[Things in Trench have proven to be stressful in an entirely different way than Deerington, Qrow has found. Where Deerington would induce a lot of crises directly, leaving its inhabitants on their toes for the next disaster and then the one after that, Trench seems more to emphasize and exacerbate the cracks that were already present -- in individuals and relationships both.
The last couple months, those cracks seem like they've only been growing, even as efforts to spackle them over have been made here and there. The vampire debacle and then the corpses of Sayo and Willow in February had led into the crisis with Ange, the reveal of her family's murderer having lived under their roof since January. So perhaps it's natural for Qrow to be unsettled with the loss of daylight, that bears so much resemblance to Deerington October.
Especially with having learned ... that Oz is keeping things from them again. It speaks to the trust they've rebuilt that Qrow hadn't stormed into Oz's study to demand an explanation when he'd learned that an episode of corruption had led Sayo to attack Ozpin. It's troubling all the same, given that Oscar was surprised he didn't know what had happened between Oz and Ford, which makes for three times now he hasn't been told something that he'd consider pretty important.
Still...he intends to give things time to settle down before he's ready to approach a conversation like that.
(He is, perhaps, a little reluctant to have it, given their history.)
It's left gently on a shelf for later, when he flutters into Ozpin's study that evening to settle on his shoulder as he reads -- it's a habit he's come to find soothing when the opportunity presents itself, even as someone who doesn't particularly enjoy reading for himself -- and sometimes Oz even makes him cocoa to enjoy in a person shape thereafter. Tonight, though...Oz isn't settled into his favorite chair with a book, but is instead staring blankly out of a window, and Qrow's known him long enough to know that means something is wrong.
So instead of landing on his shoulder, Oz might hear an extra wingflap as Qrow u-turns back out, followed by proper human footsteps a few minutes later, carrying two mugs which are carefully set down on a nearby desk to announce his presence.]
It's weird, huh? No sun for a month and the worst we've had to deal with is the apathy butterflies.
[Unless there is something else you would like to tell him about, perhaps!]
[ It's been a quiet and comfortable evening, insofar as anything might be comfortable in this perpetual night. They have all been on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it simply... never seems to.
He is still hungry. It has been so long since he sated it properly. In shameful moments, he finds himself thinking of Stanford, the head of his body and the taste on his tongue. In the worst moments he finds himself thinking of the ruin of Sayo's body, the messy waste of it, and he jolts with revulsion and a quiet terror at himself. The memories are like open sores in his mind, ones he cannot help but press at.
They sell bottled Darkblood, in some parts of the city. He finds himself standing among those shadowed stalls, halfway to trembling, unable to articulate his fear. Thus far, he has always walked away.
He is catching Ange's scent again, lately. It's— untenable.
It is not something he can discuss with Qrow. ]
Perhaps there is peace to be found in Trench, however flawed it may be... in much the same way as Remnant.
[ Without interference. Without willful malice. The Grimm were a survivable problem, once, no worse than any other natural predator.
But Qrow would not be here in this shape if he did not want to talk about something, and so Ozpin accepts the mug and laces his fingers around its heat. ]
Though I imagine we would do well to remain on our guard.
[Predictably, Oz doesn't tell him what's on his mind. That doesn't upset Qrow in and of itself; he knows as well as anyone what it's like to viciously stomp your feelings under your heel until they stop insisting on being paid attention to.
The question, then is whether to ask or to accept the deflection offered, to have a pleasant conversation about nothing over cocoa knowing that there's something festering deeper--not daring to disturb it lest the overflow break anything else on the way out. They've done it so many times over the last twenty years it's practically routine. And maybe if it weren't for the secrets he already knows he hadn't been let in on, he'd pick up his role in that familiar dance again. The war is dead and buried, after all. There is no more need for real secrets.
But in Deerington, Qrow had said that he didn't want the reason Oz told him the truth to be simply because he'd run out of things to hide, and that's still true. He wants Oz to be upfront with him because they're friends...because he can count on Qrow no matter what he needs. He is no longer a scared seventeen-year-old boy who needs a safe place to land.
Qrow settles down across from him, taking a sip of the cocoa to buy him time to arrange his thoughts. Then:]
Heh...I never thought I'd live long enough to retire, back in Remnant. It's still weird. Not that Trench hasn't always been less literal in how it likes to rip us open anyhow, I guess.
[He hesitates. Qrow cannot simply ask Oz to tell him what is on his mind. It is coming at a wall with a battering ram, and will only invite a strengthening of defenses. He knows too well that he is the same. And if he wants to climb the wall ... he must be willing to scratch himself with barbed wire on the way up.
