Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clover had been just about to fall asleep when he heard it.

A scream that split through the calm night air, almost seeming to echo down the empty academy halls.

Clover couldn’t tell who it was, or where it was coming from, but it immediately sent him into motion. He leapt out of his bed, grabbing Kingfisher from its spot against the wall. He didn’t even bother to get dressed, still only in an old grey tank top and boxers — the continuous agony of the crying from beyond his door being urgent enough to ignore modesty.

Racing out of his room, he looked frantically down the hall, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. His teammates were bursting from their rooms as well, weapons already drawn.

The screaming was too close to be coming from Ironwood’s office or personal quarters, or even from the shared rooms where the kids were staying, on the other side of the main hallway.

Clover’s chest seized up for just a moment, as he registered where exactly it was. Down the corridor, just beyond the Ace Ops’ special private quarters, towards the general private rooms.

And there was only one person currently staying there.

“Qrow!” Clover cried out, reflexively, and without even acknowledging his teammates, he was racing toward his partner’s room. He was suddenly very glad of his suggestion that Qrow stay in one of the private rooms nearest the Ace Ops’ wing.

Clover had never so much as heard Qrow cry, and the pain — the fear — that now bombarded his ears, was so extreme that he was sure that each step he took was only carrying him closer and closer to overwhelming tragedy.

The seasoned soldier’s chest felt like it was about to collapse when, suddenly, the scream cut off and the hall was filled with a deafening silence. He had only been running for a few seconds, but it felt like each moment dragged out even longer than the last, as the knot in his stomach grew tighter and tighter. His racing thoughts kept feeding him countless, horrific versions of what he might be about to find, and he could feel his jaw clench with fear.

Clover realized, for the first time, that he was worried about Qrow’s semblance. While Qrow was concerned about it putting the people around him in danger, Clover was grappling with the idea of just how vulnerable it could make Qrow himself, and not just in battle.

As it had many times before, something curled in Clover’s gut at that thought. Not quite an anger or a sadness, but a prickling unfairness.

Finally, he reached Qrow’s room, pounding the override entry code into the keypad and throwing the door open, Kingfisher poised to strike as he did. Teal eyes widened with fear and a boiling, protective, rage — that would have worried him at another moment — building beneath his ribs, as he tried to find the hidden threat within the dark room. The rest of his team was already behind him as he entered.

Clover’s eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, with the help of the hallway light spilling in, and his stomach dropped, his blood running cold, as his eyes found the bed.

It was empty, except for a tangled mess of sheets and, to Clover’s ever-mounting horror, a smear of blood trailing off the side farthest from him.

And then he saw Harbinger, untouched, at the foot of the bed. His mind was racing, reeling at the idea of Qrow being attacked, unarmed... injured. But the older huntsman was nowhere in sight.

“Qrow?!”

Clover should have been embarrassed by the raw terror in his voice; he should have tempered his emotions in front of his team — kept his composure and followed protocol — but it was simply beyond him at that moment.

He’d had a long day. He’d had so many long days recently. And he’d had so much to worry about. So many people to worry about. And Qrow always seemed to be at the forefront of his mind lately, especially when it came to worrying.

Clover was predisposed to worry. He might hide it well, but he was a tightly wound, paranoid, perfectionist. He’d always been a little shocked at people’s perception of him as cocky, though he couldn’t help but be a little proud of how well he had fooled everyone.

That was the mask he tried to keep up around others; the put-together, smooth-talking hero, who always came out on top without even breaking a sweat.

What they saw as overly confident risks, Clover knew to be very carefully calculated stunts.

He was Atlas’ Golden Boy. And part of that image was making it look easy.

People expected him to be perfect, charismatic, quick, coordinated, perpetually calm.

And he was. But to do so meant he was constantly analyzing his surroundings, and himself.

People might see his plethora of good luck charms as a fitting gimmick, a representation of his semblance — and the confidence they assumed it lent him — but he knew their real meaning.

