Fuck me, this stupid fic took forever to write, and it's not even done. I had to make it a two-parter because it didn't have the decency to just end already. *inarticulate gargling noises* Sorry for the length. Hopefully it's still worth your time.
Summary: In which Glynda contemplates submitting her two weeks notice.
Chapter 1: Veni, Vidi, Vinavi
Of all the responsibilities she held, courtesy of her numerous job titles—Huntress, Professor, Academy Liaison, Deputy Headmistress of Beacon—there were some that Glynda could have done well without.
Which wasn't to say she resented her job—far from it. Ruthlessly ambitious almost to a fault, Glynda relished a challenge, and would have never contented herself with anything short of what passed for the layperson as occupational masochism. Hence why she'd spent the majority of her career fine-tuning the ability to juggle her professional obligations, which included everything from organizing interdepartmental faculty meetings, to sorting out whatever problems Ozpin couldn't (or didn't want to) deal with that day. She had distinguished herself early on as a multitasker with a sharp mind, uniquely qualified for the task of corralling her students and putting out the (sometimes literal) fires that were as much a staple of the school year as the homework and detentions were.
No. Glynda enjoyed a challenge. And working at a school for trained killers presented no shortage of that. Destroying Grimm, dismantling crime syndicates, foiling terrorist plots: all occupational hazards, most with which she had minimal qualms.
The caveat, she'd discovered, well into her tenure and past the point of no return, was the political nature of her job. Something that Ozpin had conveniently "forgotten" to disclose when she'd first signed her contract.
Years later, and she had a pretty good idea as to why.
With no small amount of effort, Glynda dug through her handback and produced the necessary documents for the door greeter. "I'm here representing Beacon Academy, as is my employer," she said. And that was as far as she got before she sneezed.
The porter recoiled, his face creased in disgust. That expression deepened when she none-too-subtly swallowed down the mouthful of phlegm that had dislodged itself from her lungs.
He held the invitation and license at arm's length, delicately pinched between two fingers. "I should remind you," he said, "that all guests in attendance are required to leave any weapons outside the building. That includes—"
"Yes, yes," Glynda snapped, "I'm well aware. As you can see, I'm unarmed." Unless one happened to look up her dress and notice the crop holstered against the inside of her leg, but really, what was the point of arguing semantics? "I hardly pose a threat to anyone here."
"Not unless you cough on the buffet table," he muttered, and Glynda made sure to fix him with her patented Disapproving Teacher Scowl. The porter flinched at the steel in her gaze.
"Your belongings." He was quick to push the offending items back into her hands, then brush his palms down the front of his vest. "Enjoy the party, Professor Goodwitch."
I most certainly won't. But she kept that comment to herself. Glynda inclined her head, once. "Thank you for the—" and she stopped to give a dramatic intake of breath, lips curled in the beginnings of an unmistakable sneeze. She watched through half-narrowed eyes as he pinwheeled backward, nearly tripping over himself to escape the blast radius. Panic, quickly replaced with indignation, colored his face as Glynda delicately pinched the bridge of her nose. "False alarm," she assured him, in a falsely-cheery voice. And with that said and done, Glynda turned and strode inside.
She blamed the vindictiveness on the store brand cough medicine, half of which she'd downed before leaving her apartment; then, as an afterthought, had shoved the rest of the bottle into her handbag. Given the circumstances, it felt warranted.
The reception, while not on par with the ostentatious standards upkept by Atlas' and Mistral's elite, was still headache-inducing. Embroidered, fabric banners canopied the ceiling, fluttering gently whenever the waitstaff scurried by. Backed against the far wall she spotted the aforementioned buffet, and it certainly was a spectacle, wafting clouds of steam from the assorted dishes and hors d'oeuvres. The guest tables were subject to the same lavish treatment, with ornate centerpieces encircled by dozens of candles that flickered whenever disturbed by the motions of a passing guest. Glynda scoffed. Of course they'd have no problem with fire hazards, but gods forbid she be permitted to walk around with an unbrandished riding crop.
And there, tying it all together, branded on every wall lest any of them forget why they were here, was Vale's coat-of-arms.
The soirée was about the self-congratulatory pomp for the councilors as much as it was a display of gratitude for their sponsors. Election cycles ran on campaign promises as much as they did on bribes and charity, and not a single attendee was under any delusions otherwise. The post-election parties were little more than a formality at this point, a tradition kept alive because someone, somewhere, years ago had convinced themselves that these little displays of wealth and power were enough of a testimony their newly-reformed government wouldn't relapse into an all-consuming bloodbath.
Glynda snorted aloud, only to regret the gesture when it sent her into a coughing fit.
As Ozpin's intended successor, she was expected to attend. Sick or otherwise.
At least, she mused to herself, when Ozpin took leave of his office—by death or retirement, though almost certainly the former—she would be spared from the nightmare of having to run for reelection. It was an intentional quirk legislated by the King of Vale in the aftermath of the Great War: not only were the leaders of the Huntsmen Academies automatically granted Council seats, but they were immune to term limits and had to be nominated by a coalition of their peers. Decades later, and it was still something that politicians liked to moan about when gossip grew stale or Ozpin had done enough to piss off his colleagues.
Which was the second reason why she had dragged herself through the snow and consigned herself to this torture: because Ozpin had asked.
She thought "asked," but truthfully, "begged" was more appropriate.