Another sip. He lets his gaze drop from the warm russet of Oz's eyes to his own sienna-tinged reflection in the cup.]
...You know, I figured out what my blood magic is. Visions. Of misfortunes, naturally. Just...never in time to stop them. It's how I found you back in November.
[There's no hiding the bitterness in his snort, but it's clear there's somewhere he's going with this, or he would've never brought it up.]
I only bitched about it with Xerx back then, 'cause there was no way he'd know what it means to me. It was easier. And then the next month a glass knocked over and smashed while we were having lunch and I couldn't stop thinking about how the longer I kept up not telling him, the more likely it was Trench'd take the choice from me someday.
[Finally, he looks up, though there's something a little uncomfortable in the set of his shoulders. Like he's breaking an unspoken rule here, making the implication he's obviously making. The way he is asking Oz to be vulnerable with him of his own free will, without actually asking. Without it being a demand.]
He knows now, and it was on my terms. Instead of getting unlucky with the wrong town curse.
[Unlucky. It is, as ever, intentionally phrased. A word he only ever uses when the weight of it is necessary.]
[ He can tell from that beat of hesitation, that this will be something different. Something difficult. Ozpin turns in that moment of silence to look at Qrow, more fully and more expectantly.
So it shows easily on his face, when his expression opens with startlement— nearly breathless, nearly amazed— and then softens to warmth. ]
That was very brave indeed.
[ His tone is gentle. The space between them seems smaller, now, and warmer than it had been. He shifts, hands still cupping the warmth of his mug. ]
You must care for him a great deal, to undertake a very difficult conversation.
[ It's the weakest deflection yet, because they both know that saying it backs him into a corner. Two, perhaps.
He does care for Qrow. Enough to tell him the truth when it matters. That is the agreement, the quiet pact between them, forged in fields of flowers and whipping snow; Qrow has not pressed upon Ozpin's fluctuating condition because they have such an agreement. They both know this to be true.
And then, in the silence beyond that one, there is the person Ozpin has not confided in for a long time now. Stanford hangs as a great unspoken weight between them. His presence has been a constant ghost, as of late. Since the catacombs— or since January— or since November. Since May.
Ozpin can recognize a very gentle, coaxing press. It would be unfair, unkind, to let Qrow bare himself in this way and give no answer but a teacher's pleasantries. In this moment, he understands what is being asked of him— he feels the empty space which ought to tip over into more, into reciprocation, into camaraderie— and he hesitates. ]
I am sorry to hear about your ability. That it is a further burden upon you... one more challenge with which to contend.
[ The moment hangs, hangs, hangs.
He exhales, and it sends the steam of the cocoa eddying between them. The weight of something collapses, invisibly, in that space. ]
[It's a beginning. Qrow, too, had taken his time, meandered desperately before even approaching the point when circumstances cornered him into telling Ruby. Qrow doesn't immediately pounce on the scrap he's given; it is easier and more effective by far to give him a little space to get there himself. But he lingers on you must care for him a great deal, because it is not as though he does not realize the implication of that corner Oz is painting himself into. It's that realization that allows him to be able to take a step back and see through the other man's perspective -- he knows Ozpin is trying, and that isn't nothing. He has kept his promises, in the time since those fraught conversations
But being willing to try doesn't make it easier to let go of centuries upon centuries of habit. He'd put off telling Break about his semblance for months, with barely a tiny fraction of that. Despite everything, he does get it. He hopes Ozpin understands that much; it is not as though Qrow has been an open book at any point in his life -- he knows what it costs of oneself to open up to others. He realizes the weight of what he is asking for, here.]
What's a Huntsman's life without challenges, right? Pretty sure dealing with bullshit's half the job description -- well, the half that doesn't make it onto the posters, anyway.
[He huffs a laugh, in a small effort to lighten the mood.]
But you know...you don't have to be responsible for the world anymore. You don't have to be responsible for us. There's new crap to deal with here, sure, but it's--our crap, yeah? The world's going to keep on turning no matter what we deal with or don't.
[He takes a careful breath in, letting it out slowly. His fingers flex against the warmth of the mug, as though he's nervous about getting across what he means correctly.]
...So why not...why not take the chance to be "just Oz", for a while? Just a guy with friends who wanna know when he's not doing okay, so they can -- be there.
[It's still just left of a direct request. He understands this cannot be the hard line in the sand he drew before, but it is something gentler. A hand extended, and the shoulder to lean on alongside it. Victory lies in the things that require a smaller, more honest soul, after all.]
