o2 . autumn catchall

[clocktowers]

Who: clocktowers and CR.
What: A catch-all log.
When: October / November
Where: Trench

Content Warnings: Tagged in subject lines as needed.

Comments

[ qrow; october. ]

[clocktowers]

[ continued from here. ]

[clocktowers]

[ He had expected this. When the headaches first hit Oscar— and, in inconvenient echo, Ozpin— they'd discovered that a gentle mental dialogue, a sense of closeness between them, provided some breath of relief. When they settled together in the library to read, tucked up close on one of the faded sofas, the pain drained away like water.

Of course it wouldn't just be Oscar. The only surprise is that the next victim is Qrow, and that it's struck him hard enough that the man holes up on the couch without even the opportunity for shame. By the time Ozpin arrives in the doorway and finds him, sprawled carefully still and with all the curtains drawn...

There would have been a little kick of habit that said hangover, once. It's rather remarkable he doesn't go immediately to the assumption; he does not even need to think and dismiss it. He simply recognizes the headache, tips his head in thoughtful sympathy, and goes to make some tea.

When he returns, Qrow proves himself cognizant enough to murmur a good guess. Ozpin gives a soft sound of affirmation, and sets the ginger tea down upon the table. ]

I thought a delivery might be of some use.

[ In honesty, he doesn't know what will help. Touch had soothed Oscar, but he and Oscar have a singular relationship.

It will not hurt to start with tea. ]

[bolstafir]

[A little less than a year ago, Qrow had told Ozpin about his efforts with sobriety, and how he'd felt as though a single bad day could tip him over the edge. He'd only been a few months in, then, still white-knuckling his way through many of those bad days. Back then, the man had told him it gets easier with time, and Qrow hadn't been certain he believed there could ever be enough time before it did. Not enough for a mortal lifespan, anyway.

A year later, and though it is by no means easy, he no longer feels so much as though he is struggling. So perhaps it is only natural that Ozpin, who has lived that challenge over many lifetimes, has noticed that change. That he understands the situation entirely when he spots Qrow laid out on the couch. A result of Trench's whims, rather than his own choices.

As Ozpin approaches closer with the tea, the pounding in Qrow's head eases just enough that he can sit upright.]

Thanks.

[He reaches out for the tea, sipping carefully so as not to burn himself. It's a little funny; he doesn't think he ever drank quite so much tea in Remnant as he had in Deerington and now Trench. At least the teas in Trench are not as likely to be cursed, right?]

You been to the festival yet?

[He's definitely not getting up off this couch anytime soon, so he might as well engage in some smalltalk, headache be damned, lest he die of boredom instead.]

[clocktowers]

[ If it is a worrying sign that Qrow has made so little effort to mask his pain, it's a good sign that he is talking through it. Ozpin takes the seat across from him, settling gently into the chair. Much of the furniture in this room is new and still unfamiliar; whatever stretch of time separated the manor in Deerington from its incarnation in Trench, the span had not been kind to his belongings. The seaspray seems to creep all through everything and leave it smelling of blood and mildew.

The work they have done— Oscar, particularly— is remarkable. The room does not feel quite as it did in Deerington, but he is all the more fond for that.

Everything about this life is new, and utterly a relief. ]

I took in the sights for a short while. [ He crosses his legs and sips his tea, half an eye on Qrow and the pained set of his shoulders. ] There is a particularly enthusiastic emphasis on costume. It's quite something to see.

[bolstafir]

[Although Qrow does not realize it, the proximity helps. He sits a little straighter as Ozpin settles in the chair across, the intense demands of his body to lie down with his eyes closed slowly fading into a dull murmur at the back of his mind.]

Right? I swear I must've seen like a dozen stands selling masks. ...Never got around to picking one out, though.

[He makes a faintly disgruntled noise. The pain is not so bad as it was when Break had his Omen carry Qrow home, but he's still aware enough of it to be frustrated. He had been enjoying himself, before the migraine struck.]

[clocktowers]

Unfortunate timing, to be sure. But the festivities show no sign of slowing. You may have an opportunity yet.