Ozpin was a great many things—cordial, shrewd, altruistic, and relentlessly devoted to his school—but even his patience had limits. The downside to his position was that while it granted him the political influence of a councilor, it also meant that he was working two jobs under the guise of one. Which wasn't to say that Oz wasn't qualified for the task—far from it—only that he was a Huntsman first, politician second. Training fledgling Hunters to defend humanity was something he was peerless at, and never a day passed where Glynda didn't admire that trait, the circumstances of his curse notwithstanding.
What made these parties (and his job) so unbearable was that his colleagues were a bunch of donkey-faced bastards.
Ozpin disliked them for trying to interfere at Beacon. The other councilors despised him for being untouchable. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't shoved his cane up their nether regions. And unlike Glynda, whose absence would be noted but otherwise inconsequential, Ozpin didn't have the luxury of taking a sick day. She wasn't merciless enough to leave him trapped here making small talk in this bureaucratic hellscape, so instead, she'd sucked up her cold and come.
A server extended a tray to her, and without thinking Glynda took the offered champagne flute.
"—gone too far this time! You've overstepped your boundaries, and I refuse to sanction this lunacy."
"Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't require your permission to proceed," came the mild reply, "given that the school is under my jurisdiction."
Speaking of which.
With a long-suffering sigh, Glynda moved on autopilot toward the conversation, the throng of people around her parting as she brushed past. There was an equal likelihood of that being due to the thunderous expression on her face as it was the mucus that she could feel glistening above her lips. For one treacherous moment, she lamented the fact she'd chosen a sleeveless dress. Her nose was starting to itch.
She spotted them by the windows. Ozpin stood with his left hand braced against the silver pommel of his cane, a half-empty coupe in his right. The man across from him showed his age, slightly hunched and half-balding, and with a rather unfortunate gut that the tweed suit and pleated shirt did nothing to hide.
"I fail to see why this has you so distraught," Ozpin said. He tipped his head to one side. "We've used this procedure for years, and to my knowledge no one has voiced any objections."
"Sometimes," the councilman growled, "I wonder if you even bother to read the requisition forms your staff submits before you sign off on them. Otherwise, you'd fully understand my 'objections.'"
"I review every document given to me, as you well know." Ozpin raised the glass to his lips, his expression betraying nothing. "If you'd be so kind as to enlighten me on the issue, perhaps I can help mollify those concerns."
"'Concerns,' he says." The councilman sneered. "As if importing Alpha Beowolves is a mere trifle, and not a matter of kingdom defense!"
Glynda lurked just beyond Ozpin's periphery. She'd bail him out if it became necessary. For now, though, she leaned against the nearby column, content to watch her friend verbally assassinate the other man.
"That's what this is about?" A hint of surprise colored his inflection, and Glynda recognized it for the façade that it was. They would've been stupid to not anticipate a bit of an uproar over that particular request, which was why she'd offered to have it submitted during the tail-end of the elections. This time of year, overworked and success-drunk politicians tended to say "yes" to the mounting paperwork stack on their desk just to make it go away.
Burrell, bless his shriveled black heart, was apparently the exception.
"We've successfully handled live Grimm transport for years," Ozpin pointed out. "Need I remind you that procurement is necessary for my students, so that they have ample training fodder?"
The other man's complexion paled by a shade or two. "You're telling me," he said, in a disquieted tone, "that you regularly pit your students against high-level Grimm variants reserved for licensed Huntsmen?"
"Of course not." Ozpin sounded amused. "We have Boarbatusks for that."
Burrell's jaw clenched.
"The far more dangerous subspecies, however, are necessary for the research conducted on-campus," Ozpin amended. He regarded the wine in his glass. "Of which the Council has been made well aware in the past, so why the sudden protests? The containment facilities are up to code. If you'd like, I can produce the documents from last year's inspection—"
"I don't know what I find more disturbing," he said. "The fact that you equate transporting Alphas with Boarbatusks, or your cavalier attitude regarding civilian endangerment."
It was subtle, and to the untrained eye would have gone unnoticed. She didn't miss the way Ozpin's grip tightened on his cane.
"The risks involved haven't changed, Burrell. Merely your overestimation of them."
"Entirely unnecessary risks at that," Burrell spat. "You run a combat school, not Merlot Industries. You're supposed to be killing Grimm, not u-hauling them into Vale just so your staff can dissect them."
"The now-defunct Merlot Industries was the only global corporation with a scientific agenda concerning Grimm. Since their disbanding, there has been a gap in the field of Grimm research. Our ability to fight them is contingent on our understanding of them, which is why the school's laboratory work is just as important as its field counterpart." His expression hardened. "And if you would be so kind as to not equate Beacon Academy with that organization."
"Why?" Burrell asked. "Because you think that what you're doing is any saner? Care to explain to me the difference?"
Ozpin rested his glass on the table to their right, both hands now firmly clasped over the cane. "The difference," he said, "is ethics. Dr. Merlot was a Machiavellian cultist whose obsession with the Grimm led to him no longer following safety protocol, so he could acquire more specimens faster. My staff adheres to a set of strict guidelines when conducting research, so that we may prevent catastrophes like Mountain Glenn."
"It took the kingdom years to recover from that." The councilman motioned with his drink. "The losses we endured at Mountain Glenn were substantial, never mind the resources we funneled into that project only for them to be wasted." He went to take a draught from his glass.
"I'm relieved to see that your concerns about the lien weren't misplaced. For a moment, I feared you might actually be worried about the casualties," Ozpin said.
Glynda watched as Burrell proceeded to choke on his drink.
Ozpin waited until he resurfaced from his glass, his cheeks flushed and flecked with beads of wine. He glowered over the rim of his coupe, to bet met with a carefully-neutral expression by Oz.
"What," he asked, "did you just say?"
