Ford had learned his lesson last year. There will be no eating haunted chocolates this February. Or at least, there will be less eating haunted chocolates. Partly because it got him in trouble last time, but mostly because he's perusing chocolatiers for a reason this year: research.
Madam Generosity is no longer making demands that everyone indulge in the finer things, but he's elected to continue wearing his slightly fancier clothing from last month. It's still quite practical, though: coat, turtleneck, slacks, and shoes instead of boots. Just very nice ones, instead of the 'lovingly worn' to 'slightly tattered' gamut of quality that his clothing typically runs. But despite the indulgence he's on the move, taking rapid notes on the things he observes around him. He's not buying anything and alternates between blowing off and interrogating any shopkeepers that try to assist him. In other words, he looks and acts every inch the combination of anthropologist and wallflower that he actually is.
You'd think he'd learn to not try to write and walk at the same time considering how often it's lead to this exact situation: getting too absorbed in his work, rounding a corner to the next shop on his list, and nearly walking directly into someone else. He takes a startled step back and reaches out on reflex to steady whoever or whatever he just knocked over - and then he freezes, because that turns out to be Ozpin.
He's not expecting to bump into Ozpin, though it's less alarming than running into him has been in the past. He hasn't seen Ozpin since the wedding, which really isn't that dramatic of a gap for them. But he's still startled enough that while he means to say something like 'what a pleasant surprise' or 'I wasn't expecting to run into you' or 'hello, Ozpin', what he actually says is:
"What are you doing here?"
Because Ford is, of course, a much less unexpected sight outside of a chocolate shop.
Ozpin freezes in time with him, for more reasons than one. He is usually more careful than this in trying not to run too close across Stanford's path, lest the atmosphere remain dreadfully tense; it's a sharper and more startled response than he knows how to field with ease; and he is hungry.
He hasn't— he has been managing the worst effects of Corruption handily, these past months. He has indulged in the sort of gentle conversations with his housemates that are meant to be a balm. He has spent more and more time lighting incense and turning his thoughts to the peaceful white of the Moon Presence's flowers. He has not tasted a drop of blood.
And yet he craves it more direly than ever. The sharp lines of his canines are more pronounced than they've been in months, the predatory flash of his eyes always catching moonlight. He looks as gaunt and distracted as he did at the wedding— perhaps worse.
The scent of Darkblood is always a possible distraction. In the context of Stanford, standing close enough to touch... better he not risk discomfort for the both of them.
Except that, as he steps away and begins to form a mild excuse, all the air seems to go out of the room.
Ah. Ford will generously categorize Ozpin's current appearance as 'not great'. Ford knows Ozpin well enough (and man, what a weird thing to realize) to recognize exactly what he's seeing, and even the most basic application of pattern recognition tells him where this sort of thing has historically gone. And they're in public and broad daylight, in a place with a great deal of witnesses and potential witnesses. Ford will categorize this situation, as well, as 'not great'.
And, somehow, the less-than-ideal aspects of the situation suddenly multiply, driving things from 'not great' to straight up 'bad'. Ford suddenly isn't breathing. For a long moment he doesn't understand why, and ends up silently scolding himself for getting this worked up about running into Ozpin again. A moment later it clicks - it's not that he's not breathing, he can't breathe.
Ford feels his usual mix of deep concern and instant fascination when something so thoroughly threatens his life. This is a little different even by Trench standards. Deerington inflicted suffocation on them a few times, but usually in the form of external threats - manual strangulation, air-tight rooms, drowning, and so on. He's never had his throat just close up before. He bets this is what anaphylaxis is like.
The thing is, Ozpin is also suffering. He... thinks? It's actually hard to focus enough to tell. Ford would scoff if someone told him he was panicking (and if he could breathe) but his thoughts are scattering before he can pin them down, and his heart rate is spiking, and his vision is going hazy around the edges and... ah. Perhaps he is panicking.
Ford didn't get a chance to take a nice deep gulp of air before his throat closed up, so after just a few moments he sways on his feet. He reaches up when he does, scrabbling to grab onto Ozpin's shoulder. He has vague thoughts of both keeping himself upright and keeping Ozpin upright, but who can say how well he'll manage either.
It hits suddenly and without explanation. In one moment Ozpin is startled breathless-- and in the next it has redoubled, and he is truly choking for air. He has gone frozen, a hand jolted halfway to his closed throat, alarm clear on his face.
