A Tailor and a Traumatised Teenager
Jaune's fist slammed into the wall, leaving a spiderweb of cracks behind. He gritted his teeth. On the other side of the room, Oscar took a quiet step towards the exit.
"Jaune!" Ruby glared at his back.
"Everything we did was for nothing!" Hands balled into fists, Jaune paced back and forth.
"That's not true!" Blake straightened up.
"Really?" Nora spat. "Because it sure sounds like it."
Ren folded his arms and frowned. "If Salem can't be killed, then how are we supposed to win this?"
Oscar glanced up at Ruby, who was staring silently at the floor. He looked away.
"Great plan, everyone." Jaune hissed, turning away.
Oscar took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Look, none of this is great, we know, but we're not the bad guys here." As he spoke, he placed a hand on his chest. I'm using we, he realised. That is such a bad sign.
"Are we sure about that?" With his back to the room, Jaune's voice was barely audible.
"What?" Oscar's heart hammered.
Jaune turned to face him, his expression dark. "He's in your head, isn't he?" He strode towards Oscar with clenched fists. "Did you already know about this?"
Weiss held her hands up. "He didn't know any of it!"
Oscar froze, staring wide-eyed at Jaune. He couldn't move.
"How much longer can we even trust him?" Jaune slammed his hands against Oscar's chest, shoving him back against the wall. He cried out.
"Jaune!" Yang stepped forward.
"How do we even know it's really him?" Jaune yelled, shaking Oscar by the shirt. "What if we've been talking to that liar this whole time?"
Oscar's head knocked painfully against the wall and his vision swam. Jaune towered over him.
"Jaune!" Ruby's furious cry cut through his tirade. He loosened his grip slightly, and Oscar brought his hands up in front of his face. They shook.
Blinking slowly, Jaune let go of Oscar and stepped backwards. Oscar looked up at him slowly. Turning away, Jaune stormed upstairs.
Oscar's breathing hitched. He pressed his back against the wall, trying desperately to clear his head. Vaguely, he realised other people were walking past him. He flinched away. No no no please I'm sorry. He tried to speak, but no sound escaped. A door slammed. He cried out, stumbling backwards and hitting his aching head on the wall.
When Oscar could finally think again, he realised he was alone in the sitting room. He was curled up on the floor with his knees pulled tight to his chest.
What happened? Sitting up, he winced as he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Was that... Jaune? Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Of course he turned on you, you idiot! He dug his nails into his arm, pulling back when spots of red pooled on his skin. No, stop. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Oscar scolded himself. First step, get the hell out of here. Then we can worry about whatever the hell just happened. He stood up slowly. His legs shook and he placed a hand on the wall for support. Easy, easy. Stumbling to the door, Oscar spared one last glance at the house. No one was there to see him leave.
Somehow, Oscar found himself sitting on a park bench in the town centre, his hands curled around Ozpin's cane. His head throbbed. Something wet was soaking the back of his shirt, but he didn't want to think about what it was. Cautiously, he touched the back of his neck and then glanced down at his gloved fingers. They came away stained red.
"That can't be good," he whispered to himself.
An audible gasp from the side made him flinch. He hunched his shoulders.
"Young man, are you alright?"
An elderly man had stepped into Oscar's field of view. A deep, concerned frown creased his forehead.
Oscar bit his lip, not trusting himself to speak.
The elderly man sat gingerly on the bench beside him. "I think you should get that head wound looked at."
"It's fine," Oscar muttered, turning away.
"It most definitely is not." The man frowned. "Where are your parents?"
Oscar laughed bitterly. I am not about to explain that.
The man bit his lip. "I'm sorry." The two sat in silence as Oscar contemplated what he was going to tell this man.
Screw it, he finally decided, I'm as far from my aunt as I could be without leaving the continent, which I'm going to do anyway. Salem's pretty much all-powerful, so it doesn't matter what I do, or say, or even think. He gave the man a searching look. "Who are you?"
