[ So the situation with Bill has gotten... weird. Definitely not good weird, but it's hard to tell if it's bad weird, which is more alarming than if he just knew. He's already told Ozpin some things about Bill, and this new flavor of weird seems like a good reason to finally bring him up to speed. Thus, early in the evening on on the 15th, Oz will get a message in his inbox. ]
Ozpin, could you meet with me when you're free? There's something I'd like to discuss.
[ But Ozpin doesn't respond. He doesn't respond that same evening, which is unusual but not necessarily alarming. He doesn't respond the next morning, either, which is decidedly more strange but not yet cause for panic.
When nearly 24 hours pass without an answer, Ford is finally concerned enough to try again. ]
In case my last message didn't go through, there's something I need to tell you as soon as possible. I'd prefer to talk in person if possible.
[ And still there's no response. This is a long enough wait for Ford to get caught up in his own head and, of course, start over-analyzing absolutely everything. Their second to last meeting had ended terribly, no questions there, but he thought their last meeting had gone fine. Ozpin hadn't seemed reluctant to join him (not that Ford is good at reading things like that) and hadn't brought up the picture (not that Ford had thought to ask about it, either). More importantly, the bulk of the evening and the following morning had been nice. Really nice. It's probably, barring his celebration with Jheselbraum, the most pleasant time he's had with anyone that he didn't already consider family or a very close friend at the time. The idea of doing it again is extremely appealing, and it's when that realization creeps in that he has to admit that Stanley is right and had somehow called it nearly two months in advance. He hadn't dared to ask directly, but he'd thought the feeling was mutual.
But now, with the 'benefit' of hindsight, he can see all the ways that was a foolish assumption. He has, in many ways, matured past the childhood anxieties that prevented him for so much as properly shaking hands with someone. In many other ways those anxieties still cling to him and always will, a persistent fear of being viewed as weird or abnormal always dragging on his attempts to connect with other people whether he notices it or not (and usually, he doesn't). That Ozpin is quite strange himself doesn't do much to mitigate the unease. There are plenty of ways for their different types of strangeness to clash, to be so incompatible as to suddenly truncate whatever it was that was forming between them. By the end of the third day with no response he's forced to assume that's exactly what happened.
Ford tries several times to write another message, but he doesn't end up sending anything. ]
[ So he may have messed things up completely, but by noon on the 28th he's decided that's fine. More importantly, he's realized that something a little more alarming than simply being ghosted might be going on. Deerington is dangerous, and while it's hard to imagine any of it posing a real danger to Ozpin that doesn't mean it can't. But even if he is being ghosted, he still wants to warn him. Ozpin had told him about the Chill, so telling about about Bill is the least he can do. He writes a message, erases it, writes a different one, then erases that as well. He repeats the process a few more times and is in the middle of deleting his latest attempt when Robert, who had crept into his room unnoticed while Ford was distracted, lets out a sudden Liii! that startles Ford into dropping his phone.
The message Ozpin receives simply reads: ]
If I did somjhge54
[ T h a n k s, Robert. That's exactly what Ford needed right now. Ford's heart nearly stops when he sees that the half deleted message went through. He takes a moment to remove Litwick from his room (and throw down some jellybeans to distract him) before returning to his phone and figuring that, well, he may as well get this over with. ]
Sorry. I sent that on accident.
I haven't heard from you in a few days. I hope you're alright.
Contact me when you can, and let me know if you need help with anything.
[ Ozpin has never experienced— never even heard about— the process of returning to one's home world and then being dragged back to Deerington. He has been aware that such a thing happens, but not what it looks like. Nor what impact it can have.
But perhaps there has never been a case quite like this.
When Ozpin bolts awake on December 28th, he comes awake gasping through the pain of Oscar's cracked ribs, Oscar's fractured jaw, Oscar's bruised face. His elbows and shoulders are numb with the strain of being strung up by Oscar's wrists. He can feel the boy's panic muddled with his own, calling him out into the snow.
The day is a blur of terrible effort and exhaustion and cold. It is a long time before he returns to the manor, where his Fluid still sits abandoned on the bedside table. When he finally does get home, he collapses eagerly asleep with a titmouse nestled into his hair.
Aura, it appears, regenerates more slowly in Deerington. More slowly still when split between two bodies. The next morning is no less painful, and Ozpin takes up his Fluid in clumsy hands, his wrists still chafed and swollen.
He does not expect the number of messages that await him. He does not expect the content of them, either. There's something I need to tell you as soon as possible could hardly be more worrying. It is a different bolt of emotion to read the aborted If I did something.
The last they'd spoken... well. Nothing had been said explicitly. Deerington's December impulses had been in full effect. But it's rather difficult to dismiss that morning spent warm together in the growing light of dawn. It hangs unaddressed over the accidental silence. So, heedless of his aching wrists, Ozpin writes back: ]
I am alright.
I'm sorry to have worried you. It seems I returned to Remnant for a short time.
[ Ford actually manages to avoid working himself into a frenzy while he waits for an answer, but only because he throws himself into his death ray project with such single-minded focus that he's completely forgotten to worry about things like social interaction and basic human needs and the passage of time. He's a little delayed in getting back to the Fluid; only by about thirty minutes, but enough that he rushes to pick it up when he sees the message notification.
The explanation is so obvious that Ford feels like an absolute idiot for not considering it in the first place, even though he had no reason to think that a return home wouldn't register Ozpin's device as being completely disconnected from the network. Fortunately, he's too relieved for his embarrassment to stop him from sending a prompt reply. ]
It's alright. I'm glad it wasn't something worse.