"I could be off my mark," Ozpin acknowledged, as though he were theorizing on the end of a charming novel, and not lampooning his colleague. "But as I understand, you spoke out at length against how much of Vale's annual budget was allocated to my school. I believe the phrase you used was 'indiscriminate black hole of lien.' And while I can agree on a need to review funding distribution, strangely, you didn't seem to have any suggestions for where that money could be spent otherwise."
The councilman's expression was slowly morphing through the entire color spectrum, from a sickly off-green to a now livid red.
"When one of my teachers first sought approval for capturing and transporting Grimm," Ozpin continued, "we went through a significant amount of red tape. A committee was even formed to not only redefine Grimm trafficking and establish special research permits, but to investigate the motive behind the request. As I recall, you headed that committee."
"I assume you're getting to a point."
Ozpin went to retrieve his glass. "I find it strange," he admitted, "that after everything else we've brought to the school—Ursai, Creeps, Nevermores—you would suddenly object now. A more suspicious man might go so far as to note how coincidental it is that the approval period for the request coincides with Vale's fiscal review. A timely opportunity to boycott the request on the premise of its potential dangers, and then take the lien that was diverted from us and spend it elsewhere. Some might go so far as to call it a conflict of interest."
The look Burrell gave him was incendiary. Glynda was surprised Oz's lapels hadn't begun to smoke.
"This is all conjecture, of course. I would hate to implicate you in something so scandalous and unequivocally untrue, so shortly after you secured your Council seat. For your own sake, it may be in your best interest to defer to my judgment on the matter, lest more suspicious men subject you to their scrutiny."
Ozpin raised his glass in a toast.
"You have no right—how dare you—I would never—" Eloquence deserted him. The councilman made a peculiar gargling sound in the back of his throat, like a blender full of rocks. "My concern," he ground out through clenched teeth, "has and will always be the welfare of Vale's people. If you think I'll allow you to jeopardize that by letting one of your crackpot fool teachers hoard Grimm in the city—"
There was a subtle shift in Ozpin's demeanor. Glynda stiffened. "The professor who oversees them is a highly esteemed and capable Huntsman. It is thanks to his work that major crises have been averted. You would do well to remember that."
Indignation (and alcohol) did a lot to deaden a person to social cues, and Burrell continued to talk like a man who didn't care if he woke up with a knife between his ribs. The intensity of Ozpin's stare didn't waver. "I remember him now. Fat bloke, rowdy, prone to self-aggrandizement. Rather hard to expect someone like him to manage Grimm when he can't seem to manage his weight."
Coming from the man that resembled a walrus in a suit.
But the councilman had found Ozpin's trigger, and was twisting the knife with each word that left his mouth. "Yes," he said, his speech slowing, becoming more deliberate. "Your subordinates were always a peculiar lot. For a prestigious academy, your staff does little to uphold its reputation. Trigger-happy celebrities with no sense of decorum"—he gestured to Ozpin's green suit—"whose willingness to gamble with public safety borders on masturbatory, given how much of your career involves suicidal thrill-seeki—"
"Good evening, councilors." Burrell jumped. Ozpin gave his own version of being startled, a fluttering tap-tap of his cane against the floor. His expression thawed somewhat as Glynda took up the spot to his left, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Burrell, I never had the chance to congratulate you on your reelection. The Council seat is lucky to find itself occupied by you once again."
Burrell squinted at her, as if gauging the sincerity of her words. She could practically feel Ozpin's eyebrows receding into his hairline, and she discreetly stepped on his foot.
"I appreciate the sentiment," he said at last. He didn't seem to begrudge the change in topic; not when it meant having a chance to talk about himself. "These last few weeks have been monstrously busy. One wonders how I've found the opportunity to rest. You would think insomnia were a prerequisite for the job."
"A necessary evil. One that we're all familiar with," Glynda agreed. "Our work doesn't sleep, and neither do we."
"Which is exactly why we need events like this. To indulge and relax. An escape from the stress of our everyday lives."
Or a source of additional stress, depending on who you asked.
"Not for all of us." Glynda turned to Ozpin. "I was looking for you, actually. We need to discuss the travel arrangements for that upcoming mission in Atlas. I'm afraid it can't wait until tomorrow."
Ozpin made a noncommittal noise. "Too right you are, I suppose." He accepted the arm she offered him, threading it through hers and giving Burrell the faintest inclination of his head. "Enjoy your evening."
She ignored the glare that followed them as she steered Ozpin across the room. Waited until they'd put enough people between them before she leaned into her friend's side.
"Play nice," she murmured.
Ozpin sighed. "You say that as if I have no self-control."
"I noticed they let you through the door with your cane. Were you planning on using it, or did I only imagine that look on your face back there?"
He carefully extricated himself from her grip. His arm free, Oz went to take another sip from his glass, his expression the closest she'd ever seen to guileless. "They wouldn't part an old man from his walking stick, would they?" he mused.
Glynda fought the urge to roll her eyes. "If you keep talking like that you'll only give Burrell another reason to call for your resignation."
She didn't miss that brief flicker of dislike. "Over my dead body."
"He'd probably find that quite agreeable." Out of habit, she went to pinch the bridge of her nose, only to belatedly peel her fingers away from the cartilage. Glynda pursed her lips at the tacky feeling. To her surprise, she suddenly found a napkin being pressed into her hand.
"Here," Ozpin said. She murmured her thanks as she blew into the napkin, while Ozpin looked on, his face etched with worry. "You look like death warmed over, Glynda."
"That's putting it charitably."
"I'm surprised you didn't stay home."