The moment Stanford closes a hand over his shoulder, it eases. Without thought, he reaches back and tangles a hand in the back of Ford's jacket, holding on as though to keep himself upright. They both catch their breath like that, standing clumsily against each other on the cobblestone street.
"I... imagine this is meant to be our latest trial."
And just like that, it stops. Ford draws in a short, gasping breath, then lets it back out as a confused sigh. He blinks, owlish and confused, and offers a jerky nod at Ozpin's observation.
"I... suppose it is, yes."
Hesitant, he releases Ozpin. When he feels his throat immediately start to close up he grabs onto him once again. He's properly spooked, now, though of course no less fascinated. How peculiar! How inconvenient.
How rude of it, actually, to do this while they're out in public and will surely have to engage in some other nonsense in order to set things right. Things with Ozpin haven't been absolutely terrible lately, but they haven't been what Ford would call great. Ford lingers where he stands for a moment, feeling distinctly awkward and put off. Finally, he huffs out a resigned sigh.
"Come on. I know somewhere..."
Private? Where they won't be interrupted? Where they can talk?
"I know somewhere."
He slides his hand down Ozpin's arm so he can grab his wrist instead, then starts off back down the alley he just emerged from.
Ozpin is certainly making an effort to collect himself, but he has been nothing but wrong-footed in Stanford's presence for some time now, and these certainly aren't ideal circumstances. Ford closes a broad hand around his wrist, and he tenses under it with a moment's hesitation— but he can think of no alternative. There is nowhere convenient he might lead them, and no clever means of cursebreaking he can envision.
Except that he is hungry, as of late, and at this proximity he is so terribly aware of Stanford. The heat of his hands, the tilt of his head and throat, the smell of Darkblood under skin. If this is a means of urging them together to satisfy the demands of his corruption—
"Very well." He follows, and finds it altogether uncomfortable how easily he can fall into step at Stanford's side. He does not mean to seem distant, but there is a troubled anticipation to the way he holds himself, hyper-conscious and wary.
All he knew was that it was cold-- and, even though he grew up in a small island country that was renowned for it's poor weather, he didn't particularly like the cold.
Waver Velvet wanted nothing more than to hide in the back of the flying chariot that was an aspect of Zeus' power made manifest for the use of one of his many sons, with Iskandar's mantle flung over his shoulders while the King of Conquerors himself laughed and told stories with promises of drink, bloodshed, and untold glory. But--
Iskandar was dead.
Waver had witnessed his final ride.
With a shuddering breath, Waver snapped back to wakefulness in an unfamiliar space. This was neither Fuyuki nor his dorm room in London. This was somewhere else entirely, and his only clue that this wasn't entirely a dream was the faded remnants of the command spells on the back of his hand.
He sat up with a groan and hung his head.]
I don't know where I am, [he said to no one in particular, in a voice that was hoarse from disuse and heavy with the estuary accent from the shores of the river he grew up alongside.]
But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to still be in Fuyuki.
[ It isn't often that Ozpin finds himself at the ocean, and rarer still that he pauses to help one of the newly returned. But the turning of the month has left him restless and uneasy, and he catches on each person he passes as though magnetized; there is an impulse, a source of growing frustration, to linger in the company of any friend of stranger on the shore.
What tipped his hand, in the end, is not something he cares to acknowledge: he can smell blood, which is a warning sign to be wary of. He's begun to grow... concerned... as to the possible allure of Darkblood, sweet and potent as it is. When he found a bedraggled and half-conscious young man who smelled familiarly of flowers, he knew this would be safest for them both.
And so: here they sit in a dull and drafty tent on the boardwalk, Ozpin sitting with his hands warmed around a mug of cocoa, another cooling slowly on a makeshift table for his guest. ]
I'm afraid that where you are now is a very long ways away.
[ The young man is familiar in some simpler manner, though it's not one Ozpin can quite place. He sets his cocoa aside and sits forward to regard Waver over his laced fingers. ]
It may take some time to adjust to wakefulness again. Please don't be too alarmed.