[ He gives a thin smile, at this reassurance, and does not dare to look up into Qrow's eyes. Beyond the window, the town is dark and still. ]
To live without the weight of a world upon one's shoulders... that may be a long lesson to learn.
[ He does look at Qrow, now, and the look on his face is almost chagrined. He knows it's foolish that he so struggles with a simple conversation. A hermit stumbling outside the familiarity of his cabin; it is a moment of uncertain, clumsy vulnerability. ]
I do have the worst of the effects under control, as I've said. I... have had some assistance on that front. [ He tips his head, sips his cocoa, and looks back to the safety of the dark city skyline. ] From Stanford.
[ But not really. Not recently. Not with any consistency, not with any understanding of what they mean the situation to become— he cannot truly claim a fervent one-night stand as under control and put the issue to bed. He knows it. He does not, truly, have the first idea what to do about it other than gaze mournfully out of windows. ]
[From Ford. That much, at least, is not a surprise to Qrow, having learned it from Oscar when his thoughts misfired into the group chat, and he now has some of the context for just why that situation is so complicated. Maybe that is why he looks so troubled--maybe he's feeling the effects of the vampirism again, and hesitating to ask for help. The part of him that can relate to avoiding emotional discomfort like the plague considers offering right then; it is not as though he has any objection to the notion, or would have ever declined if he had been asked--and he thinks maybe Ozpin might even accept, might see it as a way to put his mind at ease and send him on his way and avoid uncovering any further wounds.
(Truthfully, he wouldn't be entirely wrong; the part of Qrow that craves to be needed would be pacified to some extent knowing he could help Oz in some concrete way)
But maybe he wouldn't, and he would smile in that specific way that Qrow used to find so comforting when he was younger, the one that he now realizes doesn't reach his eyes. Maybe he would just tell him it is kind of him to offer, but he will be alright, and the conversation will stall there unless Qrow pushes further, demands more, and that would likely only make them both leave miserable.]
...Yeah, I heard.
[It comes out on the edge of a sigh, not quite voiced. Qrow sets the mug down, staring into his reflection in it for a long moment, considering. This, even now, is closer in than he's ever been allowed. Than he's ever even tried to reach, as a man who too prefers to keep his privacy and protect his vulnerabilities. If he tests the waters further, he is liable to drown in them.
He takes the dive anyway.]
But things are complicated with him, and the town's been making it worse, right?
[ His smile tips wry, and it's a familiar look: it is Ozpin in the moments before retreat, before redirection. Quietly acknowledging a wound to himself, and just about to shy away.
But that would be terribly unkind after all he said to Qrow about his own willingness to open up. And it is only, in the end, talk of his romantic life. Surely he can bear something so ultimately mundane. ]
In a sense.
[ He sips his cocoa and perhaps they both pretend he isn't stalling. But Qrow knows when to let his silences breathe, and so he must continue: ]
It seems he and I only cross paths under dire circumstances, these days. [ The party had not been a dire circumstance; it feels like one, all the same. ] Strange to think that things had been simpler, in a way, when we lived in a dream.
[It's ironic, he thinks. Back in the early days in Deerington, when Ozpin had newly arrived, the situation had been similar--except Qrow had been the one trying to avoid him, back then. The town would keep pushing them together, with crisis after crisis, until they had no choice but to work their issues out.
Strange, to think of the role reversal; when he had been most at odds with Oz was when the man had first come to be friends with Ford. Qrow still remembers spying on some of those lunches, and Ford's fruitless efforts to capture him before the day he finally revealed himself. Qrow may have even resented him a little, in those earliest days, resented the comfortable ease between them when his own feelings were still a tangled mess of hurt and affection in nearly equal measures.
But it's because of that he can understand how Ford feels, to some extent -- even without the context of the whole story. Perhaps it is fitting for them to have this conversation now, just shy of a year since Qrow offered the final olive branch in rebuilding the bridge between them.
Qrow steps forward, closer to his side rather than several paces behind, and this is the moment of truth as it were, isn't it? The bridge will hold, or they both drown.]
It doesn't have to stay like that. [he ventures, carefully] It didn't for us.
[ Qrow's gamble pays off: Ozpin blinks at him, registering the sentiment, and then something in his expression softens like melting ice. It is another too-vulnerable moment, and even when he averts his gaze to look out that dark window, the little smile on his face remains. They stand shoulder to shoulder, and the quiet between them feels briefly full and fragile. ]
Perhaps not.
[ He steadies himself by curling fingers around his cocoa again. Exhales what is nearly a sigh. ]
In both instances, I'm afraid I have made truly egregious mistakes.
[More than any man, woman, or child, wasn't it? The line springs to mind unbidden all of a sudden, and draws a private smirk to his lips. He shakes his head.]
