[The confirmation is a blow, but one he'd managed to brace for; it's more like hitting a familiar pothole in the street than having sudden cold water dumped in one's lap, and yet it's still unpleasant. One of the great miseries of Qrow's existence has always been an inability to predict the sort of misfortunes that might come of being in proximity to his Semblance. The idea of being granted the ability to be forewarned would be too good to be true, so of course it was. He sighs, but says no more on it -- especially when Oz takes on that professor tone he always does when he is trying to convince everyone else that things are okay.
They both know it's a lie, but as in November, Qrow allows it to stand, because it conceals a lie of his own. Truthfully, gruesome as this scenario is, it's not her death that has knocked the air out of his lungs. He does not know Sayo well enough to suffer from her absence, and knows already that she will likely be fine in a few days--Trench does not even seem to bear the burden of the Death Flu like back in Deerington.
...No, it is that he has become a harbinger of misfortune twice over now, and to add insult upon injury he must now witness even those misfortunes he will not cause by being in the victim's physical proximity, with no opportunity to help.
Qrow acknowledges none of this in front of Oz. He doesn't dare; were any compassion to be leveled at his direction right now, he might just turn the Brothers-damned chainsaw upon himself. He's quiet a beat too long before he nods.]
Yeah, be right back.
[Limbs are yet again abandoned outright as he flies off toward the broom closet to get the requested cleaning supplies. For the most part, the cleanup is uneventful. It's far from the first mess they've had to clean up together, be the situation literal or metaphorical, and there's something almost comforting in the rhythm of scrubbing at the floor by Oz's side.
Almost ... until a misbalanced mop falls over onto the bucket collecting all that soapy water and blood, sending at least half of it soaking all over the ground again. Qrow can't help an exhausted sigh. This whole ordeal feels like a spectacular cosmic joke at this point, honestly. He returns to their work quietly, but after a time, he speaks up again, an air of forced casualness to his tone.]
...Hey Oz. You ever figure out how your blood magic works around here?
[Apropos of nothing in particular. There is nothing to see here. Pay no heed to the bird anxiety behind the curtain.]
[ He doesn't ask. Whatever Qrow knew of this— however he knew it— it was clearly not enough, and Ozpin knows this man too well to ever draw attention to a moment where he has fallen short. Where he has tried to help and come up against only a pool of blood for his trouble.
He is mostly silent as they clean.
It is almost a relief when the bucket tips, when that hanging tension breaks. There is always another shoe ready to drop, around Qrow, and it's never the inconvenience of the thing itself he fears; the far more volatile element is how Qrow reacts to it. Ozpin skirts a glance to the set of his shoulders, watches them crumple with a sigh. Silently, he stands to help right the mess.
The question breaks the silence, which he had expected; the question itself he had not. But it isn't difficult to trace the thought to a logical conclusion. ]
It seems everyone here has suffered significant changes. [ This he says levelly, mildly, still halfway into that professor's tone. ] I have retained a few of my prior abilities... but always altered by this world's whims. Even now I am working to uncover what might still be hidden.
[Qrow listens to him carefully, seemingly focused on cleaning but Oz can catch the way Qrow's motions have become half-hearted and robotic, how he's hanging on his every word while pretending to be distracted, as he used to when he was young and embarrassed by how much he craved Oz's attention. The situation is different now, with what he seeks to hide being more along the lines of how deeply troubled he is by his new abilities, how desperately he wants to make them of use. Qrow may have a better poker face than he did at seventeen, but he forgets that Ozpin knows him so much longer, by now.]
--How?
[He looks up, perhaps a little more hopefully than he intended to reveal. Reminiscent of the look he'd held back when he was first offered a hint of real magic, to become Ozpin's eyes.]
[ Qrow looks at him with open hope, blood and soap on his hands. For the first time in a long while, Ozpin carefully weighs truth against kindness. He looks back down to the sheen of blood on the floor. ]
I'm afraid it's not quite so simple.
It is... [ And here is the part he so hesitates to say, the matter which must be handled so delicately. ] ...more akin to developing one's Semblance. Learning the boundaries of that power... and gaining some measure of control, however limited. These abilities are a part of ourselves, even if it may be a part we do not fully understand. Like a limb you don't yet know how to use... or a scar whose edges you've not yet felt out.
[ He remembers. The fierce, wound-tight desperation in a gangly teenager as he tried to manage his influence on the world around him— as he tried to keep it bundled in close to his chest and not let the secret slip. ]
Some convey terrible drawbacks. [ He remembers the day Qrow looked up at him, the way he'd uncurled in open shock, when it became clear that Ozpin knew. ] Mine seem to be particularly demanding, as we've discovered. I am still coming to understand that burden. But I trust that I can master it all the same, given enough time.
[For all of Oz's best efforts, there is still a moment where Qrow seems to deflate when Oz says that it is like mastering a Semblance. He is forty-two years old, and he does not have full control over his own. Useless is the word that bubbles up in his mind, and there's a certain sense of exhaustion to it. If he is careful not to go down the path of suspecting his powers cause the events he sees in his visions, then he can at least take solace in the notion that this power isn't hurting anyone, whether or not he has it managed, but he is so tired. He doesn't want to go through this a second time. Through accepting that the powers that reflect his soul are only tied to pain and suffering, and anything he is beyond that is because he is too stubbornly desperate to be needed anyway.
He sighs, after a minute. There's a heaviness to it that Oz may recognize from his own darker moments, that specific one of wondering what the point of so much meaningless effort is, and then ... it would be inaccurate to say it passes, so much as the mood shifts to the other side of that coin -- of getting back up again, to return to the task of uselessly pushing the rock up the hill again, again and again for the rest of existence because there's no other choice but to be crushed by the rock.]
