As the days passed, they quickly became more skilled at moving as one person. They learned to cook, compute, watch TV, read, and clean house either one handed, or with a close cooperation that hardly required speaking.
Watching them cook breakfast one morning, Robin remarked to Cyborg, "You know, I think this has actually been good for them. I mean, look how well they work together now. I wonder if this might be a good team-building exercise."
"Man," said Cyborg, "I am NOT handcuffing you to Starfire. That would be wrong is so many ways."
"I guess you're right."
It was at breakfast again one morning that Beast Boy asked Cyborg to pass the salt and realized that he'd had to catch it, 'cause Cy had tossed it from the far end of the table. In fact, all three of the non-glued Titans seemed to be clustered around the other end of the table, as far away from Raven and Beast Boy as they could get.
"Now that I notice," he thought, "They all sit on the same end of the couch, too."
In fact, the other three Titans had started taking the stairs, leaving the elevator for the exclusive used of the bonded duo.
"Okay people," he said. "What's going on?"
"What do you mean, Beast Boy?" Robin replied.
"I mean, why are you guys all sitting waaay over there? Why won't you ride the elevator with us?"
"Well, you see Beast Boy," Robin started. Then his voice kind of faded away. He looked over at Starfire.
"There is a little . . . problem. It will go away as soon as you can . . . bathe."
"Bathe?"
"They're saying we smell, Beast Boy," said Raven, flushing.
"Well, duh. We haven't been able to shower for two weeks. You'd get a little wiffy, too."
"It's not like it's your fault or anything," said Robin.
"Is it really that bad?" asked Raven.
Cyborg pointed the remote at the wall-screen TV and pressed a button. The screen sprang to life as an ancient cartoon played out. Pepe Le Phew walked past a sewer rate just exiting from a manhole. The rat stiffened up, hollered "PEEEE-YEEEEW" and collapsed back into the fragrant haven of the sewer.
When you're used to a shower a day, not bathing does interesting things to you. The first thing you notice is the smell. You personally only get it in wiffs, at the beginning. It kinda smells like your own sweat, but . . . riper. Then you get used to it, and don't really notice it any more. But the people around you can smell you, and it doesn't smell like you're sweaty from the gym. The bacteria on your body flourish in the damp environment and generate their own smells that mix with your own. Then, even though you change clothes, you notice that your clothes seem to grind against your body. That's the accumulation of salt crystals on your skin. About that time, your hair, which has been greasy for a week, starts to actually clump together in the proto-dreadlocks. When you touch it, your hands come away oily, and it gets harder and harder to get a comb or brush through it. When you do, you can see the oil on the comb. Then there's the itching. As dead layers of skin accumulate, with no washing or rubbing to ablate them, they start to peel in micro-fragments. Soon you look like a monkey, absently scratching at less and less polite portions of your anatomy as you seek relief. And finally comes the acne. Bacteria, accumulated dead skin cells, and rancid skin oil all combine to produce giant, throbbing pimples, often in places where your clothes rub, but for some reason, across your back, just out of your reach. They cluster between your shoulder blades and up and down our spine. Eventually, they burst, but then they scab over, which is often worse. The itching really never ends. And when you scratch, all that crud ends up under your fingernails.