Mm, maybe.
[There's no need to rub it in, but he doesn't jump to some joke to brush off the admittance either; even deep wounds heal eventually, and after all this time, Qrow's at a point where can face those scars without flinching from them.]
Have you talked to him yet?
[With anyone else, it'd be perhaps a foolish question. But perhaps he can be forgiven stating the obvious this time, under their particular circumstances.]
[ It is an uncommonly real acknowledgement, and Ozpin is quiet another moment in its wake. They have never spoken like this before, not really: Qrow acknowledging his grave flaws and then continuing the conversation without hesitation or rancor. As though it's easy.
Perhaps it will be, in time. It's been so very long since he had any sort of confidant. ]
He has not been overly receptive to that conversation.
[ Which is a hedging and mournful way of saying no, they've simply opted to get blind drunk and duck the subject in the face of mortal peril. ]
But I cannot blame Stanford for his reluctance. [ This isn't even a good lie; Stanford's reluctance is, to his mind, almost the whole of the roadblock before them. Ozpin keeps his gaze fixed out the window. ] I was not all he thought I was, and so our paths diverged.
[Hm. It is possible that this is in fact the shape of things at the moment, but Qrow's expression betrays his skepticism almost immediately, especially at that last part. It brings to mind that same moment in the snow, but it's likely a different part of the memory that stands out, for Qrow.
A moment of silence lingers between them and Qrow's slightly raised eyebrow, and then he has to ask, voice steady and solemn:]
Did they diverge, or did you run because he was angry?
[It's a pointed question, deliberately phrased, but Qrow doesn't linger on it. Instead, he lets his own expression ease back out into something light, almost amused.]
Because I gotta say, if the guy's willing to let you drink his blood, I'm pretty sure that's not a door shut in your face, actually.
[ He tightens at the accusation, in the set of his shoulders and his grip upon the cocoa mug. It is warranted, but still Ozpin is silent a beat. He allows: ]
He was entitled to his anger. [ As were you, he does not say. ] I... fear I hurt him deeply. [ As I did you. ] We have met again [ 'met' ] only through the town's influences, as I'm sure you can imagine.
Without that pressure upon us... in truth, it is difficult to know where to begin.
[Would they have sorted out their issues without the weight of Deerington's various disasters? Without the memories he witnessed in that field of flowers, without October? Qrow wonders about that, at times. It was part of why he chose to put words to the forgiveness that was settling in his heart, as the dream crumbled. If they forgot everything they went through in Deerington and returned to their unstoppable apocalypse like nothing ever happened, he didn't want to leave it unsaid.
He's had his share of similar curses in Trench, but his lingering resentments involve people who are not here; the situation is different when what you need to do is bare your wounds to someone new, and hope for them to be handled gently.]
How about at the beginning? "I'm sorry" makes for a pretty decent conversation starter.
[ In his silence is skepticism and deep resignation: he cannot believe that it would be so simple, with Stanford. The man is brilliant, passionate, and deeply stubborn.
Hm. Perhaps not altogether different from Qrow, in many regards. But Ford has made it very clear where his loyalties lie, and Ozpin has never truly been his family.
He and Qrow had twenty years of history, of trust and blood and purpose. With Stanford he can claim nothing more than a few months' friendship, companionship. A fast-paced but fleeting affection.
(He cannot help but remember the way Stanford curled into him after Stanley's death, all the same.) ]
I don't imagine he would respond well to an effort to initiate contact; that much has been made clear to me. [ Months ago and in few words. Obviously. ] But... I suppose I will bear it in mind as good advice, all the same. The world we share seems to be a small one, and this time, I believe it is here to stay.
[Oz's skepticism is met with the same in response. One advantage to a broken pedestal is being able to see his longtime friend and mentor with much clearer eyes, and he can't help but think this is familiar. He noticed Oz dodged answering his earlier question, too. Qrow can sense the beginnings of retreat in that resignation but all the same he presses on, just a little further.]
Did he actually say that, though?
[He's still thinking about that blood drinking incident, as he asks this. Qrow recalls something he said to Oz, that day amidst a different snowstorm and his cape wrapped around him. That even if there came a time they stopped talking, he would always be someone Oz could call on for help.
If that's the kind of thing Ford still feels, whatever is between them cannot be irreparable. It isn't hopeless so long as Ford still cares. Qrow had realized that for himself pretty early on, in Deerington; the reason it all hurt so much is because he couldn't simply cut away all that devotion he'd held for twenty years. He bled because those arteries still led back directly to his heart.]
