[ Ozpin sits up, and for all that they have not been here terribly long— it has all rather blurred together— he is plainly a mess. His hair is mussed and sticks up in silver cowlicks. His own glasses have gone, indeed, somewhere; he looks vastly younger and less put-together, bare-faced like this. His Pthumerian-gifted shirt and coat are still on, which looks a bit ridiculous with his long pale legs bare. The scar at his throat is on display, and the scars on his wrists and palms, and he does not have the presence of mind to be self-conscious of either.
He threads a hand back through his hair, which only rumples it more badly, and tries to blink away the pleasant haze of satisfaction. It doesn't quite work; he still looks as though he's only just woken up. ]
Oh.
[ Reality begins to set in. He blinks again, this time as though he's faced with a difficult puzzle; it furrows his brow. He raises a hand to wipe absently at the edge of his mouth, for fear he will still find indigo blood there. The silence hangs for one beat, then two. Some of the warmth begins to fall out of it.
no subject
He threads a hand back through his hair, which only rumples it more badly, and tries to blink away the pleasant haze of satisfaction. It doesn't quite work; he still looks as though he's only just woken up. ]
Oh.
[ Reality begins to set in. He blinks again, this time as though he's faced with a difficult puzzle; it furrows his brow. He raises a hand to wipe absently at the edge of his mouth, for fear he will still find indigo blood there. The silence hangs for one beat, then two. Some of the warmth begins to fall out of it.
At a loss, he says: ]
I... Perhaps the table.