"Oh, where are my manners? My name is Cedar, Cedar Stone." The man held out his hand.
After a pause, Oscar straightened up and shook Cedar's hand. "I'm Oscar."
"That's a rather unusual name," Cedar mused.
"Yeah, it's after Oscar Gold, the colour. My mother picked it because she said it stood for happiness and success. She wanted that for me."
"She sounds like a wonderful woman." Cedar's tone was solemn.
"Yeah, she was." Oscar tried to smile, but tears welled up in his eyes. He blinked furiously.
Feeling a hand suddenly grip his shoulder, Oscar flinched, his hands curling into fists.
"I'm sorry, I—" Cedar apologised, withdrawing his hand.
"It's alright, you just startled me." Oscar made the effort to visibly relax, dropping his shoulders and uncurling his fists.
After a pause, Cedar spoke. "My daughter studied some medicine, I'm sure she could patch you up. Her shop's just around the corner. I can take you there if you'd like?"
Staring at the ground, Oscar slowly realised that he probably wouldn't be welcome back at the house for a while, and without Ozpin's guiding voice he really didn't want to spend the night alone on the street. He nodded. "Yes, please."
"Wonderful!" The man beamed, standing up.
Oscar pulled himself to his feet and was immediately hit by a wave of nausea. He groaned.
"Are you alright, Oscar?" Worry deepened the creases in Cedar's forehead.
"Don't worry I'm..." Oscar pitched forwards as his vision clouded over. The world faded to black.
Oscar came to with the unpleasant sensation of his head being squeezed. He feigned sleep, slowing his breathing and listening hard. There was a quiet bustle of noise behind him, water splashing and metal tapping metal. He was lying on his side on a soft, squashy surface, probably a sofa rather than a bed. Tight fabric wrapped around his head. The bandage around his neck had stayed in place, thankfully.
Metal clattered loudly behind him. He started, opening his eyes and twisting round to face the source of the sound. A young woman stood in front of a sink, holding her hands up. A small metal pot lay on the tiled floor at her feet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." She smiled apologetically.
Blinking, Oscar tried to slow his racing heart. "Who are you?"
"I'm Willow, Cedar's daughter." The woman placed the pot down carefully. "He and my husband brought you here after you passed out."
"Oh." Oscar slowly sat down on the edge of the sofa, looking around the room. It was part well-furnished sitting room and part chaotic kitchen. There was one door, and several windows with a view of the street below.
"I cleaned up the back of your head." Willow returned to the sink and continued washing up.
"Thanks." Oscar touched the bandages cautiously. As his hand fell back to his side he sat bolt upright, suddenly aware of a prominent absence. The cane.
"Where is it?" He shot to his feet, looking desperately around him.
Willow turned to him, frowning. "Where's what?"
"My cane! Where is it?"
"Easy, easy, it's by the door outside." Willow attempted to pacify him. "I can get it, if you want."
Oscar sighed quietly, his shoulders falling. "Yes, please. It's..." He faltered. "It's really important to me."
"I get that." Willow crossed the room, opening the door. She pulled the cane off a rack outside and returned. Hesitating in front of Oscar, she held the cane out so he could take it. He did.
"Thanks." Oscar paused to look at it, holding it loosely in his hands.
"It's beautiful craftsmanship, do you know who made it?"
"Someone who I used to know." Oscar retracted it and attached it to his belt.
"That's cryptic." Willow smiled. "I was hoping to get one for myself."
"Sorry, it's one of a kind." Attempting a small smile of his own, Oscar sat down. His head was beginning to spin.
"This may be a good time to mention that I didn't remove the bandage around your neck, but I would like to know if it's covering a recent injury."
Oscar raised a hand to fiddle with the bandage. "It's over an old scar, not an injury, don't worry."
"Oh, I'm worried." Willow folded her arms. "You really ought to have more regard for your health."