They were fail-safes. Attempts at stacking the odds in his favor as much as he could, so that if he fucked up somewhere, he’d still have options. Or at least the illusion of them.

People depended on him to be perfect, and he did everything in his power to not let them down.

That was the person his team knew, not the screaming, frazzled man before them now.

And Clover… didn’t care. It wasn’t even a blip on his radar. Because all that was in his head at that moment was that they should have been safe here. He’d thought this was where he could let his guard down some.

And he’d been wrong. And now, something had happened to Qrow. His partner. The person whose trust he had worked so hard to gain, to earn. Whose trust, openness, synchronicity with him, had stoked something in Clover.

The feeling that this was important. That this man, this connection they had, was significant in more ways than either of them could know.

He should have been more vigilant. He should have been closer to Qrow. How had he let himself relax and not notice some danger lurking?

How could he let this happen?

How could he, after everything, let himself fail Qrow like this?!

At any other moment, Clover would have stopped at that thought. Would have scolded himself for falling into the same self-deprecating spiral that he tried so hard to pull Qrow out of. But he couldn’t. He just had to find Qr—

Clover froze, breaking his train of thought, as he suddenly heard something above the blood rushing in his ears. A ragged whimper, followed by labored, much too fast and shallow breathing, and muffled mumbling. He stumbled towards the bed and finally; he was able to see the trembling form in the far corner of the room, previously hidden by the bed.

Clover practically dove over the bed, ignoring the ringing clatter of Harbinger falling to the floor behind him, as he landed a few feet from Qrow. His throat closed up for a moment as he saw the inflamed scratch marks — fresh blood still present — on Qrow’s neck and chest. His voice was a hoarse, whispered plea as he rushed towards the other man.

“Qrow! What happened?! Who did thi—”

He was cut off as Qrow heard his voice, and his gasps abruptly stopped. Qrow slowly lifted his head, his face even paler than usual, and stared at his partner.

Clover stopped in his tracks at seeing his expression, nearly losing his balance. Qrow’s pupils were completely blown, darting back and forth over Clover’s face, and then lingering on his chest. The Ace Ops leader had never seen such a look of pure, agonizingly heartbreaking, terror.

The heat of a protective rage was now pounding in Clover’s throat. That look of absolute fear striking a chain of matches within him, that he was sure would quickly grow beyond his control.

“C-clove— ”

The choked off syllable was just barely loud enough for Clover to catch, but it was like a punch to the gut. And it was enough to pull him out of his shock, immediately dropping Kingfisher as he scrambled to close the distance between them, his hand flying out instinctively toward Qrow’s wounds.

He hadn’t noticed Qrow’s eyes dart to the silhouette of Harbinger on the ground behind him, but he caught the cry that then tore from his throat.

Right as Clover was about to touch him, Qrow violently flinched, shrinking away from his hand like a frightened animal.

“No!” Came the forced, sharp cry; seeming to surprise Qrow just as much as it did Clover. It was a sound much harsher than anything he had ever heard from the older man before.

Qrow curled in on himself again, hands fisting tightly in his hair, unknowingly smearing a faint trail of blood across his cheek. Clover could just barely make out the sound of a mumbling repetition. A pleading ‘no’ over and over.

He did lose his balance then, falling backward, shocked at Qrow’s outburst and unsure of what to do.

Unsure.

He hated that. He always did everything he could to never be unsure of himself in battle, and the adrenaline was still telling him to be ready for a battle here.

But his head was clearing slowly, and his heart rate beginning to even out. Something was still very wrong, and Qrow would need some medical attention, but he was alive.

Qrow was alive.

Clover couldn’t breathe for a moment, as he realized just how scared he had been that that wouldn’t be the case. But it was. He’d let his anxieties get the better of him; create all the worst possible outcomes before he even knew the situation.