Maybe that's what he's waiting for, you know? A reason to try again.
[ Qrow presses, and Ozpin begins to regret this conversation. It is, as expected, not a comfortable one. He so rarely feels this thoroughly cornered, because he so rarely feels this thoroughly seen. ]
In essence. [ His tone has gone a little stiff, edging defensive. But it begins to bleed out of him in a slow exhale, after.
He cannot help but think of Ford in that dark tunnel, all vulnerabilities bared, listening to what Ozpin had to say. ]
Should the opportunity arise... I suppose the situation could benefit from an attempt at connection, however slim the odds.
[It's still not a straight answer, which tells Qrow he is likely right, honestly--Oz has convinced himself the situation between them is too dire and that reaching out will only make things worse. Qrow lets out a little exhale of his own--Oz may have lowered his walls just enough for him to climb them a little, onto a proper foothold, but he will not be allowed inside. He can already sense the windows shuttering, as it were. He won't get much further than this.
Even if part of him really does want to just lure Ford to the house with the promise of letting him Do Science with his semblance and then fucking off the moment he spots Oz.]
Well...in the meantime, you've got us.
[He smiles a little, picking up his neglected cocoa from the table to sip at again. Good thing he's a garbage disposal and temperature doesn't really matter to him.]
Just...maybe keep us a little more in the loop, yeah?
[It's not the angry, desperate demands of a year and a half previous. Only a request of a friend, who wants to be there. Qrow learned about what happened with Ford in March. He learned that Oz had been assaulted through a network post of stupid rumors and bullshit. He doesn't want to be the last one to know when bad things happen to Ozpin, even if he's still able to take it on faith that Oz will tell him the things he needs to know.]
[ The tension in his shoulders unwinds. Ozpin exhales another slow breath, and he looks to Qrow with the warmth clear again in his eyes. He does not say Thank you in so many words, but it shows in the relaxing of his smile.
A bit deadpan: ]
Even regarding my romantic life? I shouldn't think it a particularly sought-after topic.
[ A beat as he considers this. ]
Aside, perhaps, from its entertainment value among the younger of our number.
[He lets out a amused huff at that, giving Oz a playful elbow to the ribs.]
You know what I mean. The stuff that matters. To you.
[A gentle addition. Oz tends not to think most things that have the possibility of troubling others might be particularly important for them to know. Qrow understands more than he cares to admit, and yet, he asks it of him anyway, because they have been through simply too much, worked too hard to rebuild their trust to hold onto that distance.]
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late april, for qrow.
no subject
The last couple months, those cracks seem like they've only been growing, even as efforts to spackle them over have been made here and there. The vampire debacle and then the corpses of Sayo and Willow in February had led into the crisis with Ange, the reveal of her family's murderer having lived under their roof since January. So perhaps it's natural for Qrow to be unsettled with the loss of daylight, that bears so much resemblance to Deerington October.
Especially with having learned ... that Oz is keeping things from them again. It speaks to the trust they've rebuilt that Qrow hadn't stormed into Oz's study to demand an explanation when he'd learned that an episode of corruption had led Sayo to attack Ozpin. It's troubling all the same, given that Oscar was surprised he didn't know what had happened between Oz and Ford, which makes for three times now he hasn't been told something that he'd consider pretty important.
Still...he intends to give things time to settle down before he's ready to approach a conversation like that.
(He is, perhaps, a little reluctant to have it, given their history.)
It's left gently on a shelf for later, when he flutters into Ozpin's study that evening to settle on his shoulder as he reads -- it's a habit he's come to find soothing when the opportunity presents itself, even as someone who doesn't particularly enjoy reading for himself -- and sometimes Oz even makes him cocoa to enjoy in a person shape thereafter. Tonight, though...Oz isn't settled into his favorite chair with a book, but is instead staring blankly out of a window, and Qrow's known him long enough to know that means something is wrong.
So instead of landing on his shoulder, Oz might hear an extra wingflap as Qrow u-turns back out, followed by proper human footsteps a few minutes later, carrying two mugs which are carefully set down on a nearby desk to announce his presence.]
It's weird, huh? No sun for a month and the worst we've had to deal with is the apathy butterflies.
[Unless there is something else you would like to tell him about, perhaps!]
cw: themes of addiction, mentions of gore
He is still hungry. It has been so long since he sated it properly. In shameful moments, he finds himself thinking of Stanford, the head of his body and the taste on his tongue. In the worst moments he finds himself thinking of the ruin of Sayo's body, the messy waste of it, and he jolts with revulsion and a quiet terror at himself. The memories are like open sores in his mind, ones he cannot help but press at.