[Perhaps it was the dark hair, straight as rain and parted down the middle that brushed against his chin, or eyes that were the same dusky green as the roiling ocean or impending tempest that narrowed with a multitude of insurance unspoken questions-- and the sharp tongue that came with it-- that Ozpin recognized. Waver Velvet took a single bleary look at Ozpin and within a split second half raised his emotional shields in alarm. He had no idea what he was specifically looking at, but he could tell that this person was neither ordinary human nor a Servant.
He hadn't expected this little aspect of being a Master for the will of the Holy Grail to still be in effect-- but he hadn't expected to survive through the end either. At first, he hadn't really given it a thought one way or another, and had come to not even care part way through. Waver had learned that he was just a small person amidst an actual battle between Kings. His wish to be seen and respected was nothing compared to the wish of a man that had ingloriously died at too young of an age to walk the world once more.
But, he had his orders.
Drawing the blanket tight around himself, he struggled to stand on unsteady feet.]
I've gotta get back to check on my grandparents,
[He said quickly, thinking of the Mackenzies and how they had seen through his hypnosis driven con. ]
Half the town's burning-- I've gotta make sure they're okay.
[ Ah, dear. Ozpin leans forward, hands raised in a calming gesture, as the young man struggles upwards. His eyes— he is familiar, a name just out of reach. ]
The way back is not open to us. I'm sorry, but there is nothing to do now but focus on your own safety.
-- I'm alone in a strange place without a wallet, a passport, or a cellphone. That's not very safe.
[He grumbled, glowering at the man who had legs that went on for miles. Waver was almost certain this man was close to Iskandar's height, but not his presence. Waver held his blanket tightly for a second, glad that the folds hid his shaking knees, and quickly flopped back down into the cushions.
He glanced at the cocoa and was tempted to take a sip-- but he didn't feel like being poisoned right away.
Instead of reaching out to take the cocoa, he let out a frustrated scoff.]
I just-- I just wanna sleep for a week. Maybe see a little of Japan. Maybe quit school and go to Greece. I don't know!
[The thoughts and ideas came to him at a rapid pace, each more nonsensical than before. Waver just spat the words out in his internal disarray, each one releasing a little bit of the panic that was bubbling in the core of his soul.
It had only been a short while since he had received his orders from Iskandar, to live and bear witness. The time that had passed since he had stood his ground before the gilded King of Babylonia was even shorter. Iskandar's war cry still echoed in his bones--
He wanted to run. He wanted to cry and scream. He wanted--]
I want Gray.
[The words popped out unbidden. They made no sense to him, but he felt the shift in his internal systems as keenly as he had felt the leylines of Fuyuki tremble along with his own heart beat when Iskandar has stepped from the summoning circle.
The tension that strung out his nerves finally snapped, and a cold gust of wind popped a small black cat from the ether and into his lap.
The cat looked up at the both of them, her pale green eyes cautious but open hearted. She carried a letter in her mouth.
Waver was at a loss for words. He had never owned a cat, and didn't know the first thing about cat ownership.]
W-what?
[He sputtered-- and was stunned into silence when she jumped off of his lap and padded over the short distance to Ozpin. Very politely for a cat, she laid the letter down at his feet with a meaningful look before returning to the boy]
[ It's something in the seasons. Ozpin is resigned to it, by now; he is no worse than faintly irritated when he begins to recognize the signs of a change in himself, the restless pressure for company. He knows that it's needed. He knows he's not doing well.
He has, in truth, been avoiding his housemates. Willow will frown at him in that disapproving, unsettled way if she catches sight of the sharp edges to his teeth, the eerie predator's flash of his eyes in low lighting. Faith will look at him like she's cataloguing nearby weapons, even if there's a guilty tinge to it. It does no one any good.
And yet. Ozpin hovers at the fringes of common spaces, reading his book or sipping his cocoa with the door to the library left open. He chooses an armchair in the living room if Qrow is scrolling the network on the couch. He doesn't quite invite himself into anyone's space, nor anyone into his, but he lingers more and more like a cat hoping for attention.
He receives a questioning press from Oscar about it, here or there, but waves him off. The situation isn't dire enough to require intervention.
[Qrow doesn't quite notice, at first. Since the wedding, he tends to split his time between the rebuilt Clockhouse, Ruby and Ange's place, and Break's. He chats casually with people as he crosses paths with them, sometimes invites them to watch a movie together, and sometimes just naps comfortably -- which isn't nothing, for him; he would never allow himself to sleep in the presence of anyone he didn't fully trust with his life, after all.
