply floating alongside the living, aimlessly experiencing the space with them--because Phalanx seems to forget that they're just as visible flesh-and-bone as everyone else.

After tasting (just a little lick, really,) the bits of cracker, they are forgotten and left behind. Phalanx stands around, happily listening without comprehending. They hum two, quiet notes. They hook a finger on the edge of a container so they can pull it closer and tilt it to see inside. They get distracted and make a fingerprint on the dust of the nearby vase.

The two men continue to talk a little, with Vincent mumbling around his food and Robin inquiring at details around something Phalanx doesn't have context for. It is safely not about them, or not directed at them, and the pile of ghosts does not have any need to pay attention until Robin is suddenly there again, standing just off to their side and holding up a plate for them.

"Would you like some food?" He asks, polite and pleasant, "To eat?"

It is a little like they're surprised that they're still there and visible every new time that they're addressed. It's like they never expect to be taking part in whatever's happening around them. Robin suddenly including them in the meal is treated like a delightful novelty.

Phalanx smiles and reaches for the offered food (and not the plate itself) when Robin holds it out. And the extra clarification is appreciated.

"I don't know," the ghosts answer cheerily. Let's find out!

Edited 2018-03-12 14:31 (UTC)

Robin looks just as cheery as Phalanx sounds... even if he immediately guides the plate out of reach of their grubby fingers.

"Use a fork, please."

He tilts his head and his gaze towards the table, indicating the perfectly good set of forks laid out in front of them.

Phalanx pauses... follows Robin's gaze... looks over the assorted clutter on the table... and spots a fork! Aha!

"Use a fork. Fork. Please."

With this puzzle figured out, Phalanx reaches over and retrieves one of the utensils. A sock falls out of their blanket shroud. And then they return to the plate that Robin is still holding--again, moving to take a stab of something that looks edible instead of taking the whole darn plate.

"Okay, oh-kay..."

Keeping the plate away from Phalanx suddenly becomes a small dance as he weaves (perhaps ill-advisedly) around their newly-acquired fork and onto the actual surface of the table.

"There, now you can use the fork."

Vincent raises his head while silently chewing... It's not hard to imagine that the dead stare he points in their direction would have been exactly the same even if he still had real eyes.

Okay! The plate has successfuly landed, Phalanx has been armed with the proper tools, there is one less sock around to potentially fall into something edible. Dinner is served.

Phalanx stands, of course, as it's a good bet that they can only really acknowledge the existence of half of their body at a time. They're good at slouching though, so there doesn't seem to be much of a problem with just kind of hunching up over the plate while they take the first curious jabs at exploring their meal.

They even know which end of the fork to use, how about that?

Again, this is shaping up to be an evening of compromises. If it doesn't occur to them to sit down, Robin won't tell them to sit down. Getting them to consume food is probably a high achievement all on its own.

The demigod picks up another plate and finally starts serving himself, with the only notable moment being his pleasantly chastising Vincent for eating so many root rounds, and Vincent curtly telling him it ain't his fault he's a slow-ass.

The "root rounds", as they are apparently called, are probably the most interesting part of the meal. They're coated with something sweet and salty, lightly breaded underneath, and then spongy, almost rubbery, on the inside. The dried fish is surprisingly tangy, almost bitter, past the initial flakiness. The soft grain with vegetables is barely worth eating, mostly there to fill up the empty space between other, more interesting, foods.

Robin pulls a tall stool over and hunches over a plate of his own--so he and Phalanx kind of match for a moment, with one standing and the other sitting at about the height of the actual table.

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