Shit. How did the fear of something happening to Qrow — of losing Qrow — have the ability to throw him off his game so immediately?

He was just exhausted, he told himself. He just wasn’t on his A-game, wasn’t able to keep the act up like he usually could. Not that that was okay, not that he wouldn’t admonish himself for that later, but that’s all it was… It had to be.

He’d been close to people, cared for people like this before. Or he thought he had. But this electric, dizzying, suffocating fear was new.

Clover was pulled from his racing thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Marrow standing over him, looking concerned, but not urgent.

“Clover? There’s no one here… No one’s been here. The windows are locked. There’s no sign of forced entry or a struggle… Should we raise the alarm?”

Clover sighed and clicked it off. The racing thoughts and panic were only a distraction here. A little forced dissociation was called for at times.

He could tell Marrow was on edge, likely thinking of the chaos and panic on election night; of the threat of another attack on their home turf. He felt bad for the kid, but he was too busy figuring out what to do for Qrow right then, to worry about Marrow.

Clover took a moment, standing, and stepped around Harbinger, lying where it had fallen when he knocked it over. He placed a gentle hand on Marrow’s shoulder, the little comfort he could currently provide, and looked around the room.

Nothing aside from the bed was disturbed. The blood smear he’d seen before looked like it’d been left by a hand dragging across the sheet, leading toward Qrow’s spot on the floor. He looked back to Qrow, seeing the blood on his fingers, and the pattern of the scratches on his neck — and the similar but less severe scratch marks on his forearms and chest. Clover was slowly piecing things together, and his hands relaxed as he accepted the fact that there was no current threat.

He hadn’t noticed his nails digging into his palms until that moment. The chilling fear was fading, but concern still sat nestled in his chest, as he broke into a cold sweat.

Apparently, he hadn’t shut it off as well as he’d thought.

Clover turned to his team standing behind him, waiting for instructions, and spoke softly, thankful that he could at least keep his voice steady and calm.

“I think I know what’s going on. I’ll stay here with Qrow. Harriet, go find Ironwood and let him know that there was an incident, but there isn’t any security risk. Elm and Vine, if you see any of the kids, especially Ruby or Yang, tell them that something happened, but that Qrow is okay and I’m handling it and… and that I’ll talk to them later. And Marrow, I need you to bring me a first aid kit from the training room.”

The team nodded and headed to the door.

Marrow had just stepped into the hall when he turned and called back to Clover.

“Uh… Clover? I think the kids heard.”

Clover could now hear the stomping of eight sets of feet, and then seven. And suddenly, in a storm of petals, and a gust that came close to knocking him off balance, Ruby was right in front of him. Crescent Rose was extended into full scythe form at her side, far too big for the room. Her eyes, which seemed, to Clover, to be a sharper, crisper, purposeful silver, darted around the room. Until they settled, panicked, on her uncle’s crumpled, quaking shape in the corner.

“Uncle Qr—”

Clover saw her start to move and rushed to her, carefully catching her by the arm and pulling her back gently, his eyes wide but soft.

Okay. So he would have to deal with them now… It wasn’t ideal. All Clover wanted to do right then was go to Qrow, but he knew the kids wouldn’t back down until they were sure their guardian was safe.

And he knew that Qrow would never forgive him if he let his nieces continue to worry, just so Clover wouldn’t have to leave him alone for another moment.

“Ruby! Hey, hey. Slow down, alright?” He lowered his head, making her meet his eyes, trying to reassure her. “He’s okay. I... I don’t think he was attacked.”

He was startled as Yang burst into the room, and Clover would have sworn that her eyes had the faintest hint of red, though she couldn’t have been using Burn. He saw behind her, where the rest of the kids were crowding the door, all with weapons drawn and expressions hardened in a protective fury.

Elm and Vine were trying to calm them down, reassure them that there was no current danger. Harriet and Marrow were already gone, one headed to Ironwood’s office, the other towards the training room.