They sell bottled Darkblood, in some parts of the city. He finds himself standing among those shadowed stalls, halfway to trembling, unable to articulate his fear. Thus far, he has always walked away.
He is catching Ange's scent again, lately. It's— untenable.
It is not something he can discuss with Qrow. ]
Perhaps there is peace to be found in Trench, however flawed it may be... in much the same way as Remnant.
[ Without interference. Without willful malice. The Grimm were a survivable problem, once, no worse than any other natural predator.
But Qrow would not be here in this shape if he did not want to talk about something, and so Ozpin accepts the mug and laces his fingers around its heat. ]
Though I imagine we would do well to remain on our guard.
no subject
The question, then is whether to ask or to accept the deflection offered, to have a pleasant conversation about nothing over cocoa knowing that there's something festering deeper--not daring to disturb it lest the overflow break anything else on the way out. They've done it so many times over the last twenty years it's practically routine. And maybe if it weren't for the secrets he already knows he hadn't been let in on, he'd pick up his role in that familiar dance again. The war is dead and buried, after all. There is no more need for real secrets.
But in Deerington, Qrow had said that he didn't want the reason Oz told him the truth to be simply because he'd run out of things to hide, and that's still true. He wants Oz to be upfront with him because they're friends...because he can count on Qrow no matter what he needs. He is no longer a scared seventeen-year-old boy who needs a safe place to land.
Qrow settles down across from him, taking a sip of the cocoa to buy him time to arrange his thoughts. Then:]
Heh...I never thought I'd live long enough to retire, back in Remnant. It's still weird. Not that Trench hasn't always been less literal in how it likes to rip us open anyhow, I guess.
[He hesitates. Qrow cannot simply ask Oz to tell him what is on his mind. It is coming at a wall with a battering ram, and will only invite a strengthening of defenses. He knows too well that he is the same. And if he wants to climb the wall ... he must be willing to scratch himself with barbed wire on the way up.
Another sip. He lets his gaze drop from the warm russet of Oz's eyes to his own sienna-tinged reflection in the cup.]
...You know, I figured out what my blood magic is. Visions. Of misfortunes, naturally. Just...never in time to stop them. It's how I found you back in November.
[There's no hiding the bitterness in his snort, but it's clear there's somewhere he's going with this, or he would've never brought it up.]
I only bitched about it with Xerx back then, 'cause there was no way he'd know what it means to me. It was easier. And then the next month a glass knocked over and smashed while we were having lunch and I couldn't stop thinking about how the longer I kept up not telling him, the more likely it was Trench'd take the choice from me someday.
[Finally, he looks up, though there's something a little uncomfortable in the set of his shoulders. Like he's breaking an unspoken rule here, making the implication he's obviously making. The way he is asking Oz to be vulnerable with him of his own free will, without actually asking. Without it being a demand.]
He knows now, and it was on my terms. Instead of getting unlucky with the wrong town curse.
[Unlucky. It is, as ever, intentionally phrased. A word he only ever uses when the weight of it is necessary.]
no subject
So it shows easily on his face, when his expression opens with startlement— nearly breathless, nearly amazed— and then softens to warmth. ]
That was very brave indeed.
[ His tone is gentle. The space between them seems smaller, now, and warmer than it had been. He shifts, hands still cupping the warmth of his mug. ]
You must care for him a great deal, to undertake a very difficult conversation.
[ It's the weakest deflection yet, because they both know that saying it backs him into a corner. Two, perhaps.
He does care for Qrow. Enough to tell him the truth when it matters. That is the agreement, the quiet pact between them, forged in fields of flowers and whipping snow; Qrow has not pressed upon Ozpin's fluctuating condition because they have such an agreement. They both know this to be true.
And then, in the silence beyond that one, there is the person Ozpin has not confided in for a long time now. Stanford hangs as a great unspoken weight between them. His presence has been a constant ghost, as of late. Since the catacombs— or since January— or since November. Since May.
Ozpin can recognize a very gentle, coaxing press. It would be unfair, unkind, to let Qrow bare himself in this way and give no answer but a teacher's pleasantries. In this moment, he understands what is being asked of him— he feels the empty space which ought to tip over into more, into reciprocation, into camaraderie— and he hesitates. ]
I am sorry to hear about your ability. That it is a further burden upon you... one more challenge with which to contend.
[ The moment hangs, hangs, hangs.