"I do my best," Oscar protested weakly.
"How did you hurt your head?" She asked.
What should I tell her? Oscar thought, biting his lip. If I tell her someone shoved me into a wall, she'll start asking more questions. Then again, do I really care?
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Oscar sighed. "It's a long story. I... got into an argument, with a friend. At least, I hope he's still my friend."
"Why on Remnant would you still want to be friends with someone who did that to you?" Willow's voice was quiet and fierce.
"It wasn't like that!" Oscar protested. "I screwed up, and he's never lost it like he did before. Ever!"
"What did he do?"
"He pushed me into a wall, that's it! If he really wanted to hurt me, he could have."
Sitting down on a chair in front of him, Willow frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He's tall and strong and I'm..." Oscar gestured to himself dismissively. "And he's a trained huntsman. If he wanted to, he could pick me up and throw me across the room. But he didn't. That has to mean something."
"You're the only one who can decide if you want to go back, but if you do..." Willow paused, seemingly searching for words. "Know that you don't deserve to be treated like that, and you can always find a home here if you need it."
Home. Oscar sat stunned. I haven't thought of home in ages...
"Promise me you'll remember that."
He fiddled with his sleeve. "I will. I promise."
"Good." She smiled. "Well, I better check on how my father is getting on downstairs, do you feel able to come down?"
"I think I'll manage it." Pulling himself to his feet, Oscar headed for the door.
Downstairs was a tailor's shop, full to the brim with clothes and shoes. Cedar stood by a wooden table, holding out a square of brown cloth that almost looked like a coat. A tall, dark haired man sat nearby, furiously scribbling away on a sheet of paper.
"Honey, are you busy right now?" Willow walked over to the man and leant on the table.
"Happily occupied, not busy," he responded, setting his pencil down on the paper.
Oscar emerged from the doorway cautiously.
"He has risen!" Cedar chuckled, smiling in Oscar's direction. "For a moment I was afraid we'd lost you to the angels."
Oscar shrugged. "I've survived worse."
A concerned frown creased Willow's forehead. "Like what?"
Shouldn't have said that. Oscar backtracked hurriedly. "I was kidding."
The man got up from his seat and reached out to shake Oscar's hand. "I'm Flint, by the way."
"I'm Oscar, but then again you probably knew that."
"About your shirt..." Flint tilted his head.
"Yeah?"
"You don't seriously intend to keep it, do you? It's ruined." He gestured to the mirror, and Oscar spotted the huge red stain on the back of his shirt.
Oscar sighed. "That's never going to wash out, is it?"
"I'm afraid not." Cedar conjured up a tape measure from the amid the shop's chaos and tossed it to Flint. "I hope you're not shy about getting measured."
"Wait, what?" Oscar took a small step back.
"Do you want a new shirt or not? Hell, we may as well upgrade your whole look while we're at it. You look like you've been wearing those trousers for a decade." Cedar motioned for Oscar to come closer.
"You don't have to..." Oscar began to back away.
"Nonsense, you need it." With practiced ease, Cedar stretched out the tape measure and began to call out numbers to Flint, who jotted them down diligently. Extremely uncomfortable, Oscar held his arms out rigidly.
"So, what sort of thing are we looking at?" Willow flattened a poster on the table. "Just a shirt and trousers, or do you want a jacket too, and if so what kind?"
Oscar blinked. "What?"
"Here, look." Opening yet another draw, Flint pulled out a stack of sketches. "These are the types of jacket I've got in, what would suit you best?"
"Umm..." Oscar ran his hand down the paper, stopping when he reached a sketch of a long coat marked The Huntsman. "This one looks cool."
"Interesting choice." Flint looked thoughtful. "Are you thinking of becoming a huntsman?"
"I'm in training at the moment."
"In that case, take all the clothes you want, the world always needs more huntsmen."
"Thank you," Oscar stammered, looking at the floor.
