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Oscar expects the anger. He’s seen it – felt its brunt force – enough times by now. The room is far too small for the size of it this time and almost strains at the seams for the tension in the air. It’s worse than Yang’s, worse than Qrow’s, maybe even worse than Jaune’s, all because he knew it would be when he chose to do this in the first place.
He expects the physicality. It’s not an attack, per se, if only because the General’s sidearm stays firmly holstered, but his boots are dangling several feet off the ground and the arm across his throat is making it very, very hard to breathe.
He expects the pain, the betrayal, the anguish that’s shining back at him from eyes that are all at once too hard and too vulnerable. He saw it in Qrow (he’d never wanted to see it again, Gods why did he have to see it again?), but it still takes what little breath he has left away, a knife stabbed without tenderness just below his ribs. His ears are ringing, and he doesn’t even try to fight back or explain because Oscar’s sure that’ll only make things worse, and there’s a fleeting thought about how appropriate the man’s position as a General is when (his words break, and his voice wavers dangerously, and beneath the rage he just sounds so lost) he’s so impossibly loud.
It’s followed swiftly by a pang of regret for not asking any of the others to come with him, and then something much, much sharper. Something like guilt. He deserves this. He hurt this man, just like he hurt Qrow, and it should be worse for all the people he’s caused to suffer-
Oscar stops.
Oh.
“James. Please. Let Oscar go.”
It’s hoarse and soft and it’s his mouth moving but not him speaking. Then, it’s - he’s - taking a step back again; not gone, not completely, this time, but distant. It’s quiet.
The pressure against his throat eases. Oscar blinks the burn of tears from his eyes and takes a half-decent gulp of air into his lungs. He chokes on it. He considers angrily demanding where the ancient soul has been, or maybe offering a snide remark about how he took his time, but both are felt as easily as they would fall on his tongue and he knows Ozpin would have taken control the moment he stepped into the office if Oscar had asked. So, he settles on-
‘I’m okay. Thank you.’
-instead and tries to hold down his fear.
He doesn’t expect General Ironwood to actually let him go. In fact, he waits anxiously for the tirade to begin anew, body tensing in apprehension. When he is dropped to his feet, he stumbles, knees buckling, only finding the wall behind him for support as his back hits it. His gasps are greedy, and his hand curls against his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. The floorboards creak as the General takes a step away, his own breaths labored and loud. Silence stretches on.
"I-" Oscar tries. His throat strains, burning too much for him to continue. He doesn't even know what to say.
None of those things are a surprise; not in the slightest.
But the sob is.
It draws his attention in a flash. It’s so raw that he swears he feels it himself, and the next one is louder. Oscar’s sure he’s never heard a more terrible sound in his life. He watches the General collapse on his knees and then double over further still until his forehead nearly touches the floor, clutching fistfuls of hair between shaking fingers. Another sob, a wail through gritted teeth, and the man weeps. It’s horrible.
Oscar can’t move away from the wall. He’s never seen anyone so utterly broken, and the worst thing isn’t that he’s scared of it, or that he feels the overwhelming urge to try and help. It’s that he’s so certain he’s the last person who can.
Ozpin begs him to anyways. Not vocally, not so insistently that Oscar can’t define whose it is, but it’s there. It’s an ache, a longing, an awful, awful pull, and for once it’s a reaction shared. Yet he still finds himself hesitating, right up until,
“I’m sorry.”
General Ironwood hasn’t looked up, hasn’t quieted, but Oscar hears it. Then again. And again, and again, until it joins the sobs in hysterical hiccups - a ceaseless mantra of apologies and pleas for forgiveness and things Oscar can't quite catch - and all at once, his strength returns. He straightens and takes as deep a breath as the lump in his throat will allow. In a few, short strides (careful, like picking his way around shards of glass), he crouches, defiantly willing his legs to support him despite their tremble.
The military uniform is coarse, even under his gloves, when he puts a hand on the man’s back. Oscar feels it properly now, the way he shakes, as if seconds from shattering altogether. Maybe he will; maybe he already has. The farmboy wonders: how long? How long had this been building? Fear and desperation so visceral that he’s not sure he can understand it, even after everything. He can’t guess. Since Beacon, is the whisper of an answer from Ozpin. Rich laughter brushes Oscar's ears; the echoing memory of another life, of just how kind the man before him truly is, and the shame and guilt swells.
Words fail him, so Oscar does the only thing he can think to. He pushes his palms flat against the General’s arms, and heaves him up just enough to slide himself between him and the floor. The wind is almost knocked out of him when he lets go, the man careening back down and practically on top of him, but Oscar is undeterred. He leans forward, countering the worst of the weight, and does his best to give Ironwood a hug.
The sobs taper off abruptly. A bit of panic cinches Oscar’s chest, but it’s shaken off with surprising ease.
“James,” he says, because he has to say something. The name is unfamiliar, but doesn’t feel wrong. “It's okay."
It isn't, but maybe once they pick up the pieces, it will be. He swallows hard and closes his eyes again.
"You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
Ozpin knows it. Oscar believes it. And it’s all it takes for the ragged General to return the embrace, and cry all the harder.