psychoshenanigans | GRATIA // PSL

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GRATIA // PSL

So, here's what Irahl knows.

He's alone in a dark, cold cave. He has most, if not all, of his gear. No one is guarding his location. As he heads away from the spot where he came to consciousness, no one tries to stop him, and no one gets in his way. The few people he finds down there seem human, and not about to approach the nearly-seven-foot man that comes stalking out of the lower tunnels. Honestly, everyone here seems a surprised and a little astonished about his... Entire scene.

There is a way up. It's a maze of twisting corridors and confusing passageways, half of which feel too small for him. It's bigger and bigger groups of people, some of which scatter like schools of fish, and some of which have to be pushed through to get anywhere. It's climbing up into streets lit with dingy lights, graffiti-covered hallways, warehouses, weird holes in stone walls that may or may not be windows. It's alarm bells, it's people yelling at each other down the street. It's just an absurd number of stairs. A couple of people make an attempt to stop him somewhere, and it goes poorly for them.

Elsewhere, events are being set in motion where Irahl cannot see. But he's on his way out.

Eventually, more people try to stop him. At the end of another long stretch of Underground city, a group of official-looking folks are putting a real effort into blocking off the obvious exit, and some of them have weapons.

Down a side alley, into another tunnel, and then the space opens up into a... Plaza, of some sort? The floor is made of stone. The buildings surrounding it are made of stone and are hard to distinguish from one another. At at least the ceiling (also made of stone) is a lot higher than before. Cavernous. There's some kind of sculpture in the middle of it, some impressive feat of geometric stonework that gives the illusion of defying gravity despite weighing literal tons.

This is where someone finally catches him. Sounds have been echoing unhelpfully down every passageway, making it hard to tell if people are coming or going - but this series of quick footsteps comes from an upward direction before someone hits the ground about five feet in front of Irahl.

His clothes are different. His hair is better-kept. Maybe if the situation wasn't quite so tense, there'd be time to see the ways in which his face is different, the way his eyes don't have quite as vicious and sharp a gleam as they used to. But whatever Irahl can take in of him, there is Robin, having hopped down from a rooftop to put himself between him and the exit again.

"...Holy shit."

Kind of weird that he looks absolutely shocked to see the person in front of him, though.

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If he'd been sober, he probably would have only replied with another flat, 'huh.'

But, since he's not, he actually comes back with a subtly incredulous, "I do?"

He even straightens up a little and leans forward on his elbows, as if that might wake him up and help him think. He feels like he needs as much brainpower as he can access right now, as several things strike him at once about this.

Firstly, there's disbelief. However, no counterpoint comes to mind, so what Vincent is insisting must be true. Secondly, the fact that Vincent had somehow both noticed and remembered this in the first place is pretty mind-blowing. And finally, the greatest shock of all is realizing that Vincent has apparently been purposefully getting him ice for what seems like this whole time and he'd had no idea.

He just... he has no idea what to do with this. He has never been faced with this kind of long-term... courtesy? Is that what this is? As much as he hadn't known how to recognize it, he knows even less what to do about it now that it has been brought to his attention.

Vincent, again, may have approached this with a little more grace if he wasn't kind of drunk. Instead, he continues forward without quite the caution this probably deserves.

"I think you do. You seem to really like crunchin' 'em, so..."

Irahl seems to like it so much that Vincent eventually started doing it too, from time to time, even though he's not really an ice guy. But it had a bit of novel charm on those days in space when basically anything nice or out-of-the-ordinary was instantly turned into a lifeline.

But, as always with Vincent, self-doubt eventually catches up with him. He lifts his hand and leans back just a little, as if to give the topic just an inch or two of space.

"Unless... I really misread somethin'...?"

See, Irahl might have gotten away with sitting there and covering up any awkwardness with silence, but Vincent goes and doubts himself in a way that requires Irahl to say something. He could continue to sit in silence if he really wanted to, but that would absolutely seem to be confirming Vincent's worry.

So, he speaks up, even though he does sound like he's still figuring things out as words are leaving his mouth. The alcohol is not helping with the lag.

"No, guess you're right... Just never thought about it. Guess it makes sense though."

He pauses then to scratch the back of his head through his braid, which is a very rare sign of hesitancy from him, before continuing.

"So, that's... the cup of ice. Without water. That's why."

"Yeah, yeah yeah..."

If he were talking to Robin, he'd probably never live this down. At the very least, Robin would be so... Needlingly insistent about it, asking questions and trying to get to the heart of it all, or reacting with one of his strange bursts of overexuberance that are cute from a distance but tend to make Irahl feel alien and pinned-down when he's the direct subject.