[ Qrow may not notice the shift, but Ozpin certainly does. It had been intuitive, natural, for his presence to soothe Oscar. Here he is less certain—

—but growing more certain as Qrow seems to steady by degrees. For now, Ozpin simply sips his tea and leans in with his elbows upon his knees. ]

What sort of mask would you choose? If the local folklore is to be believed, they serve a vital role in the town's defenses.

[bolstafir]

I dunno, probably something bird-themed? Stick with the usual aesthetic. Think anything else would just feel weird at this point.

[Qrow is, if nothing else, Committed to his brand, okay. It is something of a hard-won thing; when he was young, new at Beacon, he had hated his connection to that bird and its associated superstition.

The masks feel little more than that, and his kneejerk instinct had first been to ignore it, but he has learned not to underestimate Deerington. Trench is liable to be the same.]

How about you?

[clocktowers]

[ He tips his head in fond agreement. ]

There has been a notable lack of my preferred imagery. I have been holding out hope, but I may need to fall back upon other options. I did see a rather handsome owl mask among the stalls.

[ A beat, and: ] Though I think I will leave that symbol to Oscar, if he wants it.

[ Speaking of Oscar and his identity has always been... fraught, put gently. It very much still is. But there is a different quality to the topic, now; there is no storm hanging over them. ]

[bolstafir]

...Think he'd like that.

[He couldn't know Oscar as well as Ozpin does, of course, not sharing a soul or a headspace, but the owl had been one of Oscar's first acts of asserting his own identity, in Deerington. Letting him take on that imagery for his personal brand, rather than sharing the gears and clocks with Oz sounds like a poignant symbol of their newfound freedom.]

Hey, all else fails, you could always make one to your taste, right?

[Oz has been around for so many millennia he cannot imagine at least one of those lives wasn't some manner of artist or craftsperson okay. Now that there's no longer an endless unwinnable war to fight, it seems like the perfect time to start pursuing some hobbies again.]

[ ford, november. ]

[clocktowers]

cws: hand trauma, torture, captivity, confusion and dissociation

[clocktowers]

He is aware of the hooks.

In sluggish, reeling moments, he wonders at the state of his hands. Memories bleed in and out of the present. She had him bound by the wrists, strung up in the dark; now there is agony through his palms, flaring with every shift of his weight. Something unyielding grinds through his metacarpals, and it might be metal or might be living Grimm.

He is deafened by a low beat of machinery and the quiet keening of prisoners. This makes little sense; she'd had him alone; but he keeps catching on how alone he is, and losing track of all else. He keeps reaching for the thrum of Oscar's panic in his mind, fast and light as a bird's heartbeat, and he finds nothing there but a muddy awareness of pain. He is only himself, and does not know who that is.

The wizard hangs by his broken hands, blurrily half-conscious, strung up on an old metal meat hook. They've stripped him nude, sliced tidy cuts into the insides of his arms and thighs, and left him to bleed out into a collection pail.

He should have, by now. Vileblood runs down his body in thin green rivulets— but slower than it ought to. There's some thrum of energy in it he can't quite reach.

[cryptograms]

Ford wakes up in a place he doesn't recognize, some sort of horrible metallic labyrinth where he's surrounded on all sides by the sounds of machinery and human suffering, and he thinks to himself, There it is. He had almost gotten used to the relative peace of life in Trench, but the ever-paranoid part of him has been waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it finally has, in the most gruesome way imaginable.

Some chafing from the shackles and a burn from veering too close to the wall are the most severe of Ford's injuries, something he attributes entirely to being lucky enough to wake up sooner rather than later. The other prisoners he's come across haven't been so lucky. Most of them are dead, some of them are still dying, and a few are nothing more than unrecognizable piles of meat and viscera. All of them have been beyond helping. So Ford continues on, looting some protective clothing piecemeal in the hopes that they might give him just enough of and edge to survive.

He's not expecting to run into anyone alive as he slinks through the hallways, occasionally ducking into empty nooks and rooms to escape the notice of whoever it is that kidnapped them, and he hopes he doesn't run into anyone he recognizes. So it's a deeply unpleasant shock when he slinks through an open doorway, glances towards the back of the room, and focuses his gaze on--

"Ozpin?!" Despite his shock, the name comes out as a strangled, almost-whisper, the urgency of needing to remain quiet not loosening its grip on Ford yet.