He begins to catch on after some time, though, as he starts to bump into Oz more and more in the common spaces rather than his private study or room, or in the kitchen making tea. One afternoon, when he finds Oz settling down with a book in the armchair next to the couch early in the afternoon, he starts to think that maybe this is his way of asking for company. They've spent a year and a half in comfortable retirement in Trench, after all; it makes sense that eventually even Oz might start to get a little bored of his freedom from an unwinnable war.
He stands up, intending to call out and offer an invitation -- to go outside for a spar, maybe some lunch afterward, but the words never make it out of his throat. Nothing does, in fact, and there's a moment of sudden and profound terror in his eyes as he discovers he doesn't have any air before the world seems to pitch sideways.
The paleblood in his veins manages to project a single distressed thought from several feet away: what the fuck? A last-ditch emergency alarm to grab Ozpin's attention before everything threatens to go dark.]
[ Ozpin, for his part, has gone frozen where he sits. He is within arm's reach, but blind to everything but the sudden urgency in his throat and chest. It's only when he catches the flash of emotion from Qrow, clear as Oscar's presence in his mind but viscerally foreign, that he starts up to his feet. His vision speckles black, and he staggers the one step forward.
When Ozpin's hand closes upon Qrow's shoulder, reflexive in distress, breath rushes back to them. ]
[Air rushes back in and his lungs suck it in greedily; Qrow is silent for several moments of coughing and panting before he levels back out, and sort of just...leans against the other man in exhaustion.]
[ Ozpin's expression is rarely so unguarded, but here he shifts from alarm to dawning realization— and irritation. It is, as always, another trial. He much preferred when the dangers of the city stayed out in the streets. ]
In a sense, yes. [ He's still breathless. ] And yet, in another... I imagine this is more of the same.
[ He accepts Qrow's weight on him with a slow, catching sigh. It is a relief to have the itch for contact alleviated, and to breathe easily, but the proximity is not comfortable in all ways: Paleblood smells to him now as a floral wine. ]
[ Welcome, Sleeper. Across from you is a very tall, very disgruntled man in an overwrought green tailcoat. He reaches for something he seems to expect close at hand— a cane, or a weapon, or both— and looks only more put out when he realizes it hasn't come with him.
Lacking any other options, he turns to you. There is, of course, a blurb provided. ]
Waver Velvet took one look at the towering figure that was growing more familiar by the day and pulled out... A flask.
The ease of the motion suggested that this had been planned a few days in advance, and that he had potentially been carrying the small container in the depths of his white outdoors coat for some time. He sighed-- with a face that was still somewhat youthful but the full airs of the man known as Lord El Melloi II fully in place.
"I believe I owe you a few answers," he said in a tone of wary acceptance and finality, and set the flask down between them.
Immediately, Ozpin unwinds from irritation and into open surprise, then relief. His expression warms and he leans into the space between them, the nonsensical circumstances forgotten.
"I'll take you up on both. It is good to see you looking yourself again."
He smiled at that-- equal parts chagrined and charming in his own boyish way. Gray the cat jumped up onto the table, dressed in her own little gray cloak, and made to start pawing at the flask before Waver snatched it back up from the table.
"No, Gray. We talked about this. Throwing drinks off the table in public is impolite!"
With a sigh, he reached over and handed it to Ozpin.
"Don't worry. I know you're a Vileblood too, and that regular alcohol does nothing. I infused herbs like wormwood and comfrey in high proof alcohol that's not typically used for consumption. Most people would find it quite toxic. I just think it tastes better than bleach."
Ozpin smiles faintly at Gray's interjection, and reaches forward willingly to accept the flask. But what Waver says catches him off-guard.
For all that he has known and lived with Vilebloods, Oz is not accustomed to speaking of it aloud, or to managing the odder idiosyncrasies of the condition. He has made very few efforts to find what will bypass his new apparent resistances; for the most part, he simply accepts the whims of each month.
There's a surprising charm in working with, rather than against, one's blood type. He tips the flask in cheers.
"Thank you." At the first sip, he's startled by the taste, but manages it smoothly enough. Oz lowers it from his lips and regards the man on the other side of the table. "Still, I imagine it must be a disconcerting return."
To go from teenager to adult again, stumbling back into a familiar dream.
