[ 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 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. ]