For a moment, all he can do is stare in horrified unease. Ford has been actively avoiding Ozpin. Ford is still aggravated with Ozpin, and quite happy to never see him again. Ford doesn't want him hurt, however, just away from him. He's not happy to have run into him again, but he's even less happy to see the other man in such a gruesomely brutalized state.

Despite his misgivings Ford actually edges closer to Ozpin after a moment. He might be, like everyone else Ford has run into thus far, completely beyond any hope of saving - but there's a chance that he's not, and despite everything that's happened Ford can't just leave him here.

[clocktowers]

It's a familiar voice.

Ozpin stirs and is immediately punished for it; trying to lift his head flexes something in his shoulders and jars his hands. He gasps and stills again, blinking down at a floor of rust and blood.

He is blurrily aware of his injuries, but the cuts have the deep numb ache of something truly wrong. Best not to move until-- until he can...

What can he do? He can wait to wake again somewhere else. Or he can reach for the thrum of power that should be deep in his chest.

The thin rivulets of Vileblood down his body flicker with a thready green light, like Aura nearly broken; the drops hang suspended in the air a moment, as though reluctant to fall. Ozpin draws a rattling breath with the swell of some need he does not understand.

[cryptograms]

Ozpin is alive, but Ford isn't actually sure that's a good thing. It's clear even from down on the floor that he's in horrible shape, and the sharp gasp in response to a movement as simple as trying to lift his head isn't reassuring. The flicker is green is noted and promptly dismissed; if Ozpin were capable of using his magic to any real degree right now he'd already be free. Which means... getting him down is Ford's job now. Alright.

He calls on Castor, first, the little bat swirling into existence a bit more sluggishly than usual. She shows up all the same, however, and after a murmured order from Ford she flits through the door and back into the hallway to keep an eye out for trouble. Ford doesn't wait for her to report back; instead he starts scanning the room for a way to fix this problem. It doesn't take him long to locate the winch that's keeping the hook - and thus Ozpin - suspended in the air. He hurries over to it but pauses before he actually touches anything. The winch is hand-powered which means it likely works, but it's rusted to hell and back and doesn't look like it's going to turn smoothly at all. The silence hangs for a moment, and then:

"I'm going to get you down - but it's going to be rough." Even the slightest jostle would be agony and there's bound to be a lot of them, but leaving him up there isn't an option. So with that warning given, Ford starts the slow, touchy process of lowering Ozpin down as gently as possible. He ends up needing to use both hands for the process, one to actually crank the winch and the other to brace the handle and minimize any sudden jerks and jostles. The whole time he works he keeps waiting for part of him to feel frustrated and resentful about the situation and to think he'd be better off just leaving Ozpin here.

That feeling never comes. Ford's not sure if that's a good thing, either.

[clocktowers]

The green glow cuts out again within moments, anyway, and the drops of Vileblood resume falling. But when Ford speaks again, Ozpin lets his head loll to the side and squints out from the silver mess of his hair. Long as it is now, mussed free of the ponytail, it hides his face behind cowlicks and brushes his shoulders.

There is a new quality to his eyes, an unnatural copper-green sheen that catches the low light. Ozpin does not notice; Ozpin is aware only of the recognition breaking over him like cool water.

"Stanford."

His voice comes rasped and ragged, half a sigh. There is still no mistaking the depth of his relief.

He does not truly parse the warning until the machinery shifts, and rusted metal grates through his ruined palms. Ozpin gasps; tenses, arches, makes a horrible sound low in his throat; then recognizes he has to be still, and goes obediently limp. He knows this. It hits close enough to remembered pain, remembered helplessness, that he can submit to muddled instinct.

It doesn't stop the sounds he makes, low and ragged, at each jolt on the way down.

[cryptograms]

Ford hasn't really seen Ozpin since Deerington - that horrifically awkward-in-hindsight meeting on the boardwalk doesn't count, since Ford hadn't recognized him enough to notice any changes. Now's the first chance he's had to really process the differences. Like that Ozpin's hair is so long now, long enough that it's long since stopped sticking up in the back. That his eyes have picked up a weird coppery sheen that Ford initially assumes is some effect of his blood type - which Ford, of course, recognizes as Vileblood, though he wonders why he's never seen a similar effect in Mabel.