[The individual in question is honestly even more disgruntled, and by this we mean he is smiling while he radiates an atmosphere of casually murderous intent. His own blurb is bad enough, but tolerable, given that everyone has a stupid one. It's his name tag that's really getting his goat, though, and no matter how he tries to get rid of it the damn thing just keeps reappearing on him.
Hi my name is Kevin Regnard Xerxes Break
Which is why Ozpin's shorter purple mentee-in-law is currently squatting in his chair like a gargoyle, using the arm of it as a little table so he can scribble all over the sticker with the Trench equivalent of a sharpie.]
My dear sir, I think we both know the safest thing to talk about is always food.
[He says darkbloodishly, to the guy who gets all vampiric on off days.]
[ This is certainly a lively response to the situation. For a moment Ozpin looks openly perplexed, but he settles back in behind the usual half-smile and drops his hands, resigned to the absence of his weapon. Or any particularly solid grasp of the situation. ]
Trench does seem to have unusual offerings in that regard.
[ He could mean the only-sometimes-cursed fish stews; he could mean the almost-universally-cursed chocolates. If nothing else, his gaze does not linger on Break's throat. The pallor to his skin has warmed back from deathly towards naturally pale; his eyes do not catch the light like a predator's. There is a sureness to his movements that had been worn off him in the way of a starving creature. For the first time in months, he looks remarkably stable. ]
Mushrooms and curses, yes. I am looking beyond such things these days, and into cuisine from other worlds yet, depressing as it is to learn how many of them seem to have and be content with things like poptarts.
[His scribbling over the nametag comes to naught. The ink of his pen slides off of the letters he's trying to hide. Break scowls at it, considering his next move. He has already had a go at shredding it.]
Did you know that in these various versions of Japan they make pancakes with shreds of cabbage in?
[...does this count as a question? Break is really only half paying attention to this conversation. On the plus side, he absolutely cares far more about his treacherous nametag than he does about the current state of Ozpin's vampirism, so either he is aware that the situation has recently improved or he was not aware that it had become a situation again in the first place.]
I was not. [ Ozpin tips his head with good-natured patience, glad to be finding his footing. ] Though I have certainly become acquainted with poptarts, having shared a kitchen since arrival.
[ With Qrow and Ruby, in particular. Except that Qrow is out half the time, and Ruby is now gone wholesale. ]
I am familiar with Japan only in the broadest terms, I'm afraid. There's still a great deal of local culture that seems unique to Earth— or, I suppose, Earths.
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Madam Generosity is no longer making demands that everyone indulge in the finer things, but he's elected to continue wearing his slightly fancier clothing from last month. It's still quite practical, though: coat, turtleneck, slacks, and shoes instead of boots. Just very nice ones, instead of the 'lovingly worn' to 'slightly tattered' gamut of quality that his clothing typically runs. But despite the indulgence he's on the move, taking rapid notes on the things he observes around him. He's not buying anything and alternates between blowing off and interrogating any shopkeepers that try to assist him. In other words, he looks and acts every inch the combination of anthropologist and wallflower that he actually is.
You'd think he'd learn to not try to write and walk at the same time considering how often it's lead to this exact situation: getting too absorbed in his work, rounding a corner to the next shop on his list, and nearly walking directly into someone else. He takes a startled step back and reaches out on reflex to steady whoever or whatever he just knocked over - and then he freezes, because that turns out to be Ozpin.
He's not expecting to bump into Ozpin, though it's less alarming than running into him has been in the past. He hasn't seen Ozpin since the wedding, which really isn't that dramatic of a gap for them. But he's still startled enough that while he means to say something like 'what a pleasant surprise' or 'I wasn't expecting to run into you' or 'hello, Ozpin', what he actually says is:
"What are you doing here?"
Because Ford is, of course, a much less unexpected sight outside of a chocolate shop.
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He hasn't— he has been managing the worst effects of Corruption handily, these past months. He has indulged in the sort of gentle conversations with his housemates that are meant to be a balm. He has spent more and more time lighting incense and turning his thoughts to the peaceful white of the Moon Presence's flowers. He has not tasted a drop of blood.
And yet he craves it more direly than ever. The sharp lines of his canines are more pronounced than they've been in months, the predatory flash of his eyes always catching moonlight. He looks as gaunt and distracted as he did at the wedding— perhaps worse.
