[ He can tell from that beat of hesitation, that this will be something different. Something difficult. Ozpin turns in that moment of silence to look at Qrow, more fully and more expectantly.

So it shows easily on his face, when his expression opens with startlement— nearly breathless, nearly amazed— and then softens to warmth. ]

That was very brave indeed.

[ His tone is gentle. The space between them seems smaller, now, and warmer than it had been. He shifts, hands still cupping the warmth of his mug. ]

You must care for him a great deal, to undertake a very difficult conversation.

[ It's the weakest deflection yet, because they both know that saying it backs him into a corner. Two, perhaps.

He does care for Qrow. Enough to tell him the truth when it matters. That is the agreement, the quiet pact between them, forged in fields of flowers and whipping snow; Qrow has not pressed upon Ozpin's fluctuating condition because they have such an agreement. They both know this to be true.

And then, in the silence beyond that one, there is the person Ozpin has not confided in for a long time now. Stanford hangs as a great unspoken weight between them. His presence has been a constant ghost, as of late. Since the catacombs— or since January— or since November. Since May.

Ozpin can recognize a very gentle, coaxing press. It would be unfair, unkind, to let Qrow bare himself in this way and give no answer but a teacher's pleasantries. In this moment, he understands what is being asked of him— he feels the empty space which ought to tip over into more, into reciprocation, into camaraderie— and he hesitates. ]

I am sorry to hear about your ability. That it is a further burden upon you... one more challenge with which to contend.

[ The moment hangs, hangs, hangs.

He exhales, and it sends the steam of the cocoa eddying between them. The weight of something collapses, invisibly, in that space. ]

You know that mine has been little better.