Run.

He stumbles, sways, is caught by a hand tight on his wrist. Run, comes the voice again, desperate. Behind him, beside him – the figure is a but a blur, smaller than him, a flicker in the pale light of the moon that shifts and melts whenever he tries to look directly at it. They're coming. The shadows are coming.

(Where are the cracks in the moon?)

You have to run, Oscar.

A flash of dirty platinum hair, of narrow amber eyes. He sees glimpses as they dodge figures made of pitch, the nothingness. Their fingers intertwine as the smaller one pulls him along, a tiny hand trembling in fear. As much as part of him hates this strange, blurred figure (why does he resent that presence so?), he grips the little hand tighter, tries to be strong.

You have to be brave.

The footsteps behind them grow closer. Heavy, jangling, sounds, deep laughter and indistinct words, and the ghostly hand around his wrist tightens enough to hurt. "Where-" Oscar tries to get out, but the sound is muffled by another hand over his mouth.

Don't talk. Don't cry. Just run.

There are huge hands made of ink grasping the little flickering form now, and as he reaches out to help the poor creature the ink splashes over his eyes, black and burning screaming and oh gods he can see-

(he's just a child, oh gods he was just a child, they're-)

He sees-

I'm sorry, Oscar. I'm so, so sorry.

"Hey, hey! Kid! Wake up!"

Oscar's eyes snap open.

Hovering above him, pale red eyes narrowed in concern, is the man called Qrow. The old Huntsman looks exhausted- to Oscar, he always looks exhausted- and his hair is a messy bird's nest sticking out in a million different directions, but his eyes are alert and the set of his shoulders speak of someone ready to leap into action at a second's notice. He has a hand hovering over Oscar's brow, not quite touching him. "You with me?" he asks.

Oscar chokes for breath, nods once. His heart is pounding, his breath only now slowing. He's covered in sweat, cold and clammy and shivering under the thick blankets of his hotel bed. The echoes of that strange twilight land hover behind his eyes, and gods, he is so heartsick, so nauseous, with the visions of a child (Ozpin) and a time (oh gods you're supposed to be so strong what happened to you)-

Stop, Ozpin sobs, his voice so broken and tiny and shamed, and Oscar throws his head over the side of the bed to vomit.

"Easy, kid. Easy. I've got you." Before he can protest, Qrow's hands are on his shoulders, steadying him as he empties his guts into the wastebin. "... Must've been a hell of a nightmare you had, huh?"

He pushes himself to sit up once his stomach settles. That was no nightmare. He's young, but he's not stupid; he knows what that was. Ozpin is not his friend, he'd never say such a thing, but he can't bring himself to betray the truth to Qrow. These secrets, as terrible as they are, are not his to share.

(They were never yours to bear, Ozpin murmurs. Those are my sins alone.)

Qrow doesn't push, though. He lays the back of his hand against the boy's forehead to check for fever, his touch gentle and warm. Ozpin, that broken shadow of a man in the recesses of his mind, stirs at the touch, and for a moment his heart beats double – safe, safe, safe. His expression changes as Oscar sits there in silence, going from curious to concerned to something the farmboy cannot even begin to translate. "Why don't you go wash your face," he suggests. "I'll get you something to settle your stomach."

Oscar waits for Qrow to turn around before throwing back the blankets. He's a mess; his legs are shaky and his arms are trembling and his stomach roils. Taking a deep breath, he sighs before shoving himself to his feet and stumbling to the bathroom. The door slams behind him. Ozpin, in his head, flinches; Oscar doesn't apologize.

He doesn't have to look in the mirror to know he's a wreck, but he does so anyway. "… what was that?" he asks his hazy reflection as he turns on the cold tap water.

He knows Ozpin isn't going to answer him, but he has to try. He knows he can't stop Ozpin from trying to obscure his memory of the nightmare (the memory, his mind hisses, that was real), but gods, he doesn't want to try. He's not eager to bear that kind of pain, not now. Not ever.

