deercountry | (no subject)

Things have been... awkward with Stan, but they could be worse.

They could always be worse.

But they're still not great. Ford isn't a fan of that fact, but he's also not entirely sure to how to go about fixing it. As much as he loathes to admit to it, he doesn't know Stan right now. Not like he did when they were children, and not like he'd come to know Stan's older self in Deerington and Trench. Even in the case of the latter, the way Ford sees it is that the process of repairing their relationship had happened not because of any particular noteworthy effort on his part, but because Stan had wanted it to be repaired. His own contributions to the process had been, in his mind, minimal.

But he's at least aware that that particular way of thinking isn't helpful. Even if his best efforts still aren't very good, his family deserves them - because their own best efforts are what they always give him. It's with that thought in mind that he not only throws himself into his latest project, he also throws himself into the idea of seeking out Stan first thing when he wakes up on the 15th.

He does not, however, throw himself into the task of thinking of a proper greeting before hand, however. So when he runs into Stan he doesn't open up with anything like, say, 'Happy Birthday'. Instead he jumps right in with:

"Stanley! How are you?"

Stan is past the point of flinching and freezing like a deer in headlights when this happens suddenly, but getting used to the kids has still been easier than adjusting to Old Man Ford. And it doesn’t even really bother him anymore that he looks so much like Pa in really bad lighting. Totally nothing to do with that. It’s just weird.

It’s still weird. Also he doesn’t really know what day it is. Birthdays are something he hasn’t celebrated for awhile. In his brain it’s still winter in Fucksville, Oregon.

He smiles awkwardly. Standing in the hall.

“I’m uh. I’m cool. I’m good. How’s it hanging? Working on your…magicy-science stuff?”

Okay. Okay, the conversation is off to a good start! They're not immediately fighting (not that they have fought since Stan arrived) and neither of them has tried to bolt from the conversation. Stan even asks about Ford's work, which is enough to make Ford perk up in response. He's not sure what it means that Stan asks, but the fact that he does at all strikes him as a good thing.

"I have been, actually! I finished this just yesterday, in fact."

He dips a hand into his pocket and withdraws a little wooden box, then steps forward and offers it to Stan.

"Here."

If Stan opens it, he'll find what seems to be a gold compass inside, though there's no directions marked on the dial and the needle isn't pointing north. Ford doesn't bother to explain it yet - and he doesn't tell Stan why he made it.

[ Ford's workshop - which is the barn half of the barn-and-greenhouse combination building at the edge of his property - finally reflects his character in earnest. In many ways its indistinguishable from his lab: shelves existing in a state of organized chaos, various tools always within reach, and the work surfaces either laden with the latest project or kept meticulously clear in anticipation of the next project. The only real difference is in the fine details. Ford's lab is all delicate instruments, monitoring equipment, and carefully collected samples from the city and its Sleepers. The workshop is more practically focused: building supplies, electronic parts, soldering irons, Trench's unsettling versions of power drills and table saws.

Most importantly, though, there's more than enough room in the aisles between the shelves and the tables for three grown men to move about and work together without overly disturbing one another. Especially when two of the three grown men present are reedy beanpoles that look like they might disappear if they turn sideways. ]

Thank you both for joining me today. The gun is in bad shape, but I believe the three of us have what it takes to get it working again.

[ They have quite the demanding task ahead of them. The gun looks positively ancient. The chassis is cracked, the sights are snapped off, the focusing lens has shattered, and all of that is just stuff they can see without opening it up or powering it on - and in a rare concession to safety (which is actually a concession to his concerns about placing too much strain on the equally ancient power core) the gun is actually off when Viktor and Fiddleford arrive.

Even so, Ford is in a good mood. He always likes a challenge, especially when completing said challenge will result in owning a death ray. ]

[it's hard not to be in a good mood as well- how could viktor not? the first thing he did when he came in was examine the ray carefully, eyes bright with a chance to see some tech from a new world, even just to see something more advanced than what little could be found in the trench. it's a lovely piece of work, if in need of quite a bit of tlc, as some might say.

well, maybe most wouldn't call a death ray lovely but viktor's willing to be pragmatic here. making weapons for war is one thing, the trench isn't exactly a place to be morally superior about potential violence. it's not like anyone here is going to use the death ray on another sleeper. (it's not like he won't kind of approve anyway with the particular target, but that's a matter for future viktor to consider.)]

Quite so. Do you mind-? [and that will start it, the gesture if he can open parts of it up to get a better look.]