"Don't change the subject," she snapped, even as she felt the last dregs of chastisement slipping from her. Another sigh, this one a concession of defeat, as she wadded up the napkin and discarded it into a nearby bin. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't come?" she asked instead.
Ozpin averted his gaze, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I merely wish you'd taken tonight to get well. Not that I don't appreciate the company, only that I'd rather it not come at your expense."
"It's a cold, Ozpin, not the plague. I'm not about to be carried out on a stretcher by paramedics." The sniffle at the end of her words belied her somewhat. "Besides," said Glynda, ignoring the persistent itch climbing up the back of her throat. "Someone needed to be here to make sure you didn't 'accidentally' maim one of your colleagues."
The indulgent, vague amusement faded from Ozpin's voice. "I think I'm capable of being out in public without a chaperone."
Glynda stood with arms akimbo. "Even I wanted to individually break all of his fingers. I can only imagine what indecent thoughts were going through your head."
"Then perhaps those thoughts are best left unsaid, for your peace of mind." Which was about as much of an admission as she'd expected to get out of him, but even so, she wasn't entirely surprised to see him frowning at his drink. "I've spent a lifetime having less-than-flattering comments hurdled at me. There's very little one can say to me that I haven't heard before, and even less that can genuinely upset me. But to so blatantly disrespect my staff, and expect me to stand by and tolerate it…"
Wordlessly, Glynda took her champagne flute and tipped its contents into his glass. The gesture of solidarity wasn't lost on him, and he offered a grateful, albeit humorless smile.
Ozpin inspected the carbonated liquid. "There isn't enough alcohol in this building," he said wryly, "that can get me tipsy, let alone drunk." Nevertheless, he polished it off in three long swallows.
"The downside to having a robust Aura and a magic liver," Glynda said. That managed to elicit a soft laugh from Ozpin.
"The enhanced resistance to illness and injury is helpful," he conceded. "Certain other side effects, however, I could do without." He hailed one of the waitstaff and exchanged the empty coupe for a crystal goblet, fizzing with a burgundy liquid that Glynda couldn't name. "Beacon's medical staff are convinced I'm some sort of biological anomaly."
"Which is code for, 'they didn't teach me this in graduate school, and now I'm questioning my education because the headmaster's medical chart scares me.'" Curse or not, Ozpin's ambiguous immortality had its share of perks: greater stamina, considerable pain tolerance, and an increased damage threshold for his Aura. It couldn't protect him from everything, but as far as combat failsafes went, you couldn't ask for much more.
Apart from asking to not be cursed in the first place, but thousands of years later and the gods didn't seem inclined to budge on those terms.
"I think most of them have adopted the mindset of 'the less I know, the better I'll sleep at night.' Something that I can't entirely fault them for," Ozpin added. He drained nearly a fourth of his glass in a single take. Idly, she wondered how many more of Qrow's bad habits he planned on picking up.
"Is that actually doing anything to you?" Glynda asked instead.
He swirled the wine in his goblet. "I can become inebriated, if the alcohol is potent enough," he said at last. "Or if I drink a considerable amount. But I doubt the drinks here have a high enough ethanol concentration to affect me. And as much as it would get me out of…mandatory socialization…I'd rather not spend the night running back and forth to the restroom."
"If I didn't know any better"—she did—"I'd say you were trying to get drunk from the placebo effect."
"Trying," said a familiar voice from behind, "and failing miserably by the looks of it."
There was a delayed reaction on her part, where she turned to face the owner of said voice and found the neurons in her brain momentarily forgetting how to synapse. Brought on by a sudden bout of mental fatigue, and the slow-acting cough medicine that was probably doing more harm than good at this point.
"I know the suit looks bad, but you don't need to give me that look," he said in mock-affront.
Lucidity returned, and now Glynda partially understood the source of her muddled brain's confusion. "What are you doing here, Qrow?"
Qrow rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too."
If the setting itself wasn't throwing her off, then his attire certainly was, a worn khaki suit with gold accents that hung loosely around his shoulders and waist, perfecting the scruffy homeless look he had going. His presence here was dissonant enough, without having to contemplate his outfit and who he must have mugged to get it.
A sudden, nagging realization hit her.
Glynda rounded on Ozpin. "You liar. You thought I wasn't coming."
His composure faltered, if only for a heartbeat, smoothed over with the image of ageless tranquility and concern he'd long ago perfected (and she'd long ago stopped falling for). "That hardly seems like a fair accusation."
She leveled him a flat look. "Branwen," she repeated. "What are you doing here?"
Qrow took a swig from the flask that he'd somehow smuggled past security. "Plus one," he said, with a sidelong smirk at Ozpin.
He had the grace to look sheepish.
"I can't believe you." Glynda couldn't decide what annoyed her more: that he was so terrified by the prospect of being stranded here, with no one for company except the voice in his head, that he invited Qrow Branwen; or that she'd been replaced with Qrow Branwen. "After all the things I have willfully put myself through over the years for you, did you seriously think that a party was going to be my breaking point?"
"I can't believe you volunteered to do this," Qrow said, and Glynda didn't imagine the brief flash of alarm on Ozpin's face.
"Meaning?" she asked.
"Meaning you need to step up your negotiation tactics," Qrow told her. "Because you're out of your mind if you seriously think I agreed to do this out of the goodness of my heart."
Tonight was clearly meant to test how much lower she could set the bar where her expectations were concerned. So far, it had yet to disappoint.
"You bribed him." It wasn't a question.
"I promised to compensate him as a thank you for going out of his way and doing me the favor," Ozpin clarified, though he paused to give Qrow a look of mild exasperation. "Something which you seem determined to make me regret."