Vincent isn't like that. He's gentle, as he is with most things. His mood seems to pick up a little as Irahl uses more than one word to reassure him he isn't disastrously off the mark, but he's not here to make a big deal out of it now that they're nearly on the same page.

"Well, now ya' know..." he says with a small laugh, hand going back to his empty glass out of habit, "An' now you know what to order at bars, too."

Yet another moment where Irahl is extremely grateful that Vincent is not literally any other person that he has ever met. There's nothing to bristle against here. He can just... kind of bristle to himself as a phantom reaction to needling that hasn't happened, and no one has to know about it (aside from any patrons who have been keeping tabs on the two giant best friends out of the corner of their eye).

Even without direct awkwardness actually cornering him anywhere, Irahl still sees an out in the form of humor and casually dives for it.

"--Ice," he says with mock-certainty, finishing Vincent's thought. "Got it."

The humor lands perfectly, Vincent laughs. If he's noticed that Irahl was getting awkward about all this, he either hasn't noticed or doesn't care enough to make that fact known.

"Hey, it'd make you a cheap date!" he jokes, lifting his glass and trying to drink out of it. He realizes too late that it's empty and makes a disappointed sound up into the bottom of his glass.

Maybe he should get more. But the area between himself and the bar has been slowly and progressively busier as more people get off work and the happy hour specials hit the menus. He knows it's only a matter of time before one of his trips results in someone's drink getting spilled or someone getting mad at him for one reason or another.

Even though Robin isn't here, Irahl still somehow fears that the guy will wiggle out of the woodwork to hound him at the mere utterance of Vincent's joke. A shiver runs through him.

It's this nameless little pang--plus noticing Vincent's disappointment--that prompts him into the very uncharacteristic thing he says next.

"Want another?"

Irahl never offers to get drinks for other people. He doesn't even get drinks for himself.

However, he likes Vincent, and scooting out of the booth and away from the tail end of the conversation seems appealing right now. It maybe won't seem all that strange to Vincent, with how communal and casually-helpful they'd been living up on the Eclipse, but it might have permanently killed Robin from shock had he witnessed it.

Irahl maybe would have just stood up to go get another round without saying anything, which is more his style, but he does actually need the thing with which to pay for drinks in order to do so.

Vincent remains oblivious to any contextual discomfort caused by his joke, distracted as he is by his lack of drink--and then by Irahl's offer to go up and get one.

"Would'ja?" He asks, only the slightest bit surprised... It could be that he's surprised Irahl would go interact with someone long enough to get a drink, but it'd be more accurate to say he's surprised someone's offering to do something for him at all.

He thinks about it for the couple of seconds his brain needs to decide that thinking is hard and not all that fun right now. He sets his glass down with a grateful smile and pushes it towards his friend.

"Just one more, sure. Same thing I've been havin'. Oh, and--"

Thank the gods he's still functional enough to remember to fish out that diamond-shaped card and hold it out for Irahl.

"If they ask for money, give 'em this. An' just make sure they give it back after."

Irahl wordlessly accepts the mission by taking the card and scooting out of the booth, and away he goes.

He hasn't loomed up to his feet and reentered the world at large for a couple of hours now, so he pauses there like an ominous specter for a few seconds while he waits for his alcohol-laced blood to reach both his legs and his brain in adequate amounts. Vincent is enormous, but he'd bumbled through the space in an at least partially endearing manner. Irahl, on the other hand, moves up to the bar like a contract killer reporting in to receive his bounty.

Without so much as glancing at the other people trying to enjoy themselves, he finds the nearest opening at the bar and silently waits there for the bartender's attention.

To be fair, as much as the pair have inevitably been a source of curiosity and gossip for many of the bar's patrons, those folks who are 'trying to enjoy themselves' move out of the way pretty quickly when Irahl stalks across the floor and up to the bar. A couple of nearby patrons at the bar fully pick up their drinks and move to sitting somewhere else, inherently nervous that the guy dressed as a one-man hit squad is here to start something and not just trying to get another drink.

Vincent is surprising, but at least he has a fairly reassuring presence once he gets talking. Irahl's icy demeanor gets a slight jump out of the bartender as she turns and realizes he's standing there instead of the other big guy.

"...Hey there," she addresses him, putting on her polite and believably-friendly customer service face quickly thereafter, "Looking for a refill?"