...Guess it figures it wouldn't be that easy. But if anyone can figure it out, it'd be you.
[He goes back to working in silence. Eventually, the spill from the overturned bucket is cleaned up, all the contents returned to appropriate receptacles, door locked from the outside as per Sayo's request. It would be a great time to sit together with cocoa and pretend none of this ever happened. That's what he thought he wanted, at the beginning.
Now his blood just burns underneath his skin with the first tendrils of corruption, itching to be shed, and he wonders if Oz would spill it if he asked.
He doesn't.]
M'gonna go to bed, I think. Been a long night.
[They both know, perhaps, that he's not going to sleep -- or at least not well. But Qrow has always had a bad habit of drawing himself deeper into his own spirals, withdrawing from things and people who could help so as not to drag anyone down with him. Ironically, he's not unlike Oz in that way. At least for right now, he cannot bear to be comforted further and needs some time to lick his wounds in private.]
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no subject
They both know it's a lie, but as in November, Qrow allows it to stand, because it conceals a lie of his own. Truthfully, gruesome as this scenario is, it's not her death that has knocked the air out of his lungs. He does not know Sayo well enough to suffer from her absence, and knows already that she will likely be fine in a few days--Trench does not even seem to bear the burden of the Death Flu like back in Deerington.
...No, it is that he has become a harbinger of misfortune twice over now, and to add insult upon injury he must now witness even those misfortunes he will not cause by being in the victim's physical proximity, with no opportunity to help.
Qrow acknowledges none of this in front of Oz. He doesn't dare; were any compassion to be leveled at his direction right now, he might just turn the Brothers-damned chainsaw upon himself. He's quiet a beat too long before he nods.]
Yeah, be right back.
[Limbs are yet again abandoned outright as he flies off toward the broom closet to get the requested cleaning supplies. For the most part, the cleanup is uneventful. It's far from the first mess they've had to clean up together, be the situation literal or metaphorical, and there's something almost comforting in the rhythm of scrubbing at the floor by Oz's side.
Almost ... until a misbalanced mop falls over onto the bucket collecting all that soapy water and blood, sending at least half of it soaking all over the ground again. Qrow can't help an exhausted sigh. This whole ordeal feels like a spectacular cosmic joke at this point, honestly. He returns to their work quietly, but after a time, he speaks up again, an air of forced casualness to his tone.]
...Hey Oz. You ever figure out how your blood magic works around here?
[Apropos of nothing in particular. There is nothing to see here. Pay no heed to the bird anxiety behind the curtain.]
no subject
He is mostly silent as they clean.
It is almost a relief when the bucket tips, when that hanging tension breaks. There is always another shoe ready to drop, around Qrow, and it's never the inconvenience of the thing itself he fears; the far more volatile element is how Qrow reacts to it. Ozpin skirts a glance to the set of his shoulders, watches them crumple with a sigh. Silently, he stands to help right the mess.
The question breaks the silence, which he had expected; the question itself he had not. But it isn't difficult to trace the thought to a logical conclusion. ]
It seems everyone here has suffered significant changes. [ This he says levelly, mildly, still halfway into that professor's tone. ] I have retained a few of my prior abilities... but always altered by this world's whims. Even now I am working to uncover what might still be hidden.
no subject
--How?
[He looks up, perhaps a little more hopefully than he intended to reveal. Reminiscent of the look he'd held back when he was first offered a hint of real magic, to become Ozpin's eyes.]
Just...by bleeding?
no subject
I'm afraid it's not quite so simple.
It is... [ And here is the part he so hesitates to say, the matter which must be handled so delicately. ] ...more akin to developing one's Semblance. Learning the boundaries of that power... and gaining some measure of control, however limited. These abilities are a part of ourselves, even if it may be a part we do not fully understand. Like a limb you don't yet know how to use... or a scar whose edges you've not yet felt out.
[ He remembers. The fierce, wound-tight desperation in a gangly teenager as he tried to manage his influence on the world around him— as he tried to keep it bundled in close to his chest and not let the secret slip. ]
Some convey terrible drawbacks. [ He remembers the day Qrow looked up at him, the way he'd uncurled in open shock, when it became clear that Ozpin knew. ] Mine seem to be particularly demanding, as we've discovered. I am still coming to understand that burden. But I trust that I can master it all the same, given enough time.
no subject
He sighs, after a minute. There's a heaviness to it that Oz may recognize from his own darker moments, that specific one of wondering what the point of so much meaningless effort is, and then ... it would be inaccurate to say it passes, so much as the mood shifts to the other side of that coin -- of getting back up again, to return to the task of uselessly pushing the rock up the hill again, again and again for the rest of existence because there's no other choice but to be crushed by the rock.]
...Guess it figures it wouldn't be that easy. But if anyone can figure it out, it'd be you.
[He goes back to working in silence. Eventually, the spill from the overturned bucket is cleaned up, all the contents returned to appropriate receptacles, door locked from the outside as per Sayo's request. It would be a great time to sit together with cocoa and pretend none of this ever happened. That's what he thought he wanted, at the beginning.
Now his blood just burns underneath his skin with the first tendrils of corruption, itching to be shed, and he wonders if Oz would spill it if he asked.
He doesn't.]
M'gonna go to bed, I think. Been a long night.
[They both know, perhaps, that he's not going to sleep -- or at least not well. But Qrow has always had a bad habit of drawing himself deeper into his own spirals, withdrawing from things and people who could help so as not to drag anyone down with him. Ironically, he's not unlike Oz in that way. At least for right now, he cannot bear to be comforted further and needs some time to lick his wounds in private.]