He also notices how little is different. Which makes sense, of course, since it's not like a man in his 40s is going to go through many dramatic physical changes in such a short period of time. Ozpin is still tall, still slender, still all long proportions that Ford is certain Ozpin can make as graceful as ever. Though he can't see it from here, he's certain the circular scar from their encounter with the Pthumerian Queen is exactly where it's always been, too.

But it's the relief that's the most jarring, disquieting touch of familiarity to the scene, like automatically walking back to his old dorm after the new year started, or trying to hang his coat in its old spot when he moved the rack months ago. It feels like when he recognized Ozma as Ozpin when they were trapped in the lab, but they're not in the lab; they're in some sort of nightmare of living machine and they haven't spoken to each other in months. If Ford hadd been asked even an hour earlier how Ozpin might react upon meeting him in a dire situation, 'being relieved' wouldn't be in his list of answers.

Ford sometimes struggles to deal with even the simplest of heated emotions, so the complicated, tangle mess this inspires gets filed away as a firm 'deal with it later'. For now, he simply nods and returns his attention to the winch - though of course, the horrible sounds the process drags out of Ozpin make the decision to 'deal with it later' increasingly difficult to comment to. He thinks he'd trade just about anything for a whole can of WD-40 to dump all over the stupid thing.

But eventually the slow, torturous trip to the floor ends, and once Ford is sure the pressure is completely off Ozpin's hands he doesn't hesitate to abandon his station and hurry over to the other man. It occurs to him that he has no magic, no supplies, no spare clothing for Ozpin, not even any sort of rag or scrap of cloth he might be able to use to stem the bleeding. And, he realizes once he steps closer, nothing to protect him against the strange headiness that comes from standing in close proximity to freshly spilled Vileblood. The last part he can shake off as a moment of focus, at least, and the rest...

Well, if there was a way in then there must be a way out, and if nothing else Ford can at least carry Ozpin to safety. For now, though, he'll start with making sure Oz won't completely collapse now that he's on the floor.

[clocktowers]

His feet hit the floor, and Ozpin is not ready for it; he tries to brace himself upright, but at the first ungainly stagger it only puts weight on his hands again. He hisses another cracked groan, and manages only to crumple to his knees and stay there. His elbows and shoulders blaze with stiff agony, but he can at least let his speared hands sink to his lap.

The haze is crystallizing back into an off-kilter but comprehensible reality. He is only himself because Oscar is somewhere very far away, the spark of his mind muted as though behind a heavy curtain. Stanford is here. This is Deerington.

The scent of flowers, those moonlit blooms on a distant shore, is strong enough to choke him. This is Trench.

It closes his throat to see the familiar lines of Stanford's shoulders with that perfume in the air. Ozpin watches him for a long, breathless moment, his pupils flared wide and uncannily reflective. There is still something brewing in him, too jumbled to touch: a fervent need, a simmering energy, something wound tight.

He knows it as a weight in his bones: Stanford has washed his hands of him. He remembers that earnest stranger upon the boardwalk; he remembers the stone-faced man on the shore. This is a hero's obligation, an instant's truce.

It does not stop him leaning into that first steadying touch.

He cannot put the owed Thank you to voice. Instead he croaks, "Truly— a reunion in full Deerington style."

[ qrow, following the sleeper farm. ]

[clocktowers]

[ It is only once Stanford has gone that Ozpin remotely relaxes.

This is not his first time staggering home with one slim arm around Qrow's shoulders. This is the first time he's been leaving smears of tacky, half-dried green blood as they go. He has half a mind to apologize for the dizzying nature of fresh Vileblood, which he has only just recalled might provide an issue, but there are so many elements of the situation one might apologize for that the smell seems rather trivial.

In the end he says nothing, and simply does his best not to be so much dead weight.

He is at least slightly dressed, which helps with his battered dignity; but not by much, given that he wears only the drab black cloak scrounged off a recent corpse. The boots fit badly enough that he might be better off going barefoot in the snow. Still, the outfit at least conceals the raw half-healed cuts upon his arms and thighs, and he only hisses a little when the wool rubs wrong and chafes at them.