Qrow shrugged. "My discretion costs extra. Not that I'm opposed to bargaining," he said, with a grin that immediately sent a conga line of unholy thoughts through Glynda's head. A hint of color crept into Ozpin's face that had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol in his hand.
She sighed. "I'm already feeling nauseous from the postnasal drip. Please don't make me vomit, or I will aim for your suit."
"It's not mine, so be my guest." He plucked at one of the sleeves. "A little splash of color would probably liven up the palette anyway."
She watched as Qrow toyed with a loose thread on the cuff seam. "I know you disdain formalities, but even you have standards where appearance is concerned. You couldn't have bothered to show up in something less—"
"Offensive?" Qrow offered. He flashed her a razorblade smile, taking the time to indulge in a stretch that showcased the outfit's shabbiness. "Sorry I didn't rob a boutique for the occasion. I had to borrow a suit from Tai at the last minute. It's not like I keep fancy clothes lying around in my closet for formal events, at least not since—"
Not since Summer's funeral.
An uncomfortable truth, one he clearly hadn't meant to stumble upon so unwittingly if the way he cleared his throat was anything to go by. A hand reached up to comb through unkempt hair, an idiosyncrasy Glynda recognized for what it was: unease.
It was immediately countered by a second idiosyncrasy: a bracing nip from his flask, which he then pocketed as though nothing had happened.
"Y'know"—Qrow tossed an accusing look in Ozpin's direction—"maybe if my boss paid me more I'd be able to afford a nice suit."
"I'm noticing that tonight's conversations have a theme," Ozpin said. He was tactful enough to follow Qrow's lead. "If you take issue with your salary then you'll have to negotiate with your current employer. Though as I understand it, Signal pays its teachers relatively well."
"Because my teaching gig isn't a cover for my super-secret field job," Qrow said, and he gave Ozpin a light jab in the shoulder. "Come off it, Oz. Like you don't have a say in what goes on over there at that madhouse."
"Madhouse?" Glynda asked, at the same time Ozpin said, "Last I checked, Signal has a headmaster that thankfully isn't me."
"And she regularly consults you on course content and staffing, which is the reason why I work there. Q.E.D." He folded his arms over his chest. "You ever had to teach a classroom full of prepubescent kids? It's like herding lemmings—the attention span of a rodent mixed with suicidal tendencies. You'd think they all have hero complexes with how often they try to throw themselves into the Grimms' mouths."
"If I recall, two of those 'lemmings' are your nieces," Glynda pointed out, and she glared in Ozpin's direction when he had the audacity to smile into his drink. Because enabling the man responsible for impressionable children was such a fantastic idea.
Again, he shrugged. "They've got good heads on their shoulders, and between the two of them I'm not worried. They're not about to go do something stupid; Tai and I made sure of that. The rest of their classmates, on the other hand…" Long fingers reached up and kneaded at his temples. "You'd want a raise too if you had to deal with the bullshit I did."
"Perhaps if you didn't spend all of your paychecks on alcohol you could afford a new suit," Glynda remarked, a tad waspishly. As if to prove her point, he froze mid-motion in the act of snatching an unattended flute from off one of the serving trays. Their gazes met, and he offered her a rakish grin that did nothing to impress, sidling back to Ozpin's side now brandishing his prize.
"I teach, therefore I drink." His eyes lingered on the headmaster long enough to at last goad a response out of him.
Ozpin adjusted his glasses. "I stand by my previous statement. And even if I were inclined to believe your salary was insufficient, I'd like to point out that procuring lien has become no less tedious an undertaking." Qrow cocked a brow, and Ozpin suppressed a sound that bore some distant relation to a snort. "Do you think I have the ability to just magically will money into existence?"
"Yes," said Qrow.
Glynda found herself making an expression that mirrored Ozpin's own flat one.
"What?" he asked. "With all the weird fucking shit I've seen you do, you seriously expect me to stop suspending my disbelief now? After what you did to me and Raven—"
"Qrow," Glynda warned.
His jaw shut with a near-audible click of teeth. "Anyone that hears us isn't going to care, and anyone that would care can't hear us."
She grudgingly conceded that he had a point. The background ambiance created by the guests and the music on the speakers was as good of a smokescreen as any for their conversation. There were, admittedly, worse ways to tempt fate.
Didn't mean she had to give him the satisfaction of being right.
"Unlike him, I'm not about to bargain for your discretion," she muttered. "At least try to pretend you know what 'subtlety' means."
"Perhaps we should relocate to the balcony," Ozpin suggested, with a quelling look aimed at Qrow before he could continue to argue for argument's sake. Years of loyalty won out, and the other man relented with a "yeah, okay" under his breath.
"Believe it or not, my abilities aren't limited by imagination. They do come with certain constraints." Ozpin began to herd them in the direction of the staircase. It didn't escape her notice that he was scanning the crowd, no doubt checking that the coast was clear and they weren't about to be ambushed by any marauding politicians. Evidently satisfied, he continued: "Even though it bypasses our traditional understanding of reality, magic still operates within certain definable parameters. No amount of wishful thinking can get around them, however convenient those powers appear."
"Get back to me when you figure out how to turn water into wine," Qrow said. "Then I'll hear whatever you have to say about 'definable parameters.'"
"He has a point, Oz." Glynda had the momentary satisfaction of watching them both glance back over their shoulders to stare at her in surprise. "After all," she continued, "you managed to turn a drunk into a bird." Her gaze slid in Qrow's direction. "Too bad you couldn't give him the magical power of sobriety."
Qrow flipped her off. "You're hilarious."