Even Irahl's attempts to dress as a civilian still make him look like trouble. Nobody with a coat like that--even without the addition of ragged gloves and scarf obscuring part of his face--could give off an air of being easy-going and safe to be around, especially in a bright desert city like this. The antisocial avoidance radiating off of him isn't helping either. Maybe he'd at least attempt to appear less foreboding if he hadn't been tipsy.

Most people visibly loosen up while drinking. Some people forget to attempt to look less like a serial killer.

He answers with a murmur and the barest nod to her question, before tilting his head briefly in Vincent's direction.

"Whatever he ordered," he elaborates with the fewest words possible, before sliding Seth's card in her direction.

This bartender has likely dealt with plenty of mean-looking customers, given that she works in a place that intentionally brands itself as a shitty dive bar in an militaristic city... But Irahl's demeanor still causes her to hesitate a little. She takes the card with a brief nod to show that she understood him, but can't bring herself to attempt to say anything, you know, friendly. Like a nicety might accidentally put her in danger instead of endearing her to the customer.

Which, to her credit, isn't necessarily a bad instinct.

She moves to a register to write down a couple of numbers off the back of the card, then swiftly repours the drink, then sets both things back on the counter for him with an expeditiousness she hadn't quite been showing the other patrons.

"Here you go," she says, nice and brief.

The drink is retrieved without another word, though he does at least nod, probably in an expression of gratitude. To his standards, he's being courteous. Soon, she and the other folks at the bar are allowed to get back to whatever it is that normal people do in places like these.

Between the lack of small-talk, the speedy way with which the bartender had moved that drink, and the fact that Irahl has eyes to navigate back to the table with, he returns to his seat in record time.

Vincent's brand new drink appears like magic, sliding in front of him without him having to do any of the legwork himself. Irahl plunks down into his seat a moment later.

"--Five missing teeth. I counted."

As Irahl leaves, patrons of the bar slowly migrate back into the wide berth of space that was abandoned at his presence. People whisper to one another, friends exchange meaningful glances. But with this being dinner time, new people will soon be walking up to the bar who don't realize a terrifying specter of death was just there, and the scene will return to normal.

Back at the table, Vincent's tipped his head back and closed his eyes, one arm propped up on the back of the booth seating to either side of him. It kind of looks like he's sleeping, but he's just listening. Taking a moment to enjoy not being bothered by his own body. He pops his head back up when Irahl speaks, and snorts in response.

"Really, man? C'mon..." He's entertained, but... "If you don't like her, you can just say it..."

Irahl also snorts to himself as he slides into his spot and returns to the drink he'd previously been working on.

Right. He'd almost forgotten: Vincent is a nice person. Guess he doesn't ride along on the same running jokes that the guys back in his old unit do. That's fine.

There's no remorse here as he shrugs it off, picks up his glass, and reflexively replies with the same thing he would whenever he'd get these kind of comments in the past.

"Not my type."

If Irahl was just poking fun at him for trying to hook up with a chick, that'd be one thing, but the joke's bled into dragging down their innocent bartender a little more than he'd like. Vincent can be mean, but he saves it for people he thinks deserve it. He doesn't feel right dragging someone else just because he was dumb enough to ask about her.

"Hey, noted. Learned my lesson."

He thinks he kind of knows what Irahl means by that--or at least has a strong guess. He doesn't linger on it too long. Even buzzed, it sets off some warning bells that he doesn't want to deal with right now. He waves his hand vaguely in front of him, as if to clear the metaphorical air... Then finds is glass, getting comfortable again and smiling right into the next topic.

"An' thanks for the drink. Figure we should probably head out before this place gets too busy, but..." He shrugs, "M'havin' fun."

Irahl--unsurprisingly--is perfectly happy moving away from the topic. This is another demonstration of why he generally prefers talking to Vincent over talking to Robin.

In the blissful absence of needling, Irahl can move on, murmuring a sound of vague agreement.

Crowds are never his favorite thing in the world, and he knows he's only going to feel more penned into the booth and glanced at as the place fills up. However, this is also the only place that has felt some amount of 'normal' since he'd arrived, and he still doesn't feet quite like heading back to their little hotel room yet.

He's also having fun.

"No Boozehole, but it's alright."

While his friend was away from the table, Vincent had been listening to the sounds of people chatting idly around him and thinking of how much he'd grown to miss it while they were stuck in space. Not only were he and Irahl alone up there, but they kept finding these spaces that felt like other people should have been there, but weren't. It didn't help that the one group of people they did run into tried to kill them on sight before being consequently shredded to death, and that was that.