The cold water he splashes on his face feels amazing; he soaks a rough cloth in it and scrubs his face clean, soaks his shaggy black hair till it curls at the ends. The sips of cold water he swishes in his mouth feel nasty, but they help to clear the taste of vomit out of his mouth. It's quiet, this early in the morning, and it gives him a chance to breathe. Process, as his aunt would say, and he misses her right now with a ferocity that hurts. "What do I tell him if he asks again? What do I do if this happens again?" It's childish, but the boy can't help it when his lower lip quivers just a touch. "You… your memories scare me, Ozpin."

They scare me too, comes the reply, so soft Oscar almost misses it.

He closes his eyes, remembers the flash of sight, the echoes of screaming. He can almost see the face behind the blur, if he tries, but then he feels hands cupping his chin.

Don't. Oscar's hands, but Ozpin's firm touch. Those hands are trembling, though, Ozpin tired and… Oscar blinks. Ashamed. That's the feeling that knots his stomach and pulls at his heart. Shame, of a deeper pull than the boy has ever known.

A heartache he hopes he'll never understand.

"All right," he says, letting the older spirit whisk those last dregs of memory away from him. "Um...Ozpin?"

Yes? He's so hesitant- Oscar can see him, curled up on a chair, knees drawn up to his chest. It's scary to visualize this; Ozpin's always been so strong, a commanding and paternal presence inside his mind. Feeling these cracks in his composure, the humanity and weakness under the stoic facade- Oscar turns the faucet off and looks back at his reflection. The haunted eyes that stare back at him are not his own.

"… are you okay?"

I… A sigh answers him. I think Qrow's waiting for us, he says, and Oscar lets it go.

Qrow is hovering over the teakettle when Oscar makes his way back into the hotel room. "Sorry," the boy mutters, twisting his hands in the hem of his nightshirt.

"Don't worry about it, kid." The huntsman stands, his back popping loudly, and turns towards him. There's an old chipped mug in his hand, cracked down one side, with the print of crossed axes on the side. It means nothing to Oscar, but there's a swell of gratitude from Ozpin within him. "Here. Drink this."

Oscar takes the mug and sniffs it suspiciously. His eyes widen. "… you made me hot chocolate?"

"Correction: I made Oz hot chocolate." Qrow sinks down onto his bed and waves Oscar over. When he sits – a good space between them – the older man reaches over and drops three fat puffy marshmallows into the steaming hot mug. "I got those for you."

Oscar bites his lower lip briefly, then takes a sip of the drink. It is rich and creamy and fills him with warmth from his head to his toes; within his mind, the other shivers and sags against the mental walls that kept him trapped. "It's good," he murmurs.

Qrow hums and leans back on his hands, watching the boy nurse his cocoa. "Ozpin's always had trouble with nightmares," he says after a moment of silence, those piercing red eyes distant. "Except his nightmares...they've never really been nightmares. Not in a dream sense."

He chokes on a mouthful of sticky sweetness.

"But you know that already, don't you, kid?"

Oscar forces down his mouthful of marshmallow, draws in a shaky breath. "I didn't mean to," he whispers, and he can feel Ozpin turning away in his mind. Hiding from him, hiding from Qrow, hiding in the corner where the pain and the memory still throbs red-hot. "He was… they were going to hurt him. I just wanted to help!" His voice cracked. "I… I think I hurt him instead, but I didn't mean to!"

"Oscar." The shock of hearing his name – Qrow has never called him by name, not since they started traveling together – snaps his eyes up, amber and green pulsing in a thick swirl. Qrow hesitates, then lays a hand on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking his hair in a gentle motion. "You did good, Oscar. I would have done the same."

He buries his nose back in his drink to hide the sudden quivering of his lower lip. His aunt used to comfort him like this, when he was little, and though it has been a very long time since anyone had treated him like this he finds something in his core craving that simple touch of someone saying, simply, I care.

"I'm going to talk for a bit, Oscar," Qrow says, but when he looks back up the man's eyes are on him and not the man within him, "and I want you to listen, okay? I think this is important. For both of you."