"Here, I'll pick out some shirts and trousers for you to try on in the meantime." Willow led him over to a massive rail of clothes and began rifling through it. "White shirt, black trousers?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Awesome." Willow dumped a pile of white shirts in his arms. "Try these on to start."
What felt like hours later, Oscar stood in front of a full-length mirror in a state of shock. A wide bronze belt ringed his waist, holding up black, straight legged trousers. The fresh white bandage around his neck was tucked neatly into his white shirt. A thin red leather belt curled around his waist, holding a long olive-green coat with red accents and shoulder pads securely in place.
"Do you like it?" Flint hovered anxiously at his side.
"It's amazing..." Oscar's voice was hushed. "I've never worn anything like this before."
"Not bad, but it could do with some accessories." Willow announced, holding a pair of gloves in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other. "I looked at the sizes of your last shoes so I reckon these will fit."
Pulling the boots on, Oscar marvelled quietly at them. They were a brilliant red leather, with bronze caps on the toe. He paced back and forth. "They feel incredible."
Willow knelt to check them, pressing on the toe. "I think they fit well, too."
Flint scrutinized the ensemble. "I feel like something's missing."
"Gloves." Willow handed a pair of orange gloves over. Oscar slipped them on, arranging the black X straps around his wrists.
Flint smiled. "Perfect."
"I don't know how I can repay you for all this, I don't have any money," Oscar stammered, tearing his gaze away from his reflection.
"Just take care of yourself for us, okay?" Reaching forward to straighten the lapel of Oscar's coat, Flint looked as if he was about to cry. Willow leant on his shoulder and looked proudly at Oscar.
Overwhelmed, Oscar stepped forward and wrapped his arms around them both. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
Willow and Flint glanced at each other and smiled softly.
Back in the kitchen upstairs, Cedar sat up in his chair when Oscar entered. "Now that's an outfit fit for a huntsman."
Oscar fiddled with the straps of his gloves. "Thanks."
"We'd better check the dressing on your head." Willow pulled a large grey towel out of a cupboard and draped it over Oscar's shoulders. "Could you sit down over there please?"
"Sure." Oscar took a seat on the small stool she'd pointed to. He arranged the towel so it completely covered his new clothes.
Kneeling down behind him, Willow waited to see if Oscar tensed up before unravelling the bandage on his head. After a small pause, she asked, "What's your aura like?"
"Green?" Oscar shrugged.
"No, I mean how strong is your aura?" Willow's voice took on a note of amazement. "I've never seen anyone heal this fast."
So, Ozpin has been helping me, Oscar thought, glancing down at his hands. I wonder what the others would think of that.
"That's incredible!" Flint leaned over to look. "The swelling has completely disappeared, like there was nothing there in the first place."
"This makes me feel a lot better about you becoming a huntsman, you could take a hundred hits like that one and be back to normal in an hour." Willow tossed the bandage into the bin and began to sponge the dried blood off Oscar's hair.
Cedar narrowed his eyes. "I hope you go back and give that friend of yours a piece of your mind, or I'll do it for you."
Oscar shook his head, standing up. "I have a better idea."
Oscar snuck back into the house as quietly as he could. It seemed empty. He unloaded his bags of shopping onto the kitchen counter and rummaged around in the cupboards for the necessary pots and pans. Soon a large vat of casserole was bubbling happily on the stove. As he cooked, he felt the fury and the isolation ebb away. These people care about me. I care about them. If that won't give me hope, I don't know what will.
Voices echoed from outside. Oh, they're back. Oscar turned the heat down and walking over to the door. As he opened it, a warm smile spread over his face.
A/N:
Hope you enjoyed this little look at what could have happened when Oscar went missing. I wrote it about two years ago, I think. I found it in my notes while I was clearing out my phone over the holidays and thought I should post it.
Have a good day (and don't put up with friends who push you into walls),
Ash.