Something deep in the back of Clover’s mind warmed at the image of these kids, Qrow’s kids, coming to his aid so vigorously. He marveled, sadly — as he had countless times before — not at how much Qrow meant to the people in his life, but at how seldom the man himself was able to see it.

Yang was at Ruby’s side in an instant, taking her sister from Clover’s grip and looking frantically between her and their uncle. She pulled Ruby closer to her side, guiding the younger girl to lower her weapon, that furious glint already fading from her own eyes.

“Clover? What happened?!” Her voice was as steady and firm as Clover had ever heard her.

He started to feel a little calmer. Yang, for as short a time as he’d known her, tended to be a little more than hot-headed. But he could see her gears turning as she watched Qrow. She seemed to catch on pretty quickly that while there was no present danger, something was still very wrong.

Ruby collapsed Crescent Rose and slowly, without waiting for Clover to answer her sister, she walked towards Qrow, dropping to her knees in front of him. Clover wanted to protest, to suggest she not crowd him, but she was family. And as Yang watched her uncle, Clover thought it looked like she might be piecing together what was going on. Maybe they had seen this before, maybe they would know how to help Qrow better than he could.

So Clover watched, apprehensively, as the younger girl approached Qrow.

He had retreated back into himself and was pulling at his hair with enough force that Clover had to actively keep himself from rushing over to stop him.

Ruby had apparently noticed all of this as well, as she looked back at him and Yang, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks — obviously scared — before she turned back to Qrow.

Clover was impressed with how steady her voice remained.

“Uncle Qrow? Uncle Qrow… can you hear me? Please, Uncle Qrow… What’s going on? What happened?”

Clover was about to step forward, to tell her to slow down, just go one question at a time. But before he could, Qrow moved.

He had frozen immediately as he heard her voice, and then his hands fell from his hair. He slowly looked up at Ruby and, for a split second, Clover thought things might be okay, as he saw a flash of recognition wash over Qrow’s face. But that hope was dashed by the sound that ripped from the man’s chest as the recognition turned to a heart wrenching, painful, despair.

It wasn’t a cry or even a scream. It wasn’t loud. Just a whimper. But Clover knew that it hit both of the girls just as hard as it had him, seeing them both flinch at the tortured sound. He and Yang both stepped forward after recovering from the initial shock, but they froze as Qrow’s voice, ragged and soft, reached them.

“S-summer?”

Clover saw Ruby’s shoulders stiffen. He felt Yang tremble slightly by his side, her hand going to cover her mouth. She looked at him, pleadingly.

She hadn’t seen this. Neither of them had seen their uncle like this before. And they were just kids. Scared and confused kids.

And then Yang let out a quiet sob, and he turned back to see Qrow starting to reach toward Ruby’s face; a sadness in his eyes that caused every hair on Clover’s body to stand on end.

“S-summer? H-how...”

Just as suddenly, Qrow yanked his hand back, gripping his wrist, his nails digging in firmly, before pressing his hands to his chest. To Clover, it looked like he’d just realized that if he were to touch her, she would shatter.

“No. No. Nonono… You-you’re not. Y-you can’t be… here. You’re not real. This isn’t... I... I can’t go there again! Not again. Not now. Not after I promised them...”

Clover watched as Ruby, visibly shaken, pushed through and spoke slowly, leaning forward again, her hand hesitantly raised towards Qrow.

“U-uncle Qrow... It… It’s me. It’s Ruby.”

And any piece of Clover’s heart that had managed to survive until then, crumbled, as he saw the sound of her voice, her name, crash over Qrow, devastatingly. He looked up at her again, and Clover saw all the air rush out of him violently.

“Oh... Oh, gods no— R-ruby! I… I’m sorr— I’m so sorry!”

Qrow fell back against the wall, his hands flying to squeeze over his mouth, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he stared at the floor between him and Ruby.