-

[aside from messing with the gun itself viktor will be pretty happy to show them a personal project he thinks might help. specifically notes on how to utilize bloodgems as an arcane power source, which he'll spread across one of the tables and gesture to.]

We can use blood as well with some tubing, but it causes pollution and has less longevity than the gems themselves. Coldblood mixed with darkblood in a gem I think would eh... what is the term, be the ticket? The best choice, yes.

Ford dies.

Then he wakes up.

It's a confusing thing to have happen to him because, to his understanding, he should be a squid. He hasn't died yet himself but he's seen it plenty of times before. The uncoordinated flailing of a newly formed Sleeper squid, at the location of their death, is the first thing that should have followed what he's pretty sure was his heart exploding.

Of course, even that degree of understanding the situation takes a while to settle in. The first thing he notices is that his body feels weird. Not bad, exactly, but strange, different, and not 'I'm a squid again' different. More like it's his regular body except somehow off. And the more consciousness returns to him the more he realizes that the whole situation is off. The bed sheets feel silky and cool instead of the plainer cotton he prefers in the summer. The pillow is soft. The bed is too big. The ceiling--

Is one he recognizes. He blinks when he recognizes it and gives an actual, physical jerk of surprise when he realizes where he recognizes it from. That jerk turns into a lurch as he jolts upright and shoves back the ostentatious green bed sheets (that, he now realizes, are also recognizes).

What the hell is he doing on Ozpin's room?

Ozpin comes to awareness with a very familiar kick of disorientation, as his body moves without his intent. The body sits up with a sudden lurch of panic, a surprise so sharp he can feel it secondhand; all he can think is, Oscar?

But this doesn't feel like Oscar. The background churn of thought and emotion, the space between them, is an unfamiliar jumble. For a moment he is utterly thrown, and it is simplest to hang back, disembodied. It has been some time since he played this role, passenger in his own skin— but it comes as easy as breathing, and it doesn't frighten him, necessarily. The emotion that eddies back to Ford is startled, with only the first shadings of alarm.

Oh, says the voice in Ford's head, which of course is not Ford's head. Well.

Ozpin speaks and Ford can't even be startled. What falls over him is just resigned dread, heavy and stifling.

"I--" he starts, but that train of thought is going nowhere, especially not once the sound of Ozpin's voice in his ears registers.

"You--" he tries instead, but that one gets no further. All he can do is sit in Ozpin's bed, in Ozpin's body, feeling his (Ozpin's) pulse start to pick up.

Then he leans forward, puts Ozpin's face in Ozpin's hands, yells out a frustrated: "Fuck!"

Ah, that was so loud. The whole house must have heard it, if there's anyone else here - and that thought suddenly tips him from panic to fury. Because really? This had to happen to him now? He has to be stuck in Ozpin's head in Ozpin's home while everything is still a mess and the twins could wake up any moment?

No. Absolutely not. Ford swings his-- Ozpin's-- whoever's-- legs over the side of the bed and surges to his feet, only to freeze where he stands. Part of him is absolutely fascinated by how different it is to be so tall, and how much sharper Ozpin's eyesight is even compared to Ford's glasses. The other part of him is so completely affronted by the fact that Ozpin is so tall and his eyesight is so good he can't be anything but furious about it.

"Why are you like this?" he hisses, and then he storms towards the bathroom.

He does not truly register who is with him until Ford speaks, and the bolt of familiarity is too much to bear. This panic isn't only the bewilderment of a new host: this is something he knows viscerally, from that day in the mists and ruins of a collapsing dream.

Stanford, he thinks, in startled recognition. He flares annoyance to meet the fury, and draws further into himself, the sense of his presence retracting into the corners of their shared space. The body marches across the room, and he lets himself be carried along. His tone is clipped and guarded over the tangle of his confusion.

I assure you, Stanford, this was not my doing.

"That's not what I mean," Ford snaps, not slowing down even slightly. "Why are you so tall? No one needs to be six foot six!"

Ford has never actually had a problem with Ozpin's height. In truth he doesn't even have a real problem with it now. But the panic is there, simmering under the surface, and his hands are shaking as he yanks open the bathroom door. Even with such a visible sign he can't bring himself to admit it's there, knowing it'll just sweep him away if he does. There's a powerful headiness to anger that lets him feel productive and in control, and as always he chooses it over the alternative of feeling small and vulnerable.