Ozpin turned to climb the stairs, but not before she caught his amused expression. "Let's not go asking for miracles, Glynda."
"It's when you say stuff like that," Qrow muttered. "What the hell qualifies as a miracle for someone who can literally break the fabric of reality?"
"It would be more accurate to say I 'bend' it," Ozpin replied, and suddenly Glynda had a newfound insight for where he got his teaching philosophies from. "I thought you would have known that, seeing as we've had this conversation before."
"We have?"
"On more than one occasion."
"Weird how I don't remember that."
"As I've said before," Ozpin said, "the curse allows, and sometimes even requires, temporary violations of spacetime and conservation of mass. As for restrictions, some of them come from not just continuous and voluntary usage, but passive siphoning. With every reincarnation cycle, each new host receives fractionally less magic than before, which limits what I, my predecessors, and my successors are capable of—"
"Oh wait, I remember now." Qrow mounted the last step and leaned against the handrail. "How do you make magic sound so boring."
"The same way you make it sound absurd by suggesting I wave my hand and conjure lien from the ether," Ozpin retorted. Glynda took up the spot to his right, watching the guests mill below the balcony.
"A part of me almost wishes you could, and I don't mean that entirely in jest," she said. "Ulterior motive or not, Burrell does have a say in funding. If he chooses to contest the matter we'll have more to worry about than just Peter's disappointment."
"You already got cornered by that greasy jackass?" Qrow stopped fingering the lights wrapped around the balustrade to look at him. "No wonder you were meerkating the room. The hell did he want?"
"The same thing he always does," Glynda muttered.
Ozpin propped his cane against the railing. "I wouldn't worry too much," he said, only to be met with a dubious noise from Glynda. "This isn't the first time he's attempted to sabotage me, and it won't be the last. He loses a little credibility every time he pulls a stunt like this, and he knows it, so I don't think he's willing to press his luck. I suspect that tonight was about testing the chinks in my armor as much as it was antagonizing me for its own sake. His way of reminding me that he could be a…threat, if he so chose."
"Please." Qrow snorted. "My corgi could kick his ass."
"Though I suppose," he went on, in more airy tone, "if our budget was somehow cut, we'd be faced with the interesting dilemma of how to keep the lights on at the school. Of course the Grimm housed in the containment facilities would have to be either killed or released…"
"Transport's a no-go," Qrow said. "I mean, if we can't afford to pay the electric bill for running the Atlas-tech enclosures, and Burrell's tightening the regs on relocating Grimm, then we'd have to release them somewhere local." There was a hint of menace in his smile. "How about his living room?"
Glynda opened her mouth, about to weigh in, when she noticed Qrow turn to look down the opposite end of the balcony. Something akin to resignation soured his expression, however briefly, before he sighed and went digging for his flask.
"Speaking of Atlas-tech," Qrow said.
This time she didn't have to suffer through the embarrassment of a delayed reaction. Though if she was being honest with herself, nothing short of amnesia could ever make James Ironwood unrecognizable to her. His aesthetic was memorable in a deliberately imposing way, a white tailcoat with navy accents atop a slate-gray military dress shirt. As he neared their posse, Glynda could make out the medals pinned to his uniform, and the Atlesian aiguillettes that denoted his status as a Council member.
"Ozpin!" He reached them in three long strides. The headmasters shook hands. "It's been a few months. How have you been?"
"Not as well as I'd like, but better than you'd originally assumed," Ozpin answered, a little cryptically.
Whatever that meant, James apparently understood, because his face lit up. "I'm pleased to hear it." His gaze fell to her, and he smiled. "You look lovely, Glynda."
"I have an upper respiratory tract infection and I'm currently coughing up enough mucus to drown a slug." This time, Glynda did roll her eyes. "Flattery hasn't worked on me in ten years, James. Try again."
James held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Keep my distance. Message received." At last his eyes lighted upon Qrow (who was in the middle of spiking his own glass with the contents of his flask), and his demeanor abruptly shifted. "I didn't realize that these events were open to the public."
"They aren't, and I'm not 'the public,'" Qrow said, eyes narrowed. "Oz invited me."
James clasped his arms behind his back. "Glad to see that nothing's changed since my last visit," he said, with a pointed look at Qrow's suit.
Qrow made a noise in the back of his throat. "I think I almost forgot how much I missed you, Jimmy."
"Behave," Glynda said. "Both of you."
"I didn't realize that you were going to be here," Ozpin interrupted. He sipped at his drink. "Why didn't you tell us that you were the Atlas Council's representative? We would have met up with you upon your arrival."
"It was a last-minute decision," James admitted. "Originally we were going to send Hyland, but something came up and she wasn't available. We couldn't very well not send someone, so…" He shrugged. "We drew straws. I lost."
"I'm surprised you didn't jump at the chance to come, with how often you rave about Jacques Schnee's parties," Qrow said, unable to keep the contempt out of his voice.
James' brow furrowed. "Attending his social functions is more of a formality at this point. He's a useful ally, and I'd like to keep it that way."
"So this isn't your kind of scene," Qrow said.
"No."
"Really. It's stilted, boring, and mechanical—just like you."
His jawline tightened. "At least my mere presence doesn't endanger the people around me."
Perhaps it was too much to hope for, Glynda thought brokenly, that they could go one night without antagonizing each other.
Qrow laughed, low and dark and devoid of mirth. "Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I thought my Semblance was going to bring down the building."
Some of the combativeness faded from James' expression, replaced with curiosity. "Then what are you doing here?" he asked. "Clearly you didn't come for the drinks or conversation."
