Stanford "Ford" Filbrick Pines (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cryptograms) wrote2020-09-06 03:13 pm
cryptograms) wrote2020-09-06 03:13 pm
Entry tags:
Even if you don't, they're not difficult to find. Our house came stocked with one already.
Oh, that's nice. I guess my home must have as well.
i need uh
nerd relationship advice
what not to do on dates, how to date a human, how to date a nerd cause that's new for me too, differences between dating a girl and a boy since i only ever went out with girls before and my only actual girlfriend was literal fire soooo
just realizing i'm in over my head here
nerd relationship advice
what not to do on dates, how to date a human, how to date a nerd cause that's new for me too, differences between dating a girl and a boy since i only ever went out with girls before and my only actual girlfriend was literal fire soooo
just realizing i'm in over my head here
[A few days before Valentine's Day Ford will find a package at his door.
It's a box of chocolates! And it comes with a handwritten note:]
Hey,
I just learned about this rad human holiday where you give people stuff if they're important to you, so I hope you like chocolate!
And if this isn't how the holiday works, sorry. I'm trying my best here.
-Fern
It's a box of chocolates! And it comes with a handwritten note:]
Hey,
I just learned about this rad human holiday where you give people stuff if they're important to you, so I hope you like chocolate!
And if this isn't how the holiday works, sorry. I'm trying my best here.
-Fern
Edited 2021-02-13 21:00 (UTC)
[Qrow has come to visit the spot of his old mentor's ghost (and then, his deer statue) several times over the past week, but a few minutes before the midnight turning the calendar to February 18th that he leaves Clover with a note that he's going to be out for awhile, and not to wait up for him before bed, maybe even breakfast.
He goes to sit by the statue with treats and a ball to distract Annie the guard dog on his way in, and waits. He's not sure how it looks from the outside; he had missed the moment of Ruby's revival because he had been too new to understand anything about the process. But Ozpin was there the moment he took his first breath with healed lungs, and something visceral within Qrow insists--demands--that he be there for Ozpin's, as well.
12:00 turns to 12:01, and nothing happens. Each of the succeeding sixty minutes are similarly uneventful, but for the way he jumps at the lightest noise, scanning around to see if that was finally it.
One hour stretches into three, then into five, and before he knows it, he's waking in the grass curled up against the statue, cheek and coat smudged with dirt from where he fell asleep. The sun is well up above the horizon and beats down shiny and warm, but Qrow is alone in the junkyard. He opens up the network to see if he missed the wizard, somehow, while he slept, but there is nothing new there.
He keeps waiting.
The Townspeople have been glitching continuously, but he isn't sure about the dog. He largely sticks to his bird form in case he risks being chased when the junkyard closes again, that night.
11:45 pm comes, and it starts to sink in that Oz is not coming back. Qrow remembers when he'd died, he had to eat an apple to return to the living world. Despite the peace of the place, he'd been too worried about Ruby and Clover to hesitate for a second. Perhaps Ozpin was content to live in Deerington as long as he could, but expecting him to relinquish death a second time was too much.
He wants to be angry about it, wants to be furious that Ozpin might have chosen to abandon them again, after everything they've been through by now, but mostly, he just feels hollow. What did it mean, to choose not to return? What would that do to your soul in the waking world? What would it do to a soul that was already in the process of merging with another?
He wants to be angry, but this is not that moment in the snow. On an endless night under a red moon, Qrow and Ozpin had spoken over tea and bared a little too much of their souls, and Ozpin had said I want to rest.
The weight of eternity has bent and broken Ozpin's back, and he's finally been offered release. Qrow .... finds he cannot begrudge him that.
The LED screen on his network device flicks the display over to a new hour, a new day, a new date. It now reads, Friday, February 19th, 12:00 AM, and it is that moment when Qrow first truly believes that Oz is gone. It's time to leave, then, and he viciously swipes at any moisture that might threaten to gather at his eyes before shifting to a bird, and flying away.
He intends to go home. He intends to return to the arms of the man he shares his home with, to let the grief wash over him and ebb naturally, this time, rather than be crushed swimming against the grain. Rather than spend days and weeks and months searching for a corpse he will never find. Rather than drown himself at the bottom of a bottle to ease the pain.
He makes a mistake in his choice of route. Even having been there only once, Qrow recognizes Ford's house immediately. Ford. Someone needs to tell him, he realizes. It's cruel to make him wait for someone who's not coming back.
He settles on the windowsill outside of one of the bedrooms, and the moment he spots Ford, he starts pecking at the glass aggressively. The bird does not appear to be taking no for an answer, just tapping away despite any attempts to ignore him...better let him in already, Ford.]