Complaining about Ozpin's height is, however, very silly no matter why he's doing it, and even Ford recognizes that fact. Though he's resentful about the truth behind said fact, he forces himself to move on.

"Did you also die?"

Exasperation echoes back at Ford through the connection. He can recognize the building fear beneath the pettiness, and thus does not grace it with a reply. He remains a restrained presence at the back of their shared mind, pointedly and immaculately polite in his distance.

The question causes a sudden jolt of alarm, concern, sharp interest.

I certainly hope not. I remember nothing out of the ordinary.

He is not actually able to remain aloof longer than a single beat of silence, before he presses:

What happened?

Ozpin doesn't bother to fight Ford about being tall, for some reason, which of course only serves to make Ford even angrier - because of course Ozpin thinks he's too good for something like this. On the other hand, it also makes something that feels suspiciously like embarrassment start to bubble under the surface. Thus, he drops the matter of Ozpin's height in favor of making his way to the closet.

It's with perfect timing, too, because Ozpin's question has all previous emotions dialing back to a much more manageable simmer. In their place comes a tired mix of regret, resignation, and sorrow.

"Oscar and Willow died." He knows Ozpin must know about the former, but the later might be new information. Regardless, he doesn't try to soften the blow as he delivers the news. "I went after the person responsible. I killed him, but I couldn't get away before he returned the favor."

The Aura pin had bought him a second or two, but even that wasn't enough.

He is silent again at this, but the space between them is tinged with simmering unease and a sharp twist of guilt. Ozpin was too slow to come to Oscar's aid, and horribly unsuccessful at stopping his murderer; he was a willing part of Willow's demise.

The person responsible... The black-eyed man. Ozpin knows horribly little about what he's capable of, and can find no bearable way to press for detail. The silence hangs heavy as he tries to find anything at all to say. Is it finished?

Willow has yet to return to them from the sea. Oscar is trapped with another host and beyond his mental reach. Their house has been fragmenting, whittled down in the storm, and he can only hope this slow decay will not continue.

He makes no commentary or protest as Stanford turns to the closet to dress them. This, to him, is familiar. He can ride along in relative quiet; the claustrophobia of inaction has not troubled him for a long time now.

Is it finished? is a good and focused question with an unpleasantly vague answer.

"I don't know." He sounds as frustrated as he feels. "A week ago I would have said he'd be the sort to call us even. It's not like either of us chose a peaceful method."

He'd guess that being ripped apart by your own atoms disagreeing about which side of reality they should exist on is probably more painful than your heart exploding, but the latter had still left Ford agonizingly aware for several long moments before the rest of his body caught up to the fact that he was dead. That seemed like tradeoff Sasha might call fair.

"But i wouldn't have guessed he'd try something like this - and I don't think he's just going to leave it."

He has no real answers, as usual.

But he'd rather not address that out loud. Instead he focuses on getting them dressed, stubbornly seeking out the least fancy, least green things he can find. He's determined to not have to ask Ozpin for help (the thought of ceding even the tiniest amount of control to him has a thread of panic skittering across his thoughts) but just ends up being annoyed when he remembers everything well enough to not have to ask for assistance anyway.

There is a pang of unease when Ford says only that it was not peaceful. But then, Ozpin has died so very many times, and almost none of those were peaceful. Very few deaths are, upon Remnant. Trench is the same.

He falls silent again as Ford dresses them from the scant neutral options in his closet, all blacks and greys and browns. This would be a reasonable impulse, were the body Ford's own; it is terribly unkind practice, on Remnant, to forcibly overtake someone's color with one's own. But the body is not Ford's, and nor is the closet, or the house, and from Ozpin's mind comes a building impatience.

I suspect you will have today as a reprieve, at least. He shall not know to look for me in any search for you.

He really cannot be more pointed that Stanford is not, at present, living his own life. The unspoken question is what Ford intends to do in Ozpin's skin.

The reminder and unspoken question are both highly unwelcome. Ford falls still in the middle of buttoning down one of Ozpin's shirts, fingers lingering at one of the buttons for a moment. The skitter of panic is suddenly more of an uneasy wave, and Ford has to draw in a careful breath before he feels steady enough to reply.

"Do you remember in Deerington, when Sleepers would sometimes fall comatose and become wrapped up in a mucous-like webbing?"

His mind tries to latch onto the thought of how interesting it is that such a thing carried over, but he forces himself to stay on task.

"That happened to Dipper and Mabel earlier this month. I just need to make sure everything at the house is still okay."