[ Though when he sees the state Ozpin is in he might reassess the idea that it could be much worse. ]
There is. It's about another Sleeper that recently arrived.
We could meet at the cafe unless you prefer to talk somewhere else.
[ He seriously considers bowing to his injuries and inviting Ford to meet him at his home. Ozpin is tired, and Oscar is tired on top of it. The boy is still a fluffy little songbird, and if the shape is a comfort to him, Oz has no intention of shunting him back to his aching human self. He can acknowledge that they are currently in poor condition.
But October's aftermath had been worse, in many ways. And there is little to be done for damage to the face and ribs. He is not bedridden, and to have Stanford hovering awkwardly in the manor, after the way they'd last parted, is more than he is presently willing to bear. This is not a good time for reminders of intimacy.
Her voice still echoes in his ears, and her pitying smile, and the coolness of her hand against his (Oscar's) face. He is trying desperately not to think of it. So: they will go out. ]
I confess the experience has been rather strenuous, and it may be a few days before I am fully recovered. Still, I can meet briefly.
I will see you at the cafe.
[ Rather strenuous is a polite way to describe a face black with bruises, and the ginger, limping way he walks. But they will get to that in time. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
December 25th; text
Ozpin, could you meet with me when you're free? There's something I'd like to discuss.
December 26th; text
When nearly 24 hours pass without an answer, Ford is finally concerned enough to try again. ]
In case my last message didn't go through, there's something I need to tell you as soon as possible. I'd prefer to talk in person if possible.
December 27th; not here
But now, with the 'benefit' of hindsight, he can see all the ways that was a foolish assumption. He has, in many ways, matured past the childhood anxieties that prevented him for so much as properly shaking hands with someone. In many other ways those anxieties still cling to him and always will, a persistent fear of being viewed as weird or abnormal always dragging on his attempts to connect with other people whether he notices it or not (and usually, he doesn't). That Ozpin is quite strange himself doesn't do much to mitigate the unease. There are plenty of ways for their different types of strangeness to clash, to be so incompatible as to suddenly truncate whatever it was that was forming between them. By the end of the third day with no response he's forced to assume that's exactly what happened.
Ford tries several times to write another message, but he doesn't end up sending anything. ]
December 28th; text
The message Ozpin receives simply reads: ]
If I did somjhge54
[ T h a n k s, Robert. That's exactly what Ford needed right now. Ford's heart nearly stops when he sees that the half deleted message went through. He takes a moment to remove Litwick from his room (and throw down some jellybeans to distract him) before returning to his phone and figuring that, well, he may as well get this over with. ]
Sorry. I sent that on accident.
I haven't heard from you in a few days. I hope you're alright.
Contact me when you can, and let me know if you need help with anything.
December 29th; text
But perhaps there has never been a case quite like this.
When Ozpin bolts awake on December 28th, he comes awake gasping through the pain of Oscar's cracked ribs, Oscar's fractured jaw, Oscar's bruised face. His elbows and shoulders are numb with the strain of being strung up by Oscar's wrists. He can feel the boy's panic muddled with his own, calling him out into the snow.
The day is a blur of terrible effort and exhaustion and cold. It is a long time before he returns to the manor, where his Fluid still sits abandoned on the bedside table. When he finally does get home, he collapses eagerly asleep with a titmouse nestled into his hair.
Aura, it appears, regenerates more slowly in Deerington. More slowly still when split between two bodies. The next morning is no less painful, and Ozpin takes up his Fluid in clumsy hands, his wrists still chafed and swollen.
He does not expect the number of messages that await him. He does not expect the content of them, either. There's something I need to tell you as soon as possible could hardly be more worrying. It is a different bolt of emotion to read the aborted If I did something.
The last they'd spoken... well. Nothing had been said explicitly. Deerington's December impulses had been in full effect. But it's rather difficult to dismiss that morning spent warm together in the growing light of dawn. It hangs unaddressed over the accidental silence. So, heedless of his aching wrists, Ozpin writes back: ]
I am alright.
I'm sorry to have worried you. It seems I returned to Remnant for a short time.
Is there still something you'd like to discuss?
no subject
The explanation is so obvious that Ford feels like an absolute idiot for not considering it in the first place, even though he had no reason to think that a return home wouldn't register Ozpin's device as being completely disconnected from the network. Fortunately, he's too relieved for his embarrassment to stop him from sending a prompt reply. ]
It's alright. I'm glad it wasn't something worse.
[ Though when he sees the state Ozpin is in he might reassess the idea that it could be much worse. ]
There is. It's about another Sleeper that recently arrived.
We could meet at the cafe unless you prefer to talk somewhere else.
no subject
But October's aftermath had been worse, in many ways. And there is little to be done for damage to the face and ribs. He is not bedridden, and to have Stanford hovering awkwardly in the manor, after the way they'd last parted, is more than he is presently willing to bear. This is not a good time for reminders of intimacy.
Her voice still echoes in his ears, and her pitying smile, and the coolness of her hand against his (Oscar's) face. He is trying desperately not to think of it. So: they will go out. ]
I confess the experience has been rather strenuous, and it may be a few days before I am fully recovered. Still, I can meet briefly.
I will see you at the cafe.
[ Rather strenuous is a polite way to describe a face black with bruises, and the ginger, limping way he walks. But they will get to that in time. ]