Lumi yanked on a cotton robe as she stomped towards the door, all thoughts of a relaxing morning thoroughly squashed. Who the hell was knocking at half past six? Who the hell was even awake at six AM?! If Rue's alarm clock hadn't gone off, followed shortly by the door bell, she sure as fuck wouldn't be up!

A peek through the peephole revealed a tall, slightly stooped old man with a beard dressed in worn, patchy clothes. The porch light wasn't on and the sun had risen on the opposite side of the house so she couldn't see much, but she saw enough of him to know exactly what was going on. With a sigh, she shoved her irritation away, dragged her compassion to the surface and opened the door.

"Good morning, miss," he rasped, wheezed then turned and coughed into his elbow. It was a prolonged fit and sounded dry to her ears. "Does Roux Forhan live here?"

"Yes, but she's away," she took a half-step back, the woman's warnings about contagious diseases played a loop in her head. "Would you like to come in? It's chilly this morning and I was just about to make some coffee."

He frowned, looked at the numbers lining the door, and mouthed something to himself. She waited patiently as he held an internal conversation. He came to a conclusion then shook his head and gave her a soft, almost familiar smile.

"If you would," he forced out the rest of the sentence through a series of coughs smothered in the crook of his arm. "B-be so ki-k-cough-kind."

At least he was polite despite having some sort on respiratory infection. Lumi knew dozens of perfectly healthy people who could take a few pointers from him.

She led him to the kitchen, careful not to walk too quickly or too far from him in case the fever he was clearly nursing caused him to faint, and set a pot to brew. She noted that even with his slightly defensive posture, he was well over a foot taller than her with some definition to his arms that hinted at an active past- a Huntsman who'd gone feral? A construction worker down on his luck? Well whatever he had been, now he was just a slightly out of it, sick old man warming up in the comfort of the Forhan's house.

She puttered around the kitchen, putting together a simple breakfast of toast and instant oatmeal, and felt his sharp gaze settle on her almost like a physical weight. (That was one point in favor of the Huntsman theory.) She set the food in front of him then grabbed a pair of mugs and the fresh carafe of coffee. He waited for her to sit and serve them both, his coffee much weaker than hers, before he thanked her for the meal and slowly dug in.

Wow, she hadn't seen that level of manners from anyone in- well, ever. Nerves a little less strung from the show of politeness, she sipped at her drink and let the heat drive away her small headache. Judging from what she could see past his un-kempt facial hair, he hadn't been homeless long; not with straight, even teeth like his, lacking any gaps, cracks or chips.

There were faint callouses on his long fingers, and he tore his toast into smaller pieces before eating it. She dragged her attention to her own food before he could call her out for staring at him, and they passed the time in silence.

Unbeknownst to her, he spent the time observing her too, though far less obviously. He- whichever one of the "he"s he was- had been around too long to get caught in this, especially by someone as young as she was.

There was something familiar about the set of her mouth and the way she swirled her mug three times before drinking, but he couldn't place it. Did he, or one of the other he's, know her? Perhaps he knew her mother and she had similar mannerisms? He, the current he, had been a teacher of some sort, but what sort of teacher would know how his student took her coffee- whole milk and brown sugar? It was worrisome.

She was clearly a Huntress; Roux would let no one less capable of defending themselves watch his (her- Rue? No, Roux- hi- her?) house. On top of that, she was wearing a green robe he knew signified her as a Healer, but that likely belonged to the woman of the house (Roux was happily unmarried- but he- no, she) and not her.

His hunger pangs died down and the chill left his bones, both warm and fed for the first time in a long while- on his long trek to the city he usually only got one or the other. His head ached from the fact that there were too many "him"s in his mindspace, but that was his curse and as he sipped the rest of his coffee, even that pain faded.

"Would you like to shower?" the young woman asked as a wavy blue lock fell from her bun. "I'm sure I can find some clippers and a razor if you'd like to shave as well." She tucked it behind her ear and he got the impression that she usually wore a clip on her left side (why did he know that?).

"That would be lovely," his coughing had subsided but he knew it wouldn't be long until it started back up again. A shower would help him clear his chest further, which would hopefully grant him a bit more time. "Thank you."