He goes to sit by the statue with treats and a ball to distract Annie the guard dog on his way in, and waits. He's not sure how it looks from the outside; he had missed the moment of Ruby's revival because he had been too new to understand anything about the process. But Ozpin was there the moment he took his first breath with healed lungs, and something visceral within Qrow insists--demands--that he be there for Ozpin's, as well.
12:00 turns to 12:01, and nothing happens. Each of the succeeding sixty minutes are similarly uneventful, but for the way he jumps at the lightest noise, scanning around to see if that was finally it.
One hour stretches into three, then into five, and before he knows it, he's waking in the grass curled up against the statue, cheek and coat smudged with dirt from where he fell asleep. The sun is well up above the horizon and beats down shiny and warm, but Qrow is alone in the junkyard. He opens up the network to see if he missed the wizard, somehow, while he slept, but there is nothing new there.
He keeps waiting.
The Townspeople have been glitching continuously, but he isn't sure about the dog. He largely sticks to his bird form in case he risks being chased when the junkyard closes again, that night.
11:45 pm comes, and it starts to sink in that Oz is not coming back. Qrow remembers when he'd died, he had to eat an apple to return to the living world. Despite the peace of the place, he'd been too worried about Ruby and Clover to hesitate for a second. Perhaps Ozpin was content to live in Deerington as long as he could, but expecting him to relinquish death a second time was too much.
He wants to be angry about it, wants to be furious that Ozpin might have chosen to abandon them again, after everything they've been through by now, but mostly, he just feels hollow. What did it mean, to choose not to return? What would that do to your soul in the waking world? What would it do to a soul that was already in the process of merging with another?
He wants to be angry, but this is not that moment in the snow. On an endless night under a red moon, Qrow and Ozpin had spoken over tea and bared a little too much of their souls, and Ozpin had said I want to rest.
The weight of eternity has bent and broken Ozpin's back, and he's finally been offered release. Qrow .... finds he cannot begrudge him that.
The LED screen on his network device flicks the display over to a new hour, a new day, a new date. It now reads, Friday, February 19th, 12:00 AM, and it is that moment when Qrow first truly believes that Oz is gone. It's time to leave, then, and he viciously swipes at any moisture that might threaten to gather at his eyes before shifting to a bird, and flying away.
He intends to go home. He intends to return to the arms of the man he shares his home with, to let the grief wash over him and ebb naturally, this time, rather than be crushed swimming against the grain. Rather than spend days and weeks and months searching for a corpse he will never find. Rather than drown himself at the bottom of a bottle to ease the pain.
He makes a mistake in his choice of route. Even having been there only once, Qrow recognizes Ford's house immediately. Ford. Someone needs to tell him, he realizes. It's cruel to make him wait for someone who's not coming back.
He settles on the windowsill outside of one of the bedrooms, and the moment he spots Ford, he starts pecking at the glass aggressively. The bird does not appear to be taking no for an answer, just tapping away despite any attempts to ignore him...better let him in already, Ford.]
Edited 2021-02-14 09:49 (UTC)
[ ... Oh. There's a long pause before Ford replies, mostly because he's not sure how exactly to explain his experience. ]
I can't say my dating experience is terribly extensive, but I do have some knowledge about inter-species relationships.
[ A pause. ]
And same-sex relationships.
[ Another pause. ]
And it's fair to call me a 'nerd'.
[ ... Wait, is he actually well-equipped to answer this question? ]
I can't say my dating experience is terribly extensive, but I do have some knowledge about inter-species relationships.
[ A pause. ]
And same-sex relationships.
[ Another pause. ]
And it's fair to call me a 'nerd'.
[ ... Wait, is he actually well-equipped to answer this question? ]
[ Qrow's timing is very fortunate; he catches Ford in a moment where he's not only awake, not only lucid, but also sitting upright. He still looks like hell, and there's still plenty of signs that he's sick - his hair is a mess, his pajamas are rumpled, there's a nest of blankets on his couch-slash-bed, there are stacks of cold medicine boxes on his end table, and his wastebasket is occupied entirely with tissues - but he's at least sitting under his own power and working his way some random sci-fi series or another, even if he's barely retaining the words.
He's not expecting a visit from Qrow. He's not expecting a visit from anyone in Ozpin's circle, actually. Still, he considers Qrow a friend, so when Ford looks up and recognizes him, he doesn't hesitate to get to his feet. He's not sure what exactly he's expecting, but he's not about to leave Qrow out in the cold. He crosses to the window and pushes it open. ]
Qrow...?
