Chapter Text
Ozpin Pine sat in the waiting room, cradling the paper cup in both hands. The cinnamon tea broke through the sterile scent of the floors and receptionist desk, muddling it into something poisonous, like bleach in the kettle. He sighed and tried to relax in the stiff-backed chairs, the rough fabric itching him even through his suit. Above, the television quietly droned on, his eyes glancing up between stolen looks at his watch. From across the room, another man waiting snuck unsubtle glances toward him, as though he recognized Ozpin but couldn’t quite place the face.
His doctor was seventeen minutes late.
He sighed again, glancing at the television once more. The afternoon news were the usual good tidings: a mugging at the BART station in Concord, more fires in southern California, and –
“If you missed the news last night, the Las Vegas Bandits have a new starting pitcher,” the anchor announced, too cheerfully. “Qrow Branwen was acquired yesterday from the Oakland A’s after being designated for assignment – ”
Ozpin felt his muscles tense.
“General Manager Ozpin Pine said in interviews – “
Ozpin closed his eyes, focusing on the weak heat seeping through his tea cup.
If they had listened to the press conference, they would have known better than to call Qrow Branwen a starting pitcher.
Those days were behind him.
From across the room, the man stealing glances fell into an outright stare. Ozpin ran a hand over his mouth, eyes forced to choose between a Bandits fan or his own face on television. Years ago, before Ozpin understood the depth of privacy violations, he would have been certain no one would approach him in a doctor’s office, or a restaurant, or in line for groceries.
Now he knew better.
The man stood up.
“Mr. Pine?”
He stood without thinking, draining the rest of his tea, now cold. He avoided the eyes of the man in the waiting room, following the nurse.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pine,” she said, closing the door behind him. “The receptionist is new. I’ll put in a note about the TV on your appointment next time.”
“It’s fine,” Ozpin said automatically. What was, after all, just one more dehumanizing experience in a day? He slipped his monkstrap shoes off and subjected himself to the recording of vitals and statistics.
Revenge, he mused, for all the player sheets he made and reviewed, for all the blood drawn, for all the urine tested.
A necessary evil, he thought, as the nurse handed him a sealed plastic sample cup.
He sat uncomfortable on crunchy paper as the doctor reviewed his chart, skimmed the test results of his physical.
“Blood pressure is a little high,” he remarked.
“An isolated incident,” Ozpin said. “In the waiting room.”
“The nurse told me. But somehow I think these spikes happen more than you’ll admit.”
Ozpin tried not to glance at his watch. The game began just after four o’clock. An away game in Miami. He roused his attention back to where the doctor lectured about his blood pressure, or heart rate, or whatever the new the complaint of the visit was this time.
“Think you can do that for me?” the doctor asked.
Ozpin plastered a smile on. “Of course,” he said. “Anything else?”
“I think that’ll do it.”
Ozpin thanked him, reaching for his jacket.
“Oh! One last note, since it’s been a while since the last results. Are you sexually active?”
For the hundredth time that day, Ozpin sighed.
*
Ozpin stepped out of his car into the cooling arid sunset of the Las Vegas Strip, buttoning his jacket. His driver took off immediately, leaving him to walk alone into unassuming faux-wooden doors of the Locker Room.
“Good evening, Raymond,” Ozpin murmured.
The bouncer stepped aside with merely a nod.
Once a dive sports bar, the Locker Room evolved with the Strip, morphing from something for everyday sports fans to a location almost exclusive to the men who ran the leagues themselves, visiting football stars offseason, celebrities in town for vacations or to watch whatever big fight was happening down the street. The rough floors had been swept away and polished dark wood installed over; heavy drapes hid the harsh lights of the Strip, muting the noise, until there seemed nothing in the world but a marble bar and the bottles behind it.
At four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the bar was almost empty, a few young influencers chatting and laughing softly at one corner of the bar. In the opposite corner, a winding staircase went up to the second floor’s private lofts and bottle service.