The scent of Darkblood is always a possible distraction. In the context of Stanford, standing close enough to touch... better he not risk discomfort for the both of them.
Except that, as he steps away and begins to form a mild excuse, all the air seems to go out of the room.
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And, somehow, the less-than-ideal aspects of the situation suddenly multiply, driving things from 'not great' to straight up 'bad'. Ford suddenly isn't breathing. For a long moment he doesn't understand why, and ends up silently scolding himself for getting this worked up about running into Ozpin again. A moment later it clicks - it's not that he's not breathing, he can't breathe.
Ford feels his usual mix of deep concern and instant fascination when something so thoroughly threatens his life. This is a little different even by Trench standards. Deerington inflicted suffocation on them a few times, but usually in the form of external threats - manual strangulation, air-tight rooms, drowning, and so on. He's never had his throat just close up before. He bets this is what anaphylaxis is like.
The thing is, Ozpin is also suffering. He... thinks? It's actually hard to focus enough to tell. Ford would scoff if someone told him he was panicking (and if he could breathe) but his thoughts are scattering before he can pin them down, and his heart rate is spiking, and his vision is going hazy around the edges and... ah. Perhaps he is panicking.
Ford didn't get a chance to take a nice deep gulp of air before his throat closed up, so after just a few moments he sways on his feet. He reaches up when he does, scrabbling to grab onto Ozpin's shoulder. He has vague thoughts of both keeping himself upright and keeping Ozpin upright, but who can say how well he'll manage either.
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The moment Stanford closes a hand over his shoulder, it eases. Without thought, he reaches back and tangles a hand in the back of Ford's jacket, holding on as though to keep himself upright. They both catch their breath like that, standing clumsily against each other on the cobblestone street.
"I... imagine this is meant to be our latest trial."
He can think of nothing to say but the obvious.
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"I... suppose it is, yes."
Hesitant, he releases Ozpin. When he feels his throat immediately start to close up he grabs onto him once again. He's properly spooked, now, though of course no less fascinated. How peculiar! How inconvenient.
How rude of it, actually, to do this while they're out in public and will surely have to engage in some other nonsense in order to set things right. Things with Ozpin haven't been absolutely terrible lately, but they haven't been what Ford would call great. Ford lingers where he stands for a moment, feeling distinctly awkward and put off. Finally, he huffs out a resigned sigh.
"Come on. I know somewhere..."
Private? Where they won't be interrupted? Where they can talk?
"I know somewhere."
He slides his hand down Ozpin's arm so he can grab his wrist instead, then starts off back down the alley he just emerged from.
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Except that he is hungry, as of late, and at this proximity he is so terribly aware of Stanford. The heat of his hands, the tilt of his head and throat, the smell of Darkblood under skin. If this is a means of urging them together to satisfy the demands of his corruption—
"Very well." He follows, and finds it altogether uncomfortable how easily he can fall into step at Stanford's side. He does not mean to seem distant, but there is a troubled anticipation to the way he holds himself, hyper-conscious and wary.
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Sometime after Applejack starts running amok...
All he knew was that it was cold-- and, even though he grew up in a small island country that was renowned for it's poor weather, he didn't particularly like the cold.
Waver Velvet wanted nothing more than to hide in the back of the flying chariot that was an aspect of Zeus' power made manifest for the use of one of his many sons, with Iskandar's mantle flung over his shoulders while the King of Conquerors himself laughed and told stories with promises of drink, bloodshed, and untold glory. But--
Iskandar was dead.
Waver had witnessed his final ride.
With a shuddering breath, Waver snapped back to wakefulness in an unfamiliar space. This was neither Fuyuki nor his dorm room in London. This was somewhere else entirely, and his only clue that this wasn't entirely a dream was the faded remnants of the command spells on the back of his hand.
He sat up with a groan and hung his head.]
I don't know where I am, [he said to no one in particular, in a voice that was hoarse from disuse and heavy with the estuary accent from the shores of the river he grew up alongside.]
But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to still be in Fuyuki.
no subject
What tipped his hand, in the end, is not something he cares to acknowledge: he can smell blood, which is a warning sign to be wary of. He's begun to grow... concerned... as to the possible allure of Darkblood, sweet and potent as it is. When he found a bedraggled and half-conscious young man who smelled familiarly of flowers, he knew this would be safest for them both.