She led him to a small, grey and red bathroom (the same color scheme as the living room and kitchen, he noted, sleek and simple) and explained how the shower worked. There was an anti-scalding measure built into the water heater, typical of an old house like this (but wasn't it a new feature?), so if the water shut off he need only pull the cord beside the showerhead to get it back. There were fresh towels in the linen closet just behind the door, along with the usual supplies, including a two-in-one shampoo/conditioner (something he knew he disliked and wasn't sure why).

Lumi left with the promise of getting one of Rue's med-kits to check his lungs when he was done. After she dragged the clunky, almost too full case from the pantry to the table, she hurried upstairs to change into clothes more fit for company. A comfy, grey cheongsam top and capri-length leggings were easy to move around in, and if the man (she hadn't gotten his name and promised to do so at the first opportune moment) ended up vomiting on her (it had happened before) she wouldn't be too torn up about having to change again.

She cleaned their mess from breakfast, making sure to disinfect everything lest she catch whatever he had, and fixed herself another cup of coffee before she ventured to Roux's bathroom to borrow an old pair of clippers. He had a much nicer, newer set Rue had given him for the new year as a not-so-subtle hint for him to "shave that dead possum" off his face, but he'd only laughed and trimmed a quarter inch off the ends.

The memory of Rue telling her the story over an afternoon of updating medical files warmed her heart and made her miss her own siblings- was Ash old enough to grow facial hair yet or did he still just have little individual hairs that popped up out of nowhere? She had wanted to tease him about it, but hopefully Nocte would take up the mantle; she was good at being just the right level of annoying.

She pushed the thoughts away and grabbed some shaving cream along with a pack of disposable razors. When the man was done and dry, he poked his damp head out and she handed over the small bundle. Another soft, familiar smile crossed his face and she could almost place his eyes but then he closed the door and the gentle buzz of the clippers kicked on.

Her coffee was still warm when she remembered it, and even in her half-aware state she'd made it just right. With a blissed out sigh, she leaned against the counter and sipped at her drink. Her mind got away from her in the quiet, but when the bathroom door opened and brought with it the sharp sent of shaving cream, she blinked back into focus.

His footsteps sounded closer until he was at the doorway with a clean-shaven face and a thanks on his lips- a thanks that was cut short by the fact that Lumi screamed and chucked her mug at him. It shattered against the wall when he ducked away but some of the splatter got his shoulder.

"WHAT THE FUCK," she twisted her hands in her hair. "I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS."

He frowned and, taking a defensive position in case she decided to throw more things, asked, "Do I know you? Or rather, do you know me?"

"Yes I fucking know you!" she spat and reached for a weapon that wasn't there. "You're the Headmaster at Beacon and you're dead- you're supposed to be dead!"

"It appears that is very much not the case," he quipped then reconsidered his words when her entire arm lit with aura. "Ah, before you attack, would you mind telling me my name?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're going with amnesia as your cover story?"

"Well no," he blinked owlishly. "I do have amnesia to some degree- or I must if I don't recall you despite the fact that we must have had some past interactions that soured our relationship this much. What was that, by the way? It feels salient to know."

Something twisted in her features as she glared at a spot over her shoulder but then her arm stopped glowing and she sighed heavily. "Your name was- is- Ozpin. You were the Headmaster at Beacon Academy in the Kingdom of Vale until the end of the Vytal Tournament last year, when a terrorist attack led to the fall of the CCT and the school. You were declared missing, then presumed dead when no one could find your body after extensive search."

"Ah," the words rushed over him like static. Something in his head tried to connect with, to stick to that description but it was difficult, like trying to hold water in his palms.

"Before that, you were my… supervisor, I think was the term?" she frowned, less harsh and disgusted than earlier. "I interned for Doctor Oobleck and you the summer between my first and second year. I did a lot of things, but you were most interested in-"

"The De Sena journals," he breathed as the lone piece fell into place. "You put ghost pepper into my cocoa supply at the start of the semester after that- why?"

"You can remember that but not- look, it doesn't matter," she made a cutting motion with one hand. "Sit down, I'll try and fix your lungs then you can go."