He is very pointedly not asking, half because he doesn't intend to listen if told otherwise, and half because he does genuinely believe that Ozpin won't tell him otherwise. Even so, there's a sort of anxiety hanging over him as he explains. Even he he knows that Ozpin won't stop him, the knowledge that he could is still hanging over him.

Ah. Ozpin is quiet, for a moment, but some of the irritable tension bleeds away. He cannot help his own faint curl of concern. He would wish no harm to the twins, and to leave them unattended and vulnerable, with the town in its current state of disarray...

Very well.

Oscar would want Dipper looked after, and his sister as well. Ozpin relents back to silence as Ford readies them to leave the relative safety of the bedroom. With a note in his voice beginning to turn wry:

I am not expected to teach lessons today, though you may wish to avoid the other residents of this house.

Ozpin gives his assent and Ford finally, for the first time since he woke up, relaxes. There's never been any real doubt that Ozpin would agree, but having the agreement out there and plainly stated is what it takes to finally alleviate some of Ford's anxiety.

Not all of it, but enough that he's able to finish getting dressed without snapping at Ozpin or picking another fight over something stupid. Enough that after a moment he speaks again.

"Thank you, Ozpin." Ford has never been one to express much in the way of consideration or awareness for other people, but this time he thinks to add: "Once we've checked I can retreat to the mindscape until this is over." He still remembers how meditation and deliberately stepping aside for a co-pilot works. He can definitely do it without freaking out.

But he's got more pressing things to focus on for the moment. He returns to the bedroom to locate the Long Memory, listening to Ozpin as he goes. The warning that he should avoid the housemates is met with a nod, though there's one housemate in particular he's hoping to not run into.

"Do you suppose going out the library window would be the best way to avoid Ruby?" He feels like she probably avoids the place.

Speaking of Ruby Rose. She's been up for awhile and had heard the loud exclamation of "Fuck." and had chosen to ignore it. Ozpin was a cranky old man and had probably lost at a game of chess or something.

Ruby gave it a shrug and went down stairs to start working on making some pancakes for breakfast. Things had been crazy this month and she was going to need all of her strength to protect people from the Reckoning's... reckoning.

It's only once she's got the pancake mix in the pan that a thought springs to her mind.

Ozpin didn't lose at chess.
Ozpin also didn't have ~~friends.~~
Ozpin didn't have friends that he'd invite over.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

And she had to look into it.

She dashes back up the stairs, leaving her breakfast to burn so that she can knock on Ozpin's door with both hands.

"Ozpin!? Ozpin!?

Are you okay in there!? Sigh once if you need help- Sigh twice if you're okay!"

While I hope such drastic measures would not be necessary—

And there she is, as if on cue. In Ford's mind, Ozpin sighs.

You will want to head this off quickly. A simple reassurance should do.

As though either of them believe Ruby would drop anything so easily, should she be in a mood to make well-intentioned nuisance of herself. Still: one can hope.

And there she is. Ford freezes, but only for a moment. As uncomfortable as it is, having someone else literally on board as backup is actually pretty helpful. Ozpin's insistence that a 'simple reassurance' will be enough is met with deep skepticism, but also something that can only be described as earnest hope. He really, really needs a simple reassurance to be enough.

(He also reflects, with an amusement that's not directly on but still within sight of the border of hysteria, that Ozpin did as instructed and sighed exactly once.)

"Everything is fine, Ruby." Ford is only so-so at direct lying and impersonating people, but for a single line he doesn't need an abundance of skill in either area.

That's the same reason he leaves it at one line, even though he knows it won't be enough. He needs to stall for a better excuse.

Ruby listens for the one sigh and unfortunately doesn't hear it. She does however get a verbal response and she does notice something is off. He called her Ruby. Ozpin rarely called her Ruby. It was almost always Ms.Rose even after the sheer amount of things they had been through.

She pauses briefly and while she doesn't want to assume that something terrible is happing there is a sense of worry there.

"You sure? I mean- Okay. I don't doubt you, but-" There's a pause as she gives a little sniff and realizes that something is amiss down stairs.

"If you want I'm making pancakes. You're free to come down and have some or grab a fire extinguisher. We'll probably need it for the first batch."

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( june ) for stan

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( late june / early july ) fiddleford, viktor

some pick and chose prompts!

( mid-july ) ozpin ; cw: death, references to gore

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cw: references to existential horror, gore, death

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