And so: here they sit in a dull and drafty tent on the boardwalk, Ozpin sitting with his hands warmed around a mug of cocoa, another cooling slowly on a makeshift table for his guest. ]
I'm afraid that where you are now is a very long ways away.
[ The young man is familiar in some simpler manner, though it's not one Ozpin can quite place. He sets his cocoa aside and sits forward to regard Waver over his laced fingers. ]
It may take some time to adjust to wakefulness again. Please don't be too alarmed.
Cw: war trauma, type moon
He hadn't expected this little aspect of being a Master for the will of the Holy Grail to still be in effect-- but he hadn't expected to survive through the end either. At first, he hadn't really given it a thought one way or another, and had come to not even care part way through. Waver had learned that he was just a small person amidst an actual battle between Kings. His wish to be seen and respected was nothing compared to the wish of a man that had ingloriously died at too young of an age to walk the world once more.
But, he had his orders.
Drawing the blanket tight around himself, he struggled to stand on unsteady feet.]
I've gotta get back to check on my grandparents,
[He said quickly, thinking of the Mackenzies and how they had seen through his hypnosis driven con. ]
Half the town's burning-- I've gotta make sure they're okay.
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The way back is not open to us. I'm sorry, but there is nothing to do now but focus on your own safety.
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[He grumbled, glowering at the man who had legs that went on for miles. Waver was almost certain this man was close to Iskandar's height, but not his presence. Waver held his blanket tightly for a second, glad that the folds hid his shaking knees, and quickly flopped back down into the cushions.
He glanced at the cocoa and was tempted to take a sip-- but he didn't feel like being poisoned right away.
Instead of reaching out to take the cocoa, he let out a frustrated scoff.]
I just-- I just wanna sleep for a week. Maybe see a little of Japan. Maybe quit school and go to Greece. I don't know!
[The thoughts and ideas came to him at a rapid pace, each more nonsensical than before. Waver just spat the words out in his internal disarray, each one releasing a little bit of the panic that was bubbling in the core of his soul.
It had only been a short while since he had received his orders from Iskandar, to live and bear witness. The time that had passed since he had stood his ground before the gilded King of Babylonia was even shorter. Iskandar's war cry still echoed in his bones--
He wanted to run. He wanted to cry and scream. He wanted--]
I want Gray.
[The words popped out unbidden. They made no sense to him, but he felt the shift in his internal systems as keenly as he had felt the leylines of Fuyuki tremble along with his own heart beat when Iskandar has stepped from the summoning circle.
The tension that strung out his nerves finally snapped, and a cold gust of wind popped a small black cat from the ether and into his lap.
The cat looked up at the both of them, her pale green eyes cautious but open hearted. She carried a letter in her mouth.
Waver was at a loss for words. He had never owned a cat, and didn't know the first thing about cat ownership.]
W-what?
[He sputtered-- and was stunned into silence when she jumped off of his lap and padded over the short distance to Ozpin. Very politely for a cat, she laid the letter down at his feet with a meaningful look before returning to the boy]
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for qrow, after ford.
He has, in truth, been avoiding his housemates. Willow will frown at him in that disapproving, unsettled way if she catches sight of the sharp edges to his teeth, the eerie predator's flash of his eyes in low lighting. Faith will look at him like she's cataloguing nearby weapons, even if there's a guilty tinge to it. It does no one any good.
And yet. Ozpin hovers at the fringes of common spaces, reading his book or sipping his cocoa with the door to the library left open. He chooses an armchair in the living room if Qrow is scrolling the network on the couch. He doesn't quite invite himself into anyone's space, nor anyone into his, but he lingers more and more like a cat hoping for attention.
He receives a questioning press from Oscar about it, here or there, but waves him off. The situation isn't dire enough to require intervention.
He will be fine. ]
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He begins to catch on after some time, though, as he starts to bump into Oz more and more in the common spaces rather than his private study or room, or in the kitchen making tea. One afternoon, when he finds Oz settling down with a book in the armchair next to the couch early in the afternoon, he starts to think that maybe this is his way of asking for company. They've spent a year and a half in comfortable retirement in Trench, after all; it makes sense that eventually even Oz might start to get a little bored of his freedom from an unwinnable war.