Ozpin caught the bartender’s eye and he trotted over, well-accustomed to his upper-class regulars.
“Vodka martini, dirty, three olives,” Ozpin said. “And another to follow in the fourth inning.”
The bartender nodded, reaching for a bottle of French vodka. “Miss Goodwitch is waiting in your usual spot,” he said.
Ozpin thanked him and turned to climb the stairs. His usual spot was a loft suite that overlooked the rest of the bar, plush pillows on velvet, a large television affixed above the view. Glynda already had the TV on, draped over half the cushions, her dress black but somehow sparkling in the dim lighting. On the table, a bottle of Gray Goose Ducasse lay in ice.
“You look like shit,” she said, sipping her vodka.
“Good afternoon to you as well,” Ozpin said wearily, feeling his weight sag against the sofa. “Did I miss the first pitch?”
“Not yet,” Glynda said. “How was the doctor?”
The waitress arrived with the martini, placing it in front of Ozpin without a word.
“Three olives,” Glynda said, her eyebrows shooting up. “That bad?”
“Hypertension,” he said. “And he probably said something about caffeine, but I wasn’t listening.”
“Ozpin.”
“It’s not that high. The press conference came on in the waiting room.”
Glynda shrugged. “If you wanted to avoid the limelight, you should have picked a different job.”
Ozpin merely grumbled and picked up his drink. “I can see by your gown that you’re eagerly awaiting the team’s return.”
Glynda laughed. “I sent James a photo and he practically drooled over text.”
“Charming.”
“Oo, you are in a mood,” Glynda remarked, raising eyes and glass, following the movement of the pitch. “Is this your continued midlife crisis?”
Ozpin took two long sips of his martini before answering, letting the alcohol softly burn away his sarcasm.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, watching the TV as Barty Oobleck earned a leadoff hit. A single at best for most players, but Oobleck’s remarkable speed stretched it into a double, sliding into the base at the last second, the umpire signaling him safe.
A few scattered boos broke out in the stands.
“How do so few fans in the stands manage to be so loud?” Glynda wondered, tipping the last of her drink down. She turned a critical eye back to Ozpin. “So you agree that this mood of yours is a midlife crisis?”
“Comments about age aside, I don’t know what else to call it.”
Glynda hummed, reaching for the vodka. “Well, everyone has bad days. Have you thought about just buying a car and hoping that works?”
Ozpin shrugged. “I just bought a baseball player. That’s considerably more expensive.”
“Doesn’t count if it’s not your money.”
“Jacques may be the CEO, but it’s my team,” Ozpin said.
“Have you ever considered you saying things like that is the reason he doesn’t like you?”
“Jacques doesn’t like anyone.”
“That’s true. So you can’t retail therapy this mood away. There are other obvious methods to consider.”
Ozpin chewed an olive, shooting her a dark look. He knew exactly where this was going, and he didn’t want to hear it.
“Look, I’m just saying that the divorce was a long time ago – “
“Glynda.”
“No one is asking you to remarry, but – “
“I’m really not meant for the dating scene,” Ozpin broke in, his indignance softened by fatigue.
“You’re going to hate my next suggestion then,” Glynda said, matter-of-factly.
“Which is?”
“Don’t date. Just get laid.”
“Glynda!”
Embarrassment roared up Ozpin’s face; his drink prevented him from covering his expression and so he sat, horrified and debating taking the rest of his martini like a shot.
“I can download Grindr for you,” she said, laughing at his discomfort. “Vet your matches.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, the offer is there if you want it,” Glynda said, still snickering.
“I most certainly do not,” Ozpin huffed.
“Think about it,” Glynda said. “You’d be popular. You’re a silver fox.”
Ozpin rolled his eyes, not caring if he looked petulant. Glynda caught the expression and shrugged, and for a while they each sipped their drinks and pretended not to care.
The Bandits took an early lead against the Marlins, Oobleck’s leadoff double knocked in by the Bandits’ catcher, Taiyang Xiao Long.