[ Ford's voice comes out very, very raw and creaky, and he grimaces when attempting to speak ends up being pretty painful, actually. He'll let Qrow do most of the talking, he thinks. ]
He's not expecting a visit from Qrow. He's not expecting a visit from anyone in Ozpin's circle, actually. Still, he considers Qrow a friend, so when Ford looks up and recognizes him, he doesn't hesitate to get to his feet. He's not sure what exactly he's expecting, but he's not about to leave Qrow out in the cold. He crosses to the window and pushes it open. ]
Qrow...?
[ Ford's voice comes out very, very raw and creaky, and he grimaces when attempting to speak ends up being pretty painful, actually. He'll let Qrow do most of the talking, he thinks. ]
That could take a while...
Let's try a different angle. Is there anything in particular you think you need help with?
Let's try a different angle. Is there anything in particular you think you need help with?
[ See, there's something he needs clarified already. ]
I'm not sure what you mean by tiers.
I'm not sure what you mean by tiers.
Edited 2021-02-15 00:59 (UTC)
Ah, as in tiers of intimacy!
Humans have metaphors like that, but I'm not sure Varian would know any of them given his time period of origin.
I think touching someone's stomach would be considered fairly intimate by most standards. How many tiers are there total?
Humans have metaphors like that, but I'm not sure Varian would know any of them given his time period of origin.
I think touching someone's stomach would be considered fairly intimate by most standards. How many tiers are there total?
Edited (icon again....) 2021-02-15 01:19 (UTC)
[ He wakes up in his own body. And, as it happens, in rather a lot of pain.
It is a long morning. Qrow helps him home; Glynda helps him to bed; he nurses tea, not cocoa, until the shivering passes. Oscar returns his Fluid and tucks in beside him in bed with no questions asked. They spend the day dozing, feverish and secondhand-feverish, aching and weary and glad to be alive.
It is good to be just Ozpin. Perhaps just-Ozpin had once been a person apart from the wizard, a boy who'd never even thought he'd be a Huntsman— but that is so long ago as to be childhood memory, faded and distant. Now he is simply himself. He can feel the background presence of Oscar's thoughts in his mind, but he can move his hand without having to consult anyone else for control, and right now, that feels like freedom.
He tiredly regards the disaster of his inbox, and texts Stanford Pines. ]
Stanford, I apologize for the unusual messages you received yesterday.
I was not in much condition to communicate by text, so turned to a young friend for assistance.
It seems she took the opportunity to play matchmaker.
[ This must, he thinks, come as reassuring news. He cannot imagine Stanford agreed to the date in earnest; the man must have known something was afoot, whether one of Deerington's tricks or a more mundane bit of chaos. Surely this will put the matter to rest. ]
It is a long morning. Qrow helps him home; Glynda helps him to bed; he nurses tea, not cocoa, until the shivering passes. Oscar returns his Fluid and tucks in beside him in bed with no questions asked. They spend the day dozing, feverish and secondhand-feverish, aching and weary and glad to be alive.
It is good to be just Ozpin. Perhaps just-Ozpin had once been a person apart from the wizard, a boy who'd never even thought he'd be a Huntsman— but that is so long ago as to be childhood memory, faded and distant. Now he is simply himself. He can feel the background presence of Oscar's thoughts in his mind, but he can move his hand without having to consult anyone else for control, and right now, that feels like freedom.
He tiredly regards the disaster of his inbox, and texts Stanford Pines. ]
Stanford, I apologize for the unusual messages you received yesterday.
I was not in much condition to communicate by text, so turned to a young friend for assistance.
It seems she took the opportunity to play matchmaker.
[ This must, he thinks, come as reassuring news. He cannot imagine Stanford agreed to the date in earnest; the man must have known something was afoot, whether one of Deerington's tricks or a more mundane bit of chaos. Surely this will put the matter to rest. ]
[ Ford had left he and Ozpin's previous conversation very, very confused. His subsequent conversation with Stan had helped in many ways and left him even more confused in others. He's come to the comfortable conclusion that whatever Ozpin said was obviously influenced by the fact that he was horribly sick and likely treating himself with dubious 1950s dreamscape medicine. The incoherence makes sense. The earnestness behind his messages is more up in the air, but Ford is prepared to learn and accept that Ozpin was simply too delirious to understand what he'd been saying.
He's not prepared to learn that it hadn't even been Ozpin at all, and thus accepting it is a little hard. The negative emotions Ozpin had been expecting during the conversation the previous day - particularly hurt and humiliation - finally start to simmer inside him; Ford hadn't said anything especially incriminating, but he had been sincere in expressing his gratefulness for Ozpin's friendship and in accepting his invitation to dinner. He feels deliberately tricked - not by Ozpin, but whoever this friend is - but he's too embarrassed to ask who's responsible and without an adequate target it's hard to hold onto anything like anger.