Qrow’s voice had felt like an open flame on raw flesh. Clover could feel his skin on him so much… Shit. No. He couldn’t get caught up in that right now. He didn’t need to be aware of himself. He needed to help Qrow.

Clover turned towards Yang, but she was no longer beside him. She had rushed to Ruby, cradling the shocked, stammering kid to her chest as she stepped back towards Clover. She stared at him, on the verge of panic herself.

“W-what’s happening, Clover?” Her voice was the least steady he’d heard, but still firm.

But Clover could see that all the color had left her face and her prosthetic hand trembled ever so slightly on Ruby’s arm.

He gently guided them a few feet further from Qrow, dropping his voice.

“I… I’d hoped that maybe you two had seen something like this before, and might know how to help. But I get the feeling you haven’t…”

Ruby shook her head, staring up at Clover from against her sister’s shoulder. Yang said nothing, staring single-mindedly, at her uncle. And Clover saw the gears turning again.

When she finally spoke, it was careful, understanding.

“He’s having a panic attack… or a flashback or something like that. Right?”

Yang didn’t acknowledge Ruby as she looked up at her, surprised, she just kept looking still at Clover.

“I… I had a few back on Patch… after I lost my arm.” She huffed a contemplative laugh. “Once woke up thinking I was still at Beacon, looking for Blake… or Adam.”

She looked back to Qrow finally, a soft, sad look in her eyes, “Dad helped. He knew how to help. He... he said he’d gotten someone through it before, but he didn’t say who it was... Makes sense though. But... mine were never this… They were never like this.”

Clover nodded, his right hand going to the rabbit’s foot on his hip, kneading it anxiously.

“I think so, yes. I don’t know what caused it but…” He paused, unsure of how they would react to what he was about to say.

“I think I can calm him down. I’ve dealt with— I think I can help. But I’ve got to be careful. I don’t know what will help and what might make it worse. And I don’t think he knows where he is. For now…” Clover sighed, hoping desperately that these girls he’d known for such a short time, would trust him with this.

“Look, girls… I-I know he’s your uncle, and you still barely know me, but… I just want to help him. I think I can, I just… Could you two wait outside and let me see if I can talk to him myself?”

Clover had never seen the two young huntresses look so shaken; he wasn’t sure if he’d seen them look shaken like this at all, actually. It struck him again, just how young these kids were, especially to have been through all that they had.

For a moment, he imagined what it must be like for Qrow; to watch these kids he’d known since they were born, these girls he’d helped raise, prepare for war. He thought he might have an inkling of what it must feel like — to have fear and pride be so entangled like that, for someone you… cared about. Yeah… he just might have had a good idea.

“If it doesn’t work, or it looks like he needs you specifically, I’ll come get you right away. I promise. But the more people around him at once, the more overwhelming it could be… I just… You can trust me with this…”

Clover didn’t say ‘with him’ but something told him that they understood it all the same.

He waited patiently, more anxious than he’d ever admit, as he watched the two sisters. This was ultimately their decision. Their family. He had to respect that. No matter how badly he wanted to stay with Qrow.

He kept darting his eyes over to check on Qrow, as he waited for the girls to answer. Finally, he noticed them shift and looked up, making eye contact with Yang as she nodded agreeingly, one hand still around her sister’s shoulder.

Clover was glad he had such a solid game face, because the wave of relief, of desperation to act, was something he didn’t want the two girls to see right then. He doubted that that kind of vulnerability, instability, on his part, would be the most reassuring thing for them at that moment.

He followed them to the door, looking back over his shoulder, making sure he never broke his line of sight on Qrow. Yang sat down against the wall opposite Qrow’s room, Ruby following, and the two girls pressed in close to each other. He noticed that Vine and Elm were nowhere to be seen, along with the rest of the kids. Hopefully they’d been convinced to go back to their rooms, get some sleep.

Something he knew better than to suggest to the two girls before him.