Now that Irahl's back at the table, bringing up their familiar little joke again, it occurs to him (not for the first time) that this is literally a dream come true. All he'd wanted was to go have some drinks with his friend somewhere that didn't feel so dead and hollow, and here they are. He didn't even have to get this last one himself.

He continues smiling into his glass as he takes a sip--confirming Irahl didn't punk him with some new flavor or, you know, a cannister of cinnamon or something--and laughs his way into keeping the bit going.

"Well, I mean... The management at the Boozehole was on another level, it ain't really fair to compare."

Irahl settles into a similar state as he returns to his leaned-back-in-his-seat state of relaxation instead of the usual hunkered-over-his-drink variety, though it doesn't register in his conscious mind as much as it does for Vincent. He's content to free himself from the responsibility of thinking about anything specific at all, now that he knows they're going to continue sitting there for at least the duration of Vincent's new drink.

"Better clientele too," he comments, as he doesn't have quite the warm feelings toward the throngs of humanity as Vincent does. Then, after a beat, he steers slightly closer to the present world than the imaginary one formed by their joking. "...Still think you should open a new branch."

It's an old topic from space-jail that Vincent might have thought Irahl had been drunkenly joking about at the time, but he'd always been drunkenly serious. He genuinely thinks Vincent would make a wonderful bartender.

Vincent has time to think through maybe half a comment about how the clientele of the Boozehole--which was literally just Irahl--also didn't make this a fair comparison, but Irahl beats him to the punch with a funny thought.

He manages not to laugh into his drink. They've joked about it before, yeah, but he hadn't actually been thinking about the real world the last time they talked about it.

"Y'think? Ha," he shakes his head slightly at the ridiculous idea, "Try an' imagine me servin' drinks down in Skeleton City somewhere..."

He means it as if it was inherently a very silly idea, though he can't help but add thoughtfully a moment later, "The brandin' would go pretty far, though..."

Irahl doesn't have a super solid idea of what truly goes into a bartending career, but that doesn't shake his confidence at all. He knows that Vincent would be great at it, without a doubt, and thinks he might even really like the work. If there are two things that he knows about his friend, is that he seems to like alcohol and people, and he's pretty sure those are the two main components of bartending.

Vincent sounding even a little bit thoughtful is enough to encourage Irahl to tipsily circle this idea for a minute.

"Hardly broke anything in the kitchen. And memorized behind the bar pretty fast."

Honestly, Irahl had more alcohol-and-glass-object-related disasters than Vincent did. He's sure it wouldn't take him long at all to be bartending like a pro.

While he wouldn't exactly be surprised to hear that Irahl isn't usually the encouraging sort, he's caught a couple of compliments from the guy before, here and there. As always, everything in him is primed to disregard them and deflect somewhere else.

But because of his good mood and his many drinks and the aforementioned achievement of the impossible today, Irahl does get him to entertain the idea for many seconds longer than he usually does. And when he finally deflects, it almost carries a hint of disappointment with it.

"Nah, don't gas me up like that. Might start to think m'good at somethin'."

Okay, well... very, very few things could ever goad Irahl into saying something, especially when that something could be considered encouraging. It's only possible by the combination of the fact that said goading is genuinely accidental and the fact that Irahl's response would be in defense of his very good friend.

Of course his reply starts off with a derisive scoff, but at least it's only in reaction to Vincent's dismissal of himself. With that one sound, Irahl makes it clear that he finds the thought laughable.

"You flew a spaceship," he bluntly states. And in case that feat of skill isn't enough, he follows it up with, "You swing a sword the size of a bus."

He could go on.

Now, the first point could be brushed away by calling up the fact that someone or something put a chip in his head that told him how to be a decent pilot. It wasn't really his skill, probably, even though he was the one pushing buttons.

The second one, though... Irahl gets him where it matters, which is in the one thing that even he likes to think he's decent at. His giant sword is pretty fucking cool and he feels pretty cool using it. He frowns, but it's because he's barely fighting off a smirk while he slowly realizes he has to accept the compliment.

"...Well, that ain't fair," he admits, "How'm I supposed to say I suck at everythin' if you keep tellin' me stuff I don't suck at?"

That sounds enough like success that Irahl settles even more in the booth seating and folds his arms comfortably behind his head. He is more than happy to take this win.

"Your favorite pastime, yeah." He shrugs, which he feels like they're sitting closely enough that Vincent will catch the motion even if he can't see it. "Told you before. I'm a cruel man."

He'll heartlessly deprive Vincent of his ability to put himself down anytime.

GRATIA // PSL

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