He stands up, intending to call out and offer an invitation -- to go outside for a spar, maybe some lunch afterward, but the words never make it out of his throat. Nothing does, in fact, and there's a moment of sudden and profound terror in his eyes as he discovers he doesn't have any air before the world seems to pitch sideways.
The paleblood in his veins manages to project a single distressed thought from several feet away: what the fuck? A last-ditch emergency alarm to grab Ozpin's attention before everything threatens to go dark.]
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When Ozpin's hand closes upon Qrow's shoulder, reflexive in distress, breath rushes back to them. ]
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...Well, this is new.
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In a sense, yes. [ He's still breathless. ] And yet, in another... I imagine this is more of the same.
[ He accepts Qrow's weight on him with a slow, catching sigh. It is a relief to have the itch for contact alleviated, and to breathe easily, but the proximity is not comfortable in all ways: Paleblood smells to him now as a floral wine. ]
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comes back in here SO late with starbucks rip, when will grad hell free me
speed dating!
Lacking any other options, he turns to you. There is, of course, a blurb provided. ]
Very well. Where should we begin?
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The ease of the motion suggested that this had been planned a few days in advance, and that he had potentially been carrying the small container in the depths of his white outdoors coat for some time. He sighed-- with a face that was still somewhat youthful but the full airs of the man known as Lord El Melloi II fully in place.
"I believe I owe you a few answers," he said in a tone of wary acceptance and finality, and set the flask down between them.
"And a drink."
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"I'll take you up on both. It is good to see you looking yourself again."
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He smiled at that-- equal parts chagrined and charming in his own boyish way. Gray the cat jumped up onto the table, dressed in her own little gray cloak, and made to start pawing at the flask before Waver snatched it back up from the table.
"No, Gray. We talked about this. Throwing drinks off the table in public is impolite!"
With a sigh, he reached over and handed it to Ozpin.
"Don't worry. I know you're a Vileblood too, and that regular alcohol does nothing. I infused herbs like wormwood and comfrey in high proof alcohol that's not typically used for consumption. Most people would find it quite toxic. I just think it tastes better than bleach."
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For all that he has known and lived with Vilebloods, Oz is not accustomed to speaking of it aloud, or to managing the odder idiosyncrasies of the condition. He has made very few efforts to find what will bypass his new apparent resistances; for the most part, he simply accepts the whims of each month.
There's a surprising charm in working with, rather than against, one's blood type. He tips the flask in cheers.
"Thank you." At the first sip, he's startled by the taste, but manages it smoothly enough. Oz lowers it from his lips and regards the man on the other side of the table. "Still, I imagine it must be a disconcerting return."
To go from teenager to adult again, stumbling back into a familiar dream.
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Hi my name is
Kevin RegnardXerxes Break
Which is why Ozpin's shorter purple mentee-in-law is currently squatting in his chair like a gargoyle, using the arm of it as a little table so he can scribble all over the sticker with the Trench equivalent of a sharpie.]
My dear sir, I think we both know the safest thing to talk about is always food.
[He says darkbloodishly, to the guy who gets all vampiric on off days.]
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Trench does seem to have unusual offerings in that regard.
[ He could mean the only-sometimes-cursed fish stews; he could mean the almost-universally-cursed chocolates. If nothing else, his gaze does not linger on Break's throat. The pallor to his skin has warmed back from deathly towards naturally pale; his eyes do not catch the light like a predator's. There is a sureness to his movements that had been worn off him in the way of a starving creature. For the first time in months, he looks remarkably stable. ]
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[His scribbling over the nametag comes to naught. The ink of his pen slides off of the letters he's trying to hide. Break scowls at it, considering his next move. He has already had a go at shredding it.]
Did you know that in these various versions of Japan they make pancakes with shreds of cabbage in?
[...does this count as a question? Break is really only half paying attention to this conversation. On the plus side, he absolutely cares far more about his treacherous nametag than he does about the current state of Ozpin's vampirism, so either he is aware that the situation has recently improved or he was not aware that it had become a situation again in the first place.]
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[ With Qrow and Ruby, in particular. Except that Qrow is out half the time, and Ruby is now gone wholesale. ]
I am familiar with Japan only in the broadest terms, I'm afraid. There's still a great deal of local culture that seems unique to Earth— or, I suppose, Earths.
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