And yet Ozpin watched the game without seeing it. He sipped at his drink, his mind drifting to Glynda’s obscene suggestions.
Of course, he had been alone since the divorce – even before that, when he and Salem lived in the same house like strangers instead of high school sweethearts. Their divorce had been quiet, civil, neither of them talking about why it had ended. They didn’t speak now, strangers made stranger by distance, an entire youth fading away with the happier memories of when Ozpin had lived in denial.
Maybe Glynda was right: what was the point of the divorce if Ozpin still refused to come to terms with himself? Alone since the divorce, but lonely for much longer.
Still.
Hookups.
Ozpin cringed. He had no confidence in his ability to survive in that culture. He wasn’t certain he wanted to. Dating seemed just as horrible: long evenings with strangers, interviews on favorite colors and hobbies, the awkward goodnights and anxiety-ridden text messages.
He never had to deal with any of that when he was younger.
The entire process sounded terrifying.
Still, Glynda seemed convinced that he would do well enough.
You’d be popular.
How could she be so sure?
He realized she was speaking aloud and he looked up from his empty glass, the room swaying slightly from the vodka.
“I beg your pardon?”
Glynda raised eyebrows. “You’re suddenly very distracted. Peter just hit a home run.”
Ozpin glanced at the TV, watching the gray-haired man trotting around the bases. The score now read 5-3 Bandits, but he couldn’t remember how any of the runs had been scored.
“Oh,” he said.
“You were right that he shouldn’t retire yet,” Glynda mused. “I’m surprised at his power at his age.”
“Port has always been a power-hitter,” Ozpin said automatically.
“Right. But what’s really on your mind? Thinking of hitting up a gay bar on your way home?”
Ozpin snorted. “Hardly. I have a brief meet and greet with Qrow Branwen when his flight comes in.”
“Oo, Branwen.” Glynda sat up, all attention. “’Bad Luck Branwen.’ A curious purchase. I’m surprised you pulled that trigger before consulting with me.”
“It was a gut reaction,” Ozpin said. “I’m not even sure why he appealed to me. The call came in that Oakland let him go, and it seemed…somehow fatalistic.”
“That’s not like you. You live and die by statistics.”
“So does Oakland.”
Glynda laughed. “Not the same, Ozpin. You’re not the A’s. You have money to burn. A shiny new team in Vegas, and you stooped to sweep up the A’s leftovers?”
“They didn’t know how to manage Branwen,” Ozpin said, finally feeling himself relax. Perhaps it was the change in subject to something neutral, something Ozpin knew. Perhaps it was the martini. “They brought him up too young and let him do whatever he wanted. They drained him dry before his prime, and now he’s in his thirties and they don’t know how to fix what they’ve broken.”
“He had Tommy John surgery a few years back.”
“And it’s been time enough for his recovery,” Ozpin said. “His fastball dropped an average of seven miles per hour, he’s lost control of his curveball, and his changeup only gets past the rookies. Honestly, I can’t imagine why they waited this long to designate him. He’s bleeding them runs and the money they need for a fresh starter. Branwen’s an anchor.”
“Rumors say they picked up someone from Detroit. They’ll probably announce it this evening.”
Ozpin shrugged. Of course he was right. That’s why a brand new MLB team under his management had the record it did.
“You didn’t answer my question, by the way,” Glynda said. “If you think Branwen is washed up, why pick up his contract?”
“It doesn’t matter if he is. We can afford a one-year contract on a bad gamble for an ageing pitcher. He’ll start in the bullpen and if he can’t learn to control his pitches, he’ll stay there until his contract is up.”
“If.”
Ozpin snorted, his contempt for the day ablaze with the alcohol in his veins. “Let’s be honest, Glynda: he’s old and used up and he has an attitude problem. He won’t last beyond the All Star break.”
“Wow.”
An unfamiliar male voice broke into the conversation. Ozpin turned, expecting an eavesdropping waiter with his second martini.