"Go?" he took the seat opposite the white case with a red plus sign on it. "I didn't know my own name until now, where will I go?"

"I don't care," she snapped and yanked open a drawer to withdraw a pair of nitrile gloves. "Anywhere that's not here."

"It seems unfair to be angry with me over something I can't remember doing," he tutted. "Especially when you won't tell me what it was. Were we only ever antagonistic to each other?"

"No," she threw herself into her seat and busied herself with pulling out an assortment of things he faintly remembered the names of. "Open your mouth and say 'ah'."

Despite the irritation written clearly across her face and throughout her frame, she didn't jab the popsicle stick into the back of his throat and held his jaw with a deceptive gentleness. His ears buzzed as her fingers grew warm, then the ringing quieted and she withdrew her hands.

"No concussion, no throat or ear infections," she listed sharply. "Your lungs, however, are fucked with something." Without giving him enough time to process her short diagnosis or charming language, she stood and slid the buds of the stethoscope into her ears. "Turn sideways in the chair, and when I tell you go, breathe in as deeply as you can and hold it."

He suppressed the reflex to strike out at her when she lifted the hem of his shirt and placed the cold metal to his back, but it was a near thing. She must have known because her hand grew heavy and warm where it was on his shoulder- an implicit warning not to try anything.

"Go," she said.

He did as she instructed, or tried to. When he breathed in the harsh coughs that had been handily taken care of by the combined force of caffeine and a hot shower returned with a vengeance. Bent in half, his lungs struggled to fill and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest but then a rush of warmth opened his airways back up. Gasping, he felt the side of her palm smooth up and down his back along both halves of his ribs, yet when he turned to glance at her she faced away with a bored expression.

Aches he had long since grown used to faded to nothingness against that tangible warmth until he was nothing more than a tired old man leaned halfway against the girl's side. She prodded him into sitting up and resumed her check-up, voice much less sharp than before though by no means soft. Though it burned, he managed to hold his breath and barely cough on the exhale.

She fixed his shirt absent-mindedly while he wheezed and grabbed another tool, a thermometer that went into his ear and beeped shrilly. She hummed at the result and discarded the used plastic cover then pulled a paper mask from a box and handed it to him.

"I'm not sure what, exactly, you have since it's quite clear that I'm not a doctor," she motioned to her outfit as though clothes could prove or disprove a medical degree. "But there is something in your lungs. Probably pneumonia, judging from Rue's 'quick diagnoses for dummies' list, but I couldn't tell you for sure."

He nodded. "Can you fix it?" his voice had regained its raspy quality from his lungs' attempt at turning themselves inside out.

"Eh," she frowned. "Maybe. You'd be better off going to an actual doctor and getting x-rays done."

"How?" he drawled. "I am, by your account, very much dead to the world." Any salary he collected or savings he had must have been distributed according to his will by now.

"Go to your bank and tell them the good news," she deadpanned and started to clean. "I'm sure they have a process for MIA Huntsmen that are no longer missing."

"I'm sure they do, but like you've said," he stressed. "I was Beacon's Headmaster. My bank is likely in Vale, and even if there is a branch here in Mistral, I sincerely doubt that with the CCT network down they'll have anything I can use to prove my identity. Further, how can I answer any security questions they pose if I needed to have you tell me both my name and former occupation- two things that are so obviously integral to my identity?"

He really wanted her to punch him in the teeth, didn't he? Lumi could see no other reason for why he tried to impose his sorry case on her.

"You are a grown man," she ground out. "What happens to you is none of my concern."

"Come now, have some sympathy for an old sick man," he clicked his tongue. "Rue didn't teach you how to heal without making you take a Healer's oath, did she?" Rue was the Healer Forhan, and her twin brother Roux was a Huntsman- that much seemed clear now that he said it.

"Don't try and invoke the Healer's Oath on me, Mr. I Can't Remember Jack All," she hissed and her violet eyes flashed black.

His eyes lit with malevolent glee- hit a nerve, did he? The only thing to do would be to press on. "The Clause of Neutrality requires you to help any person in need of aid, regardless of allegiance or standing, does it not?"

She put away the med-kit with more force than necessary.

"Ah, you are withholding treatment so I'll do what you want- a clear violation of the two Clauses of Aid."