It does nothing to conceal the wreckage of his hands. No impromptu blood healing will sort that damage: the messy puncture through each palm twinges at him with every step. ]

Well. [ His voice comes fainter than he'd like, but with a touch of its usual humor. ] I cannot say this is wholly unexpected.

[ It's only surprising they made it this long without gore and horror, after Deerington. ]

[bolstafir]

[For the past couple months, Qrow has not thought too deeply about the meaning of his new blood. It is a different and strange color under the moonlight, yes, but he is intact in all the ways he understands otherwise. He still feels the presence of Aura in his soul, the weight of his Semblance, the spark of magic that allows him to abandon his form and become a bird.

It is in November where he first learns what Paleblood does. The visions are sudden and jarring, rousing him first from sleep in what he assumed to be a nightmare before growing more insistent, leading him to the exact part of town where Ford and Oz emerged from the farm, the smell of Vileblood in the air confirming he is indeed in the right place.

Really, after October, he should've seen this coming. Things couldn't have stayed as peaceful as they had forever, after all. A storm has been overdue for far too long. He can't help but wonder, though -- what triggered the vision? Where did it come from? Could he have ... had it sooner, to have found Oz before he ended up in the state he was in now? In the coming months that question will slowly grab hold of him, the siren call of being useful overtaking good sense, but for the moment he's just focused on getting Oz home to rest and recover. Focused enough that even the disorienting strikes of vileblood are countered by those same prophetic microflashes, presenting him the correct path when he loses momentary track of where he is and which direction he's meant to be going.

Oz's voice, too, further stabilizes him in the moment.]

Guess every vacation's gotta end sometime, huh.

[Even now, the streets of Trench are suspiciously tranquil, despite what he could clearly see in his mind's eye. Almost as though the Pthumerians are taunting them with their very lives. It's still better than Remnant, but for a brief time, Qrow had almost forgotten that particular flavor of helpless frustration, and the resentment it spiked under his veins of being messed with by powers outside his control yet again.]

...We're almost home. [Home, what a strange word to use about a place you've lived in barely three months. But it is now, isn't it? Now that they've abandoned Remnant once and for all. It still tastes strange on Qrow's tongue.] How're you holding up?

[clocktowers]

[ Ozpin exhales a breath that might have, under profoundly different circumstances, been an attempt at a laugh. As it stands, he has no energy for that now. The best he can manage is to keep his feet moving, and not to list from Qrow's shoulders towards the ground. Even the bite of cold air is little help to move him along; he is too thoroughly numbed by exhaustion. ]

I will be alright. [ It's still weaker, softer, than he would prefer. He tries to put an element of certainty into it. ] Given an opportunity to rest and regain Aura...

[ But that's half the trouble; he has no Aura now. Not of the usual sort. What he has instead—

Well. He focuses on the smell of seaspray and wet cobblestones, and tries to pay no mind to the warmth of the body beside him. It's untoward in a way he'll not entertain, that he is so keenly aware of the pale line of Qrow's throat. ]

Still. I must thank you for the rescue.

[bolstafir]

[It is both reminiscent and isn't, of the time they did this last winter. Back then, by the time Qrow found him, he had already collapsed in the snow, and there was nothing for it but to carry him entirely upon his back. That time, it was his own cape he'd offered as thin protection from the cold, rather than a foreign cloak. But the weakness of his voice, the strain of lungs against the small of his back are achingly familiar. Enough so that he almost offers to carry him properly, and might have if he'd found Ozpin on his own.

But the vision had been late, and instead he was only able to take Oz off Ford's hands. A relief for both of them, it was clear, but those dissatisfied feelings churn in him, as they draw closer to home, with less potential dangers in their path with every succeeding step.]

Heh...not sure it really counts as a rescue.

[Unless you mean from your ex is on his tongue, a quip to lighten the mood, but something about it tastes wrong. The misery had been too writ on their faces for teasing, and not for the first time but perhaps more intensely than previously, Qrow wonders just what happened between them. The joke hangs in the air without a punchline, and he pretends he does not realize it reveals some of his heart in shielding Ozpin's.