He exhales, and it sends the steam of the cocoa eddying between them. The weight of something collapses, invisibly, in that space. ]
You know that mine has been little better.
no subject
But being willing to try doesn't make it easier to let go of centuries upon centuries of habit. He'd put off telling Break about his semblance for months, with barely a tiny fraction of that. Despite everything, he does get it. He hopes Ozpin understands that much; it is not as though Qrow has been an open book at any point in his life -- he knows what it costs of oneself to open up to others. He realizes the weight of what he is asking for, here.]
What's a Huntsman's life without challenges, right? Pretty sure dealing with bullshit's half the job description -- well, the half that doesn't make it onto the posters, anyway.
[He huffs a laugh, in a small effort to lighten the mood.]
But you know...you don't have to be responsible for the world anymore. You don't have to be responsible for us. There's new crap to deal with here, sure, but it's--our crap, yeah? The world's going to keep on turning no matter what we deal with or don't.
[He takes a careful breath in, letting it out slowly. His fingers flex against the warmth of the mug, as though he's nervous about getting across what he means correctly.]
...So why not...why not take the chance to be "just Oz", for a while? Just a guy with friends who wanna know when he's not doing okay, so they can -- be there.
[It's still just left of a direct request. He understands this cannot be the hard line in the sand he drew before, but it is something gentler. A hand extended, and the shoulder to lean on alongside it. Victory lies in the things that require a smaller, more honest soul, after all.]
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To live without the weight of a world upon one's shoulders... that may be a long lesson to learn.
[ He does look at Qrow, now, and the look on his face is almost chagrined. He knows it's foolish that he so struggles with a simple conversation. A hermit stumbling outside the familiarity of his cabin; it is a moment of uncertain, clumsy vulnerability. ]
I do have the worst of the effects under control, as I've said. I... have had some assistance on that front. [ He tips his head, sips his cocoa, and looks back to the safety of the dark city skyline. ] From Stanford.
[ But not really. Not recently. Not with any consistency, not with any understanding of what they mean the situation to become— he cannot truly claim a fervent one-night stand as under control and put the issue to bed. He knows it. He does not, truly, have the first idea what to do about it other than gaze mournfully out of windows. ]
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(Truthfully, he wouldn't be entirely wrong; the part of Qrow that craves to be needed would be pacified to some extent knowing he could help Oz in some concrete way)
But maybe he wouldn't, and he would smile in that specific way that Qrow used to find so comforting when he was younger, the one that he now realizes doesn't reach his eyes. Maybe he would just tell him it is kind of him to offer, but he will be alright, and the conversation will stall there unless Qrow pushes further, demands more, and that would likely only make them both leave miserable.]
...Yeah, I heard.
[It comes out on the edge of a sigh, not quite voiced. Qrow sets the mug down, staring into his reflection in it for a long moment, considering. This, even now, is closer in than he's ever been allowed. Than he's ever even tried to reach, as a man who too prefers to keep his privacy and protect his vulnerabilities. If he tests the waters further, he is liable to drown in them.
He takes the dive anyway.]
But things are complicated with him, and the town's been making it worse, right?
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But that would be terribly unkind after all he said to Qrow about his own willingness to open up. And it is only, in the end, talk of his romantic life. Surely he can bear something so ultimately mundane. ]
In a sense.
[ He sips his cocoa and perhaps they both pretend he isn't stalling. But Qrow knows when to let his silences breathe, and so he must continue: ]
It seems he and I only cross paths under dire circumstances, these days. [ The party had not been a dire circumstance; it feels like one, all the same. ] Strange to think that things had been simpler, in a way, when we lived in a dream.
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Strange, to think of the role reversal; when he had been most at odds with Oz was when the man had first come to be friends with Ford. Qrow still remembers spying on some of those lunches, and Ford's fruitless efforts to capture him before the day he finally revealed himself. Qrow may have even resented him a little, in those earliest days, resented the comfortable ease between them when his own feelings were still a tangled mess of hurt and affection in nearly equal measures.
But it's because of that he can understand how Ford feels, to some extent -- even without the context of the whole story. Perhaps it is fitting for them to have this conversation now, just shy of a year since Qrow offered the final olive branch in rebuilding the bridge between them.
Qrow steps forward, closer to his side rather than several paces behind, and this is the moment of truth as it were, isn't it? The bridge will hold, or they both drown.]
It doesn't have to stay like that. [he ventures, carefully] It didn't for us.
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Perhaps not.
[ He steadies himself by curling fingers around his cocoa again. Exhales what is nearly a sigh. ]
In both instances, I'm afraid I have made truly egregious mistakes.
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Mm, maybe.
[There's no need to rub it in, but he doesn't jump to some joke to brush off the admittance either; even deep wounds heal eventually, and after all this time, Qrow's at a point where can face those scars without flinching from them.]
Have you talked to him yet?