Clover swallowed and kept his voice soft, grateful, “I… I’m going to leave the door cracked, in case I need to call you, okay?”

Yang put her arm back around her little sister and looked up at Clover, holding his gaze for a moment. He could feel her assessing him one more time. Finally, she seemed satisfied and flashed a small, appreciative smile, nodding for Clover to go back in, before resting her cheek against the top of Ruby’s head. He could tell that, as well as she held it together, her eyes were glassy, barely holding back her own tears.

A part of him wanted to stay there with them. It felt wrong leaving two scared kids to cry alone in an empty hallway after… that.

It was clear to Clover that there was a lot more to the situation than he was aware of. But he knew that Summer was Ruby’s... their mom. And that they’d both been very young when she died. It was obvious why they would both be significantly shaken by what had just happened.

But the only person who could explain what was going on, who could ease that childhood pain that had been stirred up so suddenly, was Qrow. And to do that, he needed someone to help him right now.

The girls had each other. Qrow was the one who needed him.

Clover glanced at the girls one last time, before slowly closing the door, leaving just a sliver of light still slipping in.

He absentmindedly hit the light switch, only just realizing they’d spent that whole time in the dimly lit room, which was even more so now that the door was closed.

Because Clover was watching him so closely, he noticed Qrow immediately stiffen, flinch, turn away from what must have felt like an overwhelmingly harsh light. The younger man quickly turned them off and finally walked back towards the other.

“Okay! No light. It’s okay, Qrow….”

Clover gently nudged Harbinger from where it had fallen behind him earlier, till it was resting on the floor at the foot of Qrow’s bed, out of the way, and then he sat in front of his withdrawn partner.

He forced himself to stay a few feet away, keep his distance for now, regardless of how much his chest felt a pull, a need, to be right at Qrow’s side. From everything he’d seen so far, Clover had a strong suspicion that touching Qrow at all might not be the best thing right then, let alone when he didn’t even seem to be aware of his presence.

The room was almost silent now, Qrow having grown quieter while Clover spoke with the girls. But it was painfully obvious that the quiet did not mean that things had improved. Qrow still shook with wave after wave of breathless sobbing. And Clover could just barely make out the covered whisper again; a repetitive, habitual string of one word over and over.

“No. Nonono.”

Each distraught syllable made that pull in Clover’s chest a little stronger, but he ignored it.

Instead, he focused on Qrow’s hands, wringing aggressively at his wrists. He again noticed the red scratch marks on his arms and chest and kept a close eye on every movement, ready to reach out if it seemed like he’d hurt himself more.

The injuries, as minor as they were, turned his stomach. Not because Qrow had done them himself, but because Clover was almost certain that he wasn’t even aware of doing so. His movements didn’t seem like conscious outlets, but rather the attempts of a mind, overcrowded with panic, trying desperately to find anything that would ease it, and finding the smallest relief in the repetitive motion.

“Clover? I uh… I brought the first aid kit.”

Clover nearly jumped, having let himself get so caught up in his thoughts as he watched Qrow, that he hadn’t heard Marrow come back into the room. He turned around right as Marrow was lifting his hand to flick the light switch. He shook his head quickly, motioning for his teammate to stop.

“Leave it off.” He whispered.

Marrow pulled his hand back from the light immediately and, with only a moment of pause, crossed the rest of the room to Clover. He handed his boss the first aid kit he’d asked for, a warm washcloth also placed on top. Clover smiled gratefully back up at him.

“Thank you, Marrow… Would you mind staying close by? Make sure the girls are okay out there?”

Marrow nodded reassuringly, before glancing back behind Clover at Qrow. There was a subtle tightness to his brow that Clover noticed. Worry.

“Is… is he...”

“He’ll be okay… I just need some time to talk to him.” Clover’s voice was quiet, fond.

Something about seeing his youngest teammate, still calm but concerned, bolstered something in his chest. Made him sit a little taller, slip back into the cover of confidence, assuredness, which he carried for… because of his team.