"Yeah, no, fuck that. I've got all the drinks I want right here." He lifted his flask and gave it an emphatic shake. "Like I said, invitation. I'm here to pull the fire alarm when Oz gives me the signal so we can make our little jailbreak and run for it."
"You make me sound as incorrigible as the students," Ozpin said. He pursed his lips. "If you'd be so kind as to refrain from anything that might get me fired, I'd appreciate it."
Qrow smirked into his drink. "Is that an order or a request?"
"Qrow."
"Order it is, then." He took a deep draught of whatever poison he'd mixed for himself, grimacing as it went down. "We still need to think of an exit strategy for later. I don't suppose you can turn on the sprinkler system from here?" he asked James.
"Even if I wanted to," the other man replied evenly, "my implants wouldn't be able to remotely access them. They're only meant to interface with my prostheses, which are a closed system."
"Maybe that's for the better," Qrow mused. "I don't think this venue has enough rice so we're fucked if you get wet—"
"How's Amber doing in Atlas?" Glynda pointedly asked, glaring at Qrow as she spoke. He mouthed a "it's a valid concern" at her as he retreated into his alcohol.
Years of military conditioning had given him an ironclad grip on his temper, so James merely scowled at Qrow as opposed to dropkicking him off the balcony. "She's settling in," he said, his inflection considerably warming. "Though I think the climate is taking some getting used to. On her second day there she left the campus to go shopping in the city; something about blouses being 'incompatible with the weather'…"
"I told her to pack warmly," Glynda sighed. "Atlas' winters aren't Vale's. She's going to get sick."
"Said the woman in the sleeveless dress." Qrow arched a brow.
She debated the pros and cons of ignoring that remark, before realizing that he would find a way to lord it over her anyway. "Yes, I'm aware that I'm sick, thank you for stating the obvious. I'd like to point out that I had this cold before tonight."
"Just saying."
"Kindly don't."
"Is Amber keeping up with her training?" Ozpin politely inquired. He glanced between the two, as if debating whether to intervene, or ignore them and simply let nature take its course. He'd clearly opted for the latter.
"She's currently enrolled in a few classes at the Academy, and I directly oversee her training whenever I can spare the time," James assured. "I've also asked Winter to step in every so often and give her private sparring sessions."
Ozpin frowned. "Is that wise, James? I know you place a good deal of trust in your subordinates, but the less people we involve, the safer it is."
"Amber knows not to use her powers out in the open, and Winter's only assisting with weapon proficiency. They can still train together if Amber relies solely on her staff. It'll be good experience for her to spar against an older, more agile opponent." He clapped a hand on Ozpin's shoulder. "And even in the event of a worst-case scenario, you needn't worry about Winter. Atlesian Special Operatives are trained to be discreet with handling sensitive information. I trust her."
Ozpin considered this. "As long as certain precautions are taken, I'll allow it." His eyes crinkled in a smile. "You speak highly of her."
"Why wouldn't I? She graduated top of her class and is easily one of my best specialists," James said. He straightened. "I couldn't have asked for a better operative. She's ambitious, loyal, a ruthless fencer—"
"—emotionally constipated, a frigid bitch," Qrow added.
James closed his eyes and inhaled. "You know," he said, in a voice clearly strained with effort, "I'm sure if you both sat down and talked about your problems like adults, you would get along."
He cast him a sidelong look. "I'd rather have you shoot me."
"That could be arranged."
"Gentlemen," Ozpin said, but it didn't sound like a reprimand. Rather, his voice had taken on an apprehensive quality that Glynda couldn't quite place. Only when she followed his line of sight toward the stairs did a sense of déjà vu creep over her.
"I wondered where you'd disappeared to," said the newcomer, a woman in matching black slacks and blazer, with a long sheet of silvery-blonde hair. She regarded the headmasters with an expression that was unreadable, though not unfriendly. "How was your flight, General?"
"Uneventful, but I'm not complaining." James dipped his head. "It's good to see you again, Councilor Integra."
"Likewise."
Ozpin cleared his throat. "Did you need me for something, Integra?"
"For work? No. At least, nothing that can't wait until next week," she said, but with the casual evasiveness of a person who'd been waiting for an opportunity to get their foot in the door, and now had one. "But I did however receive a few concerns I need to address with you."
"Concerns?" Ozpin echoed. "In regards to what?"
If Glynda had been expecting to hear Burrell's name coming out of her mouth, she was sorely mistaken. "Do me the courtesy of not looming over the guests. Your combined presence is starting to unnerve people. Either disperse and mingle with the crowd or wallflower if you must, as long as you do it on the first floor."
Not bothering to wait and see if they'd comply, she turned on her heel and swept back down the stairs.
"…a pity she's retiring next year," Ozpin said, after a moment. "I've always found her the most reasonable of Vale's Council."
James exhaled. "That was unlucky."
"Well, it's not like we were making an effort to hide," Qrow said, his fingers wrapping around the banister. "And Huntsmen in groups do tend to draw attention, she's not wrong about that." He swore softly under his breath. "So much for waiting out the storm up here."
Ozpin's eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into his cane. "We don't need to stay for the full duration," he murmured. "Merely another hour or so."
"You make your job sound like an endurance test," Qrow said.
James swapped a look with Ozpin. "It isn't? That's the first I've heard of it."
"Not the words I would have used," Ozpin said, peering contemplatively at his glass, "but I suppose anything more accurate would involve profan—"
Glynda sneezed.