Even so, it takes him a few long moments to reply. ]
I thought your messages sounded a bit strange. I assumed you were just delirious from the death symptoms.
I'm glad you're feeling better.
He's not prepared to learn that it hadn't even been Ozpin at all, and thus accepting it is a little hard. The negative emotions Ozpin had been expecting during the conversation the previous day - particularly hurt and humiliation - finally start to simmer inside him; Ford hadn't said anything especially incriminating, but he had been sincere in expressing his gratefulness for Ozpin's friendship and in accepting his invitation to dinner. He feels deliberately tricked - not by Ozpin, but whoever this friend is - but he's too embarrassed to ask who's responsible and without an adequate target it's hard to hold onto anything like anger.
Even so, it takes him a few long moments to reply. ]
I thought your messages sounded a bit strange. I assumed you were just delirious from the death symptoms.
I'm glad you're feeling better.
[ He took the messages as genuine? With the hearts? With the tildes? There was a wink emoji. ]
[ Did—
Did Stanford then genuinely agree to a date Friday night? ]
Did Stanford then genuinely agree to a date Friday night? ]
[ No, he must have been playing along. Obviously. It would be the simplest option and the most polite, would it not?
And yet. ]
And yet. ]
[ He should really be better-prepared for the concept that Stanford would agree to a dinner invitation.
At his home.
Friday night.
Ozpin takes several moments to quietly curse Ruby Rose, who managed to cram a lifetime's worth of chaos into a single day as his host. ]
At his home.
Friday night.
Ozpin takes several moments to quietly curse Ruby Rose, who managed to cram a lifetime's worth of chaos into a single day as his host. ]
[ Regardless. He does, in fact, have things he'd like to say to Stanford, and they certainly were not adequately conveyed by Ruby Rose. Stanford has thus far proved incredibly capable of sidestepping uncomfortable topics without complaint or fanfare, and Oz can rely on him again here. Whatever hangs unspoken between them right now—
Well.
Perhaps a great deal hangs unspoken, actually. Ozpin is not quick to adopt the concept that anyone deserves or is owed more complete knowledge of his life, least of all in Deerington, where he is not conscripting anyone into a war. But in the case of Stanford... he does not know what the man has already been told. He can certainly imagine what he will be told, sooner or later, whether by Ozpin or someone on his behalf. It would sound best, he supposes, coming from him firsthand.
Perhaps it's time for that.
So, after a very significant delay, he sends back: ]
Much better, thank you.
The message I intended to send was simply to apologize for any concern the delay may have caused you. I
[ He hesitates, here, but: ]
perhaps had a non-typical experience with the resurrection process. Nothing of particular interest to your research, I'm afraid. It is best explained in person.
Beyond that,
[ The dots jump for a while. ]
I would like to reiterate that I took on the risks of the mission willingly. I do not hold the result against you personally, Stanford.
I am sorry it played out as it did.
Well.
Perhaps a great deal hangs unspoken, actually. Ozpin is not quick to adopt the concept that anyone deserves or is owed more complete knowledge of his life, least of all in Deerington, where he is not conscripting anyone into a war. But in the case of Stanford... he does not know what the man has already been told. He can certainly imagine what he will be told, sooner or later, whether by Ozpin or someone on his behalf. It would sound best, he supposes, coming from him firsthand.
Perhaps it's time for that.
So, after a very significant delay, he sends back: ]
Much better, thank you.
The message I intended to send was simply to apologize for any concern the delay may have caused you. I
[ He hesitates, here, but: ]
perhaps had a non-typical experience with the resurrection process. Nothing of particular interest to your research, I'm afraid. It is best explained in person.
Beyond that,
[ The dots jump for a while. ]
I would like to reiterate that I took on the risks of the mission willingly. I do not hold the result against you personally, Stanford.
I am sorry it played out as it did.
[ Ah, a forbidden tier. Even Ford can guess what that probably is. ]
So 5 or 6 would be a 3rd of the way through the tiers, and 8 would be about halfway. I think touching someone's stomach would be a similar degree of progression through a human's stages of intimacy, in that case.
It's hard to say what horn touching would correlate to without knowing the species, but I imagine it was something quite personal. Is that correct?
So 5 or 6 would be a 3rd of the way through the tiers, and 8 would be about halfway. I think touching someone's stomach would be a similar degree of progression through a human's stages of intimacy, in that case.
It's hard to say what horn touching would correlate to without knowing the species, but I imagine it was something quite personal. Is that correct?
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