Oscar nods. Within his mind, Ozpin wraps his arms around himself, a false attempt at stoicism for no one but himself.

"I know what's wrong."

And with those words the world sinks, greys for a moment; Qrow's touch is a firm grounding, but within his head he feels as though the world is falling apart. "Not everybody's lucky enough to have that happy childhood," he says, and his rough voice is impossibly gentle, kindness that shouldn't come from a grizzled huntsman. "Not everyone's lucky to have a family that loves them, a team to support them, an aunt to take them in. Sometimes you have to fight alone, do things you never thought you'd have to, just to survive. And sometimes." His voice shudders, the hand on the back of Oscar's neck tightening. "Sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you get hurt over, and over, and you're alone and-"

Oscar reaches out and grips the edge of Qrow's shirt, his fingers trembling, his eyes bright and red-rimmed and spilling over with hot tears. "It's going to be okay," Qrow says, and the boy with two souls throws himself against the man's chest, sobbing. His arms wrap gingerly around him, hand rubbing up and down his back, stroking his hair.

"I j-just," Oscar trembles. "I don't want to be alone! I wanna wake up and see the farm! I want t' eat Auntie's home cooking and sleep in the barn and read about the world and I don't want to be here!"

(Ozpin, in his mind, places trembling hands on Oscar's shoulders, and that makes him cry even harder, because even though Ozpin's heart is bleeding shame and self-hatred he is still trying to comfort the boy who has hated him every step of this journey.)

"We've got you," Qrow murmurs, holding him tighter. Safe, safe, safe, Ozpin sighs, and Oscar lets his eyes close against the steady flow of tears.

Safe, Oscar thinks.

I'm safe.

"I know you're still awake, Oz."

Oscar's body is limp, resting against Qrow's side in boneless sleep. Tear tracks are drying on his suntanned cheeks, his eyes swollen from crying so hard. The huntsman beside him keeps stroking the back of his head with his thumb, a gesture he's used so often with Ruby and Yang that it's become automatic. "We're not done talking, you and I."

The boy doesn't stir, but the voice that comes from him is hoarse, voice stilted in a cadence that speaks of age and exhaustion. "I had hoped you'd fallen asleep with him," Ozpin says in a whisper.

"Nah. Little hard to sleep after that." He pauses to pull out his flask. "He's a good kid, Oz. I kinda wish you hadn't landed inside him."

"So do I. He deserves better."

"You deserved better too, you know."

Ozpin presses his face in Qrow's side. "I deserved what I got, and more," he says, his voice achingly small.

"Bullshit. Ozpin, you were a child." Qrow pushes the boy's dark, shaggy bangs back to look him in the eye-those hazel-green eyes swirling, swallowed up with amber but for green rings around the very edges. "Is it my fault that my Semblance makes shit happen all around me?"

"...of course not. Qrow-"

A heavy hand lands atop his head. "Then why," Qrow says, his voice as gentle as it is hoarse, "is it your fault? That you couldn't stop it? That you were too little to-"

"Stop," he chokes.

"It wasn't your fault, Oz." Qrow curls his fingers in the thick of Ozpin's – Oscar's – hair, the same way he used to do those lonely nights ago back at Beacon, sitting up with a shaken Oz as he struggled through the nightmares of ages. The way he's done for Ruby, and Yang, the way he did for Summer and Raven. Comfort is one thing Qrow knows how to give, and he gives it generously, especially to the ones he loves.

So often their roles have been reversed, that Ozpin has been the one with Qrow's head against his chest, kissing the nightmares and failures away from the corvid's mind; Qrow would gladly spend the rest of his life doing this, to give back just some of the comfort he was once given. "I've told you this before. I'll keep telling you, until you can believe it for yourself. It's not your fault."

Ozpin shudders, presses his face back against Qrow's side, lets his shoulders shake. Qrow sighs and holds him tight, lets him grieve.

"I'm right here, Oz," he says, and the words are a promise and a prayer. "I'm right here. I'll always be."