It took effort to not gag on the mucus sliding along the back of her throat. With a grimace, she coughed it back down, unable to suppress the knee-jerk shudder that followed. Lifting her head back up, she was caught off guard by Qrow's rather intent expression, which was now disconcertingly closer than it had been a moment ago.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
He peered at her a heartbeat longer before declaring, somewhat unnecessarily, "You look terrible."
"You don't say," she said through clenched teeth.
Her first thought was that he was clearly more drunk than he was letting on, only to then have that thought fizzle out like a wet firecracker when he reached forward and, before she could flinch out of range, graze his fingertips across her forehead.
She swatted his hand away. "What are you doing?"
"You look really terrible, Glynda." He folded his arms across his chest, head tipped to the side in feigned deliberation. "I think you might have a fever. We should get you home so you can sleep."
"For the last time, Branwen, it's a cold, I'm not going to—" Her thoughts came to screeching halt and hastily backpedaled. "You can't be serious."
"I don't see you coming up with any better ideas," Qrow retorted. "Unless you want to stay here and eat shitty appetizers all night." He turned to his superior. "You in?"
It spoke volumes of Ozpin's loss of fucks to give via alcohol that he didn't even try pretending to object. "James and I will notify Integra and the other kingdom representatives."
"You'll notify her," James corrected him. "It makes sense for you to leave under the guise of taking her home, and Qrow's not obligated to stay so no one will begrudge him leaving. But I can't imagine anyone being happy if I left, too. You don't need a three-man escort." A rueful smile ghosted over his face. "See to it that you actually do get some rest."
"You can see to it yourself," Glynda insisted. There was a part of her that would, in retrospect, take the time to process everything she was saying. Right now, that part of her brain was taking backseat to twenty milligrams of cough medicine and an acute headache. Consequences be damned; she wasn't about to abandon him. "Correct me if I'm wrong," she began, "but didn't we just get done telling Burrell that we needed to finalize our preparations for the Atlas mission?"
Ozpin narrowed his eyes in thought. "We did," he said.
"If I'm indisposed, you'll need someone to step in and help oversee those plans," she concluded. "And who better to take over than the Councilor in whose kingdom said mission will take place? We're cutting it rather close with the deadline, so the sooner you two leave, the sooner you can prepare."
She could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen James gape. It was gratifying to know that her underhandedness ranked up there with the discovery that magic existed.
Qrow whistled. "Think it'll work?"
James scrubbed at his face, before his hand came to rest at his chin. "Like you said, it's not as if we have any other ideas." But beneath the cool composure was an earnest hopefulness that he wasn't quite able to mask, that betrayed just how miserable he would be at the prospect of the alternative.
It wasn't her most eloquent plan, but desperate times…
"We'll meet you outside." A hand snaked around her shoulder before Glynda could protest, and she found herself being guided down the stairs. "Gotta make it look convincing if we want to sell it," Qrow said by way of explanation. He discarded his partially-drained flute on a passing table. "Try coughing on one of the servers. That ought to do the trick."
"You're enjoying this," she accused, without any heat.
"And you're not? Don't try to deny it," he said, "you wanted an excuse to nope the fuck out of here as much as any of us."
Even if she had the energy to deny it, she wouldn't have bothered. It was late, she was sick, and gods, was it really that cold out? Glynda reflexively reached her hands up to wrap them around her arms as they stepped through the doorway. Crisp winter air burned in her lungs, and her breath fogged around her face. She stamped out the treasonous impulse to duck back inside the venue.
"What's taking them so long?" she heard Qrow mutter.
Then, not even fifteen seconds later, they appeared silhouetted against the building entrance. They stopped long enough to exchange words with the porter before crossing the street to join them.
"I can't believe that worked," James marveled. "I thought we'd have to—" His eyes jumped to Glynda when she failed to suppress a shiver. "Glynda, you're freezing. Here"—he was already shrugging out of his overcoat—"I have a shirt on underneath, take my coat—"
"You don't have to—" The protest died off as he draped the heavy fabric across her shoulders. The effect was immediate, and she allowed herself to sag into the garment, enjoying the residual warmth leftover from his own body heat. "Thank you, James."
His features softened. "Of course."
Ozpin reached for his glasses. He'd produced an eyeglass cleaner from somewhere on his person, and was now running the cloth over the lens. "James and I were saying that we rarely have an opportunity to get together, outside of work. Would either of you be interested in getting dinner, now that our night is free?" He donned his spectacles, and in the lamplight his smile held a hint of mischief. "It's the very least I can do for inconveniencing you both."
Qrow shoved his hands in his pockets. "You paying?" he asked.
"I think I can manage to cover dinner," he said. "My financial troubles notwithstanding."
She caught James' perplexed frown. "Don't ask," she sighed.
"It will have to be a restaurant where other guests won't find us," Ozpin added. "I imagine they wouldn't take kindly to hearing that we…exaggerated your illness and used our jobs as Huntsmen to get out of a mandatory event."
"Oh don't worry, Oz." Qrow smirked. "I know a place."
I like to headcanon that the Wizard's magic is a bit like the serum used on Steve Rogers, so Oz, his predecessors, and Oscar are all stuck with the side effect of magically-enforced sobriety.
For those of you that that were curious, and want to know what the chapter title translates to:
Latin: veni, vidi, vinavi – "I came, I saw, I drank."
vīnum – "wine"
▪ [ vīn- ] – stem
▪ [ vīn- ] + [ -āre ] – verb-forming suffix for the present infinitive, "to wine" or "to [drink] wine"
▪ [ vīnāre ] + [ -āvī ] – conjugated for first-person singular perfect active indicative, "I drank wine"
= vinavi – final omission of macrons
I'm pretty sure that somewhere I just made a Latin enthusiast cry, but oh well.