There is something of a profound personal cruelty in showing a man cursed with bringing misfortune the images of a loved one suffering only after it has already come to pass. As though a cosmic joke, a reminder of his nature, that damage mitigation is all he can ever hope for. But when already operating at a negative at all times, perhaps anything that brings him a little closer to breaking even should be treated as a welcome development. It's better than nothing, in the end, yet Qrow still feels the sting of it. Better than nothing, but not enough. Just short of useful.]

[clocktowers]

[ He hears the aborted joke and cannot quite be grateful it isn't said; he is too keenly aware of the empty space it leaves. He is too tired to say anything at all.

Ozpin remains silent as they stagger home. He remains conscious all through it, which means the situation is better than it might be, but also that he must endure the long trip back. Even this sliver of stability couldn't be managed without all he'd done to Stanford, he knows. He'd had very little choice. They'd both had very little choice.

Now it feels that he's backed even Qrow into this; as though they are all simply running through the motions required of them by Deerington (Trench, but what is the difference?). They are each trapped by need and circumstance. He is so very tired.

When they reach the grand doors of the manor, Ozpin takes his own weight long enough to lean against the doorjamb so that Qrow can let them in. ]

A bit of rest and I will be alright.

[ Perhaps if he says it enough times, he will think it true. ]

[bolstafir]

[The silence feels almost impossibly heavy. Qrow is not someone who tends to feel the need to fill empty air with words, who finds companionable silence to be comforting more often than not. But the silence on this walk is stifling, leaving Qrow with only a lingering undefined guilt over not getting there sooner as Oz dwells on what horrors he faced in there. He doesn't as Oz if he wants to talk about it; he knows from experience that it would be akin to asking if the man would like to take a bath in a tub of salt water right now, and Qrow knows if their positions were reversed, he'd feel the same way.]

'Course you will.

[The reassurance hits strangely, like another echo of the last time they did this. When Ozpin returned from being tortured by Salem and promptly got lost in a blizzard to fetch Oscar. But of course he'll be fine, right? This isn't so bad that Aura couldn't fix it in a couple days, right...? Oz was more seriously wounded back then, after all.

He tries not to let the anxiety show. Of course Oz will be fine. He's Oz.

(He is only a man.)

Qrow pauses once they're inside, unsure whether to head for the stairs or stop at the couches in the living room.]

You wanna go up to your room, or take a break here first?

[clocktowers]

[ Oz pauses for only a beat, a tiny hesitation, before he steels himself. ]

Better to make it all the way upstairs, I think. Let's continue.

[ He now thinks it unlikely that he'll run himself so ragged he passes out on the stairs. Before Stanford, he would not have survived even long enough to escape that holding floor. Without the zealot that tried to drag them back...

Well. Better not to dwell on any of it: not what could have happened, or the entirely different horror that did. All he truly wants now is to rest and think of something else entirely. ]

The others are safe, I trust?

[ It's his first real attempt at conversation, and plainly meant to distract. ]

[bolstafir]

Yeah. Everyone here's good.

[He is glad Ruby and Ange have already long-since gotten through their ordeal. All three of them absent from the house at once would've been entirely too much.

He's aware of the deflection inherent in this shift in conversation, but Qrow is inclined to let him have it. If their roles were reversed, what he had just escaped would be the last thing he would want to talk about, too. Instead, he shifts to take more of Ozpin's weight as they approach the first step.]

Alright, up we go. Hang on tight.

[He's not sure if he ought to finish this as quickly as possible, like ripping off a bandaid, or if slow and steady is better for climbing up a staircase, which, he knows from experience, is roughly torture when you're injured. He splits the difference and starts climbing briskly, but he's paying close attention to Oz's reactions, and he always pauses briefly if Oz makes a noise of pain or squeezes tighter against his shoulders at any point.]

Y'know, Ruby was joking when she said it, but one of those stairlift things really would be useful for when we get hurt around here.

[This one, too, is perhaps a bit of a strained joke, but less so because it's a painful joke to make this time and more because of the whole bunch of not talking they're doing about the blood-soaked elephant in the room.]