He was Clover Ebi. Captain of the Ace Operatives. Atlas’ Golden Boy.

He could do this. Qrow needed him to be able to do this. That, more than anything, spurred him on.

Marrow nodded and left quietly, leaving the door cracked once more. Clover could just barely hear him settle in the hall near the girls. At least now he could be sure they weren’t alone.

He turned back to Qrow and set the first aid kit on the floor next to himself. His first instinct was to tend to the wound at the base of Qrow’s neck. But touching him still seemed like a bad idea. His worry eased a little though, now that he was close, calm enough to get a good look at the scratch.

It really was just that. A scratch, just barely enough to draw blood. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared; the spread of blood caused by Qrow’s own movements rather than the injury itself. Clover knew though that, right at his collarbone like that, it would be an annoyance to heal, even with aura, as every turn of Qrow’s head would pull at the shallow wound.

Clover looked away from the scratch, sighing and pulling in a long, deep, breath.

He was there. Now he just had to move. He had to help.

He had no idea where to even start.

As Clover sat in that dark, silent room — his distraught partner in front of him — his thoughts started to race, to try to analyze every bit of the night at once. He had to remember this, not do that, keep an eye on all these things, make sure he didn’t say the wrong thing, watch his every move towards Qrow, calculate every touch.

Qrow needed him to know how to do this. He should know how to do this. He’d felt so confident just moments before, seeing Marrow.

His team. He led his team. He jumped into action, coming up with the next best step, on the spot, in battle.

And this wasn’t even a battle. He wasn’t responsible for keeping anyone alive here. As much as he knew Qrow might feel like he was dying, he wasn’t. Clover wouldn’t get one of them killed if he made a mistake.

And yet, everything in him screamed just how important it was that he not make a single mistake now. The only thing he wanted at that moment was to help the scared, inconsolable man before him. But the fear in his own chest reminded him over and over just how easy it would be to end up hurting him more.

Clover had only known Qrow for a few months. He knew so few details of the things he had been through in his life.

But he had seen where he was when he first arrived in Atlas. He had seen how hard he was trying to pull himself back up out of a well: one that Clover could only guess how deep it went. He had heard the hesitation, the regret, the guilt, the self-loathing in his voice. And he had seen his protectiveness, his devotion, his pride, his unwavering love for those kids, all of them. He had seen his skill and his intelligence in battle. He’d seen his wit, his snark, his kindness to those around him once he let his walls down. He’d seen the shy flush in his cheeks, the natural softness of his smile, heard the gentle lilting sound of his laugh.

He may not have known the exact extent of the hurt that Qrow had been burdened with throughout his life. But he knew it was immeasurably more than he deserved.

Clover might have been scared of doing the wrong thing at that moment. But Clover’s fear was not what mattered then.

Qrow was what mattered. And what Qrow needed right then, was for Clover to pull his shit together, and be a steadfast mooring for him while he weathered whatever storm it was that was trying to pull him under.

He watched as Qrow’s shoulders continued to hitch; his breath stuttering over and over in his throat, his fingers straining against himself as he pressed his hands to his chest — as if he thought the pressure might push out whatever was stuck there, keeping him from breathing.

Clover squared his shoulders and closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and looking at Qrow with a gentle, aching, care.

He could do this. For Qrow… Clover felt fairly sure he’d do anything.

So. Step one: get his breathing steady.

Chapter Text

It was his own screaming that woke Qrow up. The blood that he had just felt sticking to his skin was now only sweat. The cold of the tundra around him was replaced by the much too heavy, and invading, pressure of his sheets. He couldn’t catch his breath.

He couldn’t breathe.

Qrow gasped for air, taking in huge gulps, but his chest just kept feeling tighter and tighter, until he was sure that the entire weight of Atlas sat atop his ribs.

It took him a moment before he realized that the crushing sound around him was in fact coming from him. He was still screaming, wailing. The sound broken only by sobs, rasping inhales.

It hurt. It hurt so much. He could feel his throat strain against the sound tearing from it. His throat was on fire. Every second it continued, he was sure he’d vomit or pass out.

He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers scrambling for purchase in his hair; like he could find his composure in that tension.

He tried to clench his eyes shut, but when he did, he just saw the light leaving Clover’s eyes over and over again.

One hand left his hair and found its way to the base of his throat, pushing frantically at his collarbone — without even being aware he was doing so — begging the burning screams to just stop. The pain didn’t even register as he broke skin. He still didn’t realize he was even scratching — he hadn’t meant to be scratching, had he? — until he felt the subtle slickness of blood on his fingers.

Panic bubbled up again.

Clover. Clover’s blood.

Clover’s blood was still there. It was still real?!

Qrow’s scream had morphed into a repetitive mantra. He felt himself forming the words. He heard the mortifyingly pathetic whimpering in that voice that had to be his, but it sounded so wrong.

He stared at the blood on his hand, his entire body shaking, trembling uncontrollably. A part of him could tell that it really wasn’t that much, that it was just a smear. But as he watched it, it seemed to grow, to spill, to taint everything around it.

The screaming had finally stopped, but only because he couldn’t catch his breath long enough to scream. He was gasping again.

“No. Nononono. No. Stop. Just stop! Please...” He mouthed, over and over, but no sound would pass his lips, aside from the racking sobs and desperate gasps for air.

Qrow had no idea what exactly he was begging to stop. Maybe it was everything, just the presence of the world, of every invading sense around him.

And something did stop, but even that was a misfortune, a wish granted with a spiteful twist. The forceful cruelty of the screaming had stopped, had returned his control to him, but now his voice refused to come. And at the same time, he was sure that if he stopped trying — if he didn’t try to get this out, say something, scream something, beg for something, anything other than this pain — the world itself would collapse in on him.

At some point he had fallen out of his bed, and now he sat huddled in the corner, his back pressing up against the wall as if he were trying to sink back into it.

That was where he was when Clover burst into the room, Kingfisher drawn, his eyes wide with anger and fear. The rest of the Ace Ops right on his heels.

He saw Qrow’s bed; empty, a tangled mess of blankets, a smear of blood trailing off the edge, but no sign of Qrow himself. Clover’s stomach clenched, his blood running cold.

Harbinger sat, untouched, at the foot of the bed. The thought of his partner, attacked in his sleep, weaponless, pushed to the point of making that bone-chilling scream, made Clover’s vision blur for a moment.

“Qrow?!” His voice was more strained and panicked than he should have let it been. He didn’t care.

Finding Qrow was all that mattered right then. Qrow was all that mattered.

His eyes darted around the room, looking for the older huntsman. He couldn’t hear anything above his own heartbeat rushing in his ears. There was no sign of an attacker. The room felt too still, too frozen in Clover’s own confusion and fear.

But then, finally, he heard ragged, strained breathing. And once he reached the edge of the bed, he could see the trembling form of his partner in the corner.

Clover practically dove over the bed to close the gap between them, knocking Harbinger to the ground with a loud clatter as he did, but the sound barely registered to him.

“Qrow! What happened?! Who did thi—”

His throat tightened as he saw the inflamed scratch marks, a trickle of fresh blood still present, on Qrow’s neck. A rage pulsed in Clover’s chest, that was only eclipsed by the fear that shot through him like ice.

At the sound of his partner’s voice, Qrow’s gasping had abruptly stopped. Clover had landed a few feet from him, crouched, caught between going to the wounded huntsman and finding the threat responsible for this.

Qrow stared at the younger man, his pupils blown so wide with fear that Clover reflexively drew back for a fraction of a second. He had never seen Qrow truly afraid before, let alone the utter terror that was caught in his eyes then.

Boiling. That