"You can recall three of the sub-clauses to the Healer's Oath, but not your name or any way to prove your being alive? Get absolutely fucked, Headmaster Ozpin." She threw her gloves in the trash and when she turned around at the sound of a chair scraping, she nearly screamed.

"I humbly request sanctuary in this house, merciful healer," he was on his knees, left palm pressed to the ground and right fist on his thigh, but the sly grin on his face was anything but supplicating. "I lay my life in your kind hands, if you will have it." He bent his neck just so and suppressed the cough building in his throat.

"Get up you damned snake," the shadows bloomed to life behind her, a writhing, depthless void. "I'll fix your lungs just get up!"

"You wouldn't," he couldn't suppress the ache in his chest any longer and dug the face mask out of his pocket to cover his mouth while he coughed up whatever lived in his lungs. "Would you deny a clear act of supplication?"

"I already said I'd heal you, what more do you want?!" with a wave of her hand the kitchen floor disappeared from beneath them.

He felt a chill pry into his bones, his soul, and heart. "Sanctuary."

There was a moment when the whole world pulsed, then the dark receded in a blink of an eye and left him dizzy.

"Fine, what the fuck ever," she sighed. Her irises were still black but the shadows remained in place. "You can stay here a week- in return I want your solemn vow that you will neither attempt nor plot to do harm to me or mine, now or in the future. That includes further attempts to manipulate me, because you are not subtle."

He could be, he knew, though he barely knew his own name. But irritating the tiny slip of a girl in front of him seemed like a poor choice, not the least because she had initially taken him in without knowing a thing about him and had been so kind then. If he'd kept the beard and not trimmed his hair, she likely would have continued to help without her rough turn in attitude.

"I so vow," he bowed at the waist once and stood. His head swam and when he nearly toppled over she shoved a chair at him. He collapsed into it with a wheeze.

"Your pneumonia's worse than I thought," she murmured to herself. "Would you happen to know what clothing size you wear?"

His response was another wheeze followed by a coughing fit.

Rather than wait for an answer that might never come, she grabbed a measuring tape from the study and measured his leg from knee to ankle. She multiplied the number by four on her Scroll, then did the same to her own leg to check the accuracy. Unfortunately for her, her rough estimate was correct as her number placed her height about five foot four (an inch taller than her actual height) and his at roughly six and a half feet.

He was disgustingly tall. She set aside the indignation of being surrounded by giants at every turn and calculated his inseam. The average person had a measurement four inches less than half their height, so that put him at… a still ridiculous number. His waist, from the quick lasso and tug she did, was also an astounding number, but he'd presumably been homeless for a year and he was never all that heavy to begin with.

She would have made him stand so she could take his actual measurements, as her current summer job had given her the skills and nerve to manhandle strangers, but as honor bound to help him as she was, there was no way she was putting her hands anywhere near his dick unless he managed to get stabbed directly in the femoral artery. Even then, she might consider it a solution to her pushy ex-Headmaster problem and wash her hands of it.

Except that a glance at the hallway wall revealed her smashed coffee cup and Rue's framed copy of the Florencian Oath, the latter of which clearly stated that she had to help as long as it was within her power. She frowned at it and grabbed a rag to clean up her mess.

Why couldn't she ever have a simple Saturday?

A/N: I hope you lovely readers enjoyed!

I got the idea for this while writing up the fifth version of a sequel to Cobwebs and Crows... that story's giving me such grief but every iteration is bringing me closer and closer to something I can be happy with. Don't be surprised if something like this (but with Oscar in place of Ozpin) ends up in there, I tend to reuse a lot of the same concepts because the path is already so well-trodden in my mind.

Also, I LOVE Ozpin and he doesn't get enough love in fanfic so expect another story centered around him in the future. The more of his backstory that we see from Volume 6, the more ideas I get about him, so it might turn into a series of one-shots posted under one title... LMAO who am I kidding my brain can't seem to trim a story to a one-shot it'll end up as like, 2-5 chapters per idea but w/e he deserves it.

Leave a review if you liked the chapter- or you have any recommendations about a good Ozpin centered fic b/c I am dying for some more fic.