[With anyone else, it'd be perhaps a foolish question. But perhaps he can be forgiven stating the obvious this time, under their particular circumstances.]
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Perhaps it will be, in time. It's been so very long since he had any sort of confidant. ]
He has not been overly receptive to that conversation.
[ Which is a hedging and mournful way of saying no, they've simply opted to get blind drunk and duck the subject in the face of mortal peril. ]
But I cannot blame Stanford for his reluctance. [ This isn't even a good lie; Stanford's reluctance is, to his mind, almost the whole of the roadblock before them. Ozpin keeps his gaze fixed out the window. ] I was not all he thought I was, and so our paths diverged.
[ As Qrow's did, once, in the snow. ]
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A moment of silence lingers between them and Qrow's slightly raised eyebrow, and then he has to ask, voice steady and solemn:]
Did they diverge, or did you run because he was angry?
[It's a pointed question, deliberately phrased, but Qrow doesn't linger on it. Instead, he lets his own expression ease back out into something light, almost amused.]
Because I gotta say, if the guy's willing to let you drink his blood, I'm pretty sure that's not a door shut in your face, actually.
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He was entitled to his anger. [ As were you, he does not say. ] I... fear I hurt him deeply. [ As I did you. ] We have met again [ 'met' ] only through the town's influences, as I'm sure you can imagine.
Without that pressure upon us... in truth, it is difficult to know where to begin.
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He's had his share of similar curses in Trench, but his lingering resentments involve people who are not here; the situation is different when what you need to do is bare your wounds to someone new, and hope for them to be handled gently.]
How about at the beginning? "I'm sorry" makes for a pretty decent conversation starter.
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Hm. Perhaps not altogether different from Qrow, in many regards. But Ford has made it very clear where his loyalties lie, and Ozpin has never truly been his family.
He and Qrow had twenty years of history, of trust and blood and purpose. With Stanford he can claim nothing more than a few months' friendship, companionship. A fast-paced but fleeting affection.
(He cannot help but remember the way Stanford curled into him after Stanley's death, all the same.) ]
I don't imagine he would respond well to an effort to initiate contact; that much has been made clear to me. [ Months ago and in few words. Obviously. ] But... I suppose I will bear it in mind as good advice, all the same. The world we share seems to be a small one, and this time, I believe it is here to stay.
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Did he actually say that, though?
[He's still thinking about that blood drinking incident, as he asks this. Qrow recalls something he said to Oz, that day amidst a different snowstorm and his cape wrapped around him. That even if there came a time they stopped talking, he would always be someone Oz could call on for help.
If that's the kind of thing Ford still feels, whatever is between them cannot be irreparable. It isn't hopeless so long as Ford still cares. Qrow had realized that for himself pretty early on, in Deerington; the reason it all hurt so much is because he couldn't simply cut away all that devotion he'd held for twenty years. He bled because those arteries still led back directly to his heart.]
Maybe that's what he's waiting for, you know? A reason to try again.
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In essence. [ His tone has gone a little stiff, edging defensive. But it begins to bleed out of him in a slow exhale, after.
He cannot help but think of Ford in that dark tunnel, all vulnerabilities bared, listening to what Ozpin had to say. ]
Should the opportunity arise... I suppose the situation could benefit from an attempt at connection, however slim the odds.
[ Translated: he'll try. ]
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Even if part of him really does want to just lure Ford to the house with the promise of letting him Do Science with his semblance and then fucking off the moment he spots Oz.]
Well...in the meantime, you've got us.
[He smiles a little, picking up his neglected cocoa from the table to sip at again. Good thing he's a garbage disposal and temperature doesn't really matter to him.]
Just...maybe keep us a little more in the loop, yeah?
[It's not the angry, desperate demands of a year and a half previous. Only a request of a friend, who wants to be there. Qrow learned about what happened with Ford in March. He learned that Oz had been assaulted through a network post of stupid rumors and bullshit. He doesn't want to be the last one to know when bad things happen to Ozpin, even if he's still able to take it on faith that Oz will tell him the things he needs to know.]
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A bit deadpan: ]
Even regarding my romantic life? I shouldn't think it a particularly sought-after topic.
[ A beat as he considers this. ]
Aside, perhaps, from its entertainment value among the younger of our number.
[ The group chat is always coming for him. ]
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You know what I mean. The stuff that matters. To you.
[A gentle addition. Oz tends not to think most things that have the possibility of troubling others might be particularly important for them to know. Qrow understands more than he cares to admit, and yet, he asks it of him anyway, because they have been through simply too much, worked too hard to rebuild their trust to hold onto that distance.]