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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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.

"A real bastard, yeah," he agrees good-naturedly, even though he's a little taken aback at being called out on his tendency to assume that everything he does is basically pointless. A little of that lingers in the way he then makes a thoughtful sound and has another slow sip of his drink.

Ideas, logistics, and self-doubt aside, he cannot let this insult stand on its own legs. He sets down his glass with decisiveness.

"An' it's only my second favorite pastime," he belatedly retorts, "First is knittin'."

This is the closest thing to genuinely relaxed that Irahl can get out in public, which is entirely Vincent's fault. Feeling comfortable in his space, almost comfortable in his own skin, pleasantly buzzed, there is only a fraction of his mind dedicated to remaining constantly on guard. This means that the rest of his mind can be free to wander somewhere stupid.

Vincent's comment gets an amused sound under Irahl's breath... which, after several long and meandering seconds, comes back around to return as half of a chuckle, and Vincent can definitely hear the effects of the alcohol in it.

"...The list of skills you'd give at an interview..."

Whatever list Irahl is imagining, it must start with 'bad knitting' with how this particular chain of thoughts had branched off of Vincent's last comment.

Once he follows, Vincent responds with a stupid chuckle of his own, which probably isn't going to help this conversation get any more serious. The guy sounds like he's having fun. Of course Vincent's going to feed into it.

"I'm a real star candidate," he pretends to insist, holding up his hand so he can count off on his fingers, "We got... Knittin' things badly... Flyin' a spaceship... Cuttin' old cars in half... Real relevant skills, y'know?"

Besides, going back to poking fun at himself is more comfortable than trying to accept compliments anyway.

Irahl is having fun. The whole day is adding up to a moment where nothing is wrong, which is a very rare occurrence in his world. He can't even feel his stitches right now.

"Hey, babysitting and monster-killing are in high demand," he agrees, with the evidence of an amused smile in his voice.

In the Venn diagram that has babysitting on one side and monster-killing on the other, bartending is right in the overlap.

Vincent grins and nods, following the line of logic.

"I mean... Drunk people are kind of a mix of the two, right?"

Though that does sound pretty immediately applicable--damn, if he's not careful he's going to actually start to think this is a good idea.

"You're already an expert. Could probably show them how it's done."

For Irahl, this is downright animated. Leaned easily back in his seat and chuckling quietly to himself, casually drunk, it's to the point where even he himself begins to take note of how he's acting. He's been in such a good mood lately--especially compared to how bad off he'd been during that chunk of time between returning from the Eclipse and being pulled to this pair of cities--he can finally no longer simply pretend it's normal.

"...Gods, being around you makes me so stupid."

Sure, it's kind of a dig at Vincent, but he's implicating himself as well. They're both idiots, and he doesn't sound regretful about it. Just a little incredulous.

Vincent keeps thinking about bounty hunting and monster slaying and how the many, many drunk idiots he's interacted with over the years would be child's play in comparison... But then Irahl pulls him out of his musings by saying what may be the most endearing thing he's ever said.

"Hah! That's what I like to hear!" he exclaims, as if Irahl had just admitted to having fun instead. Momentarily taken by a sense of complete and utter fondness, he lowers the arm perched on the back of the booth so that he can grab his friend and give him one of his patented half-hugs with a side of friendly jostling.

"Knew there was a big, dumb idiot in there somewhere!"

Irahl's shoulders are still stiff from a lifetime of stoicism and unwavering resolve, but between the alcohol and this unbothered state that he's managing to exist in, they're looser when Vincent jostles him. There's just a little bit of give. He's glad that Vincent can't see the reluctant, wry, almost embarrassed smirk on his face as his head unintentionally ducks and lolls in Vincent's direction a little bit when he's shaken.

He is still managing to block out the existence of the other patrons filling the bar, but he is thinking about everyone that he has ever known and how they would be reacting to this inexplicable stupidity.

"Tell anybody and I'll kill you," he mumbles with false severity and accidental fondness.

The threat of death is met with warm laughter. Vincent tips his head over to rest it against Irahl's, for just a moment, as if the extra point of connection could convey even an ounce of how enamored he is with his friend.

"Not a word," he promises, still chuckling over this whole thing. He straightens up a little, but leaves his arm hanging over Irahl's shoulders as if he was now a replacement for the back of the booth. It almost looks a little like he's forgotten about where his own limb is, with how he reaches around for his drink again like nothing's happening.

In reality, he just likes the excuse to stay close for a little bit. He likes being near people. And he likes Irahl. Were he less drunk he might have the instinct to examine this feeling instead of just doing what seems right without thought.

"I mean, how's anyone gonna take you seriously if they think you can be dumb, huh?" He laughs, knowing that by height alone, Irahl is probably imposing even when he isn't trying.

In this moment, there are a few people glancing at their friends, and those friends are sure that they are now losing the bet on whether these two giant, imposing men are coworkers or something much closer. The brief look that Irahl gives Vincent as he straightens up away from him is not helping.

He can't help it. Even a small bit of contact is a lot for Irahl. Vincent leans his head against him for only a moment, and it's still enough to remind him of friends he'd found and lost over more than a dozen decades. He can't help but think of a couple moments of despair he'd had while leaning on his friend and begging the universe not to take them away and leave him alone again.

Vincent is the one that he'd somehow gotten to keep. With him, the odds had been beaten twice and Irahl is so, so thankful for it.

He doesn't really say anything, briefly interrupting the fun joke they're having as he can't help but express his overflowing gratitude with just the slightest shift in his weight, leaning briefly against his friend's side.

Despite everything, Vincent still thinks of Irahl as the little guy out of the two of them. Not in height, necessarily (though that inch-or-so difference does help him keep an arm up comfortably over his shoulders), but in how something about him just seems kind of young. Inexperienced, maybe. Especially when they have small interactions like this.

He lets him lean there, feeling fond and protective and similarly overflowingly grateful that they've somehow made it a little longer. He takes a sip of his drink, which is the only reason he doesn't say whatever overly sentimental 'love you, man' or 'I got you, buddy' has come to mind. Instead, he has time to think just enough to get them back on track.

"Y'know, I know a gal who bartends back home, maybe she'd take pity on me an' let me try it out for a day..."

With that lifeline thrown to him, Irahl follows it back from the pit of sentimentality he nearly falls into, and he straightens up into his own space again. Mostly. He still has a big arm looped over his shoulders that he doesn't do anything about as he also picks up his glass from the table.

Taking a steadying sip, he pulls his thoughts from images of the past and pushes them toward the future in which Vincent tries his hand at bartending.

It still brings up past memories, but they're a little safer than the ones he'd been dwelling on a moment ago.

"Couple of day-shifts and you'll be a pro."

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GRATIA // PSL

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