Instead, Qrow Branwen stood at the threshold of the suite, drink in hand, eyes meeting Ozpin’s evenly.
“So that’s how it is, huh?” he said.
Ozpin blinked, lips parting but no words following.
Qrow shrugged, a careless action at odds with the growl in his voice. “Sure. I mean, we both knew that’s how it was, but it’s a real thing hearing it out loud like that.”
Ozpin grasped for words.
“Mr. Branwen – “
“Don’t bother,” Qrow said, draining his drink and putting the glass on their table. “Message received: get some wins or get the axe. You got it, boss.”
He turned and left before Ozpin could reign in his surprise; he half stood up, Glynda already shaking her head.
“He’s right,” she said gently. “Don’t bother.”
“But – “
“Nothing you said was wrong, Ozpin. Frank and martini-filtered, yes, but true.”
“But…” Ozpin looked over the balcony, watching Qrow’s long strides out the front door. His frank discussions with Glynda and James regarding the team were never meant for outside ears – especially not his players. For them, he reserved a quiet, professional attitude. Distance and courtesy.
This first meeting was neither, in the worst possible ways.
“It’s a hell of a first impression,” Glynda said, “but you said it yourself: he won’t be around long enough for this to matter.”
Ozpin fell silent, weighing the truth of her words, the waitress arriving with his second martini. He sighed and slumped back on the sofa, turning his eyes back to the TV just in time to watch Florida crack a homerun against the Bandits.
6-5 Marlins.
He closed his eyes and rubbed them from beneath his glasses, wondering at the quiet tragedies of his life.
*
Qrow Branwen’s flight arrived in Las Vegas half past two, the landing bumpier than usual.
If that isn’t a sign, he thought dully, staring out the window where desert stretched on. Miles and miles of crumbly, arid dirt under a white-hot sun.
Fucking desert.
He missed the coast already, the cool breeze swept in from the oceans, the humidity that quenched his thirst after drinking too much, the calming sound of the waves lulling him to sleep on restless nights…
Fucking desert, he repeated to himself with more venom.
Qrow slammed the last of the too-small alcohol bottles he’d swindled from the flight attendant – who happened to be an A’s fan – before she realized he was no longer on the team.
Yeah, well, everyone gets fucking traded at some point.
The too eager passenger next to him elbowed Qrow’s ribs, grinding his foot into the ground in attempt to be first off the plane.
Fucking coach, he growled, grinding his teeth to keep from spitting fire hot as the desert clay. Never flew coach a day of his life, and starting now felt like a slap in the face of his once-promising career.
He had a flight scheduled for three hours later – the Las Vegas Bandits pulled out all the stops and arranged for a private jet – but Qrow refused to even consider it. He was a Bay Area guy, and his team – plucky and seriously poor – didn’t fly on private jets with full bars. And so he booked himself a flight to Vegas, got demoted to coach after a mistake with First Class, and regretted his pride for the entire sixty-six minutes from San Francisco to Vegas.
Matt Cain never got traded. Buster Posey never got traded. Mark fucking McGwire was never fucking traded.
“Fuck,” Qrow blurted out to no one in particular. The passenger next to him stared with wide eyes, then narrow.
“What’s your problem?” the man barked.
“Hey, come on.” His friend put a hand on his chest, turning him away from Qrow. “That’s Qrow Branwen.”
“Who?”
“He was a baseball player.”
Was.
Qrow winced. It would have been more merciful if the guy had decked him.
When Qrow stepped off the plane, the arid atmosphere almost choked him, the heat bearing down like a weight.
No ocean, no cool bay breezes, no hometown team he called brothers.
Sure, this could be a fresh start. Fancy new team with millions to blow, new colors on his jersey, new temporary digs not far from the Vegas Strip. He glanced around at the desolate landscape, broken only by the occasional cactus, and felt his optimism wilt in the dry air.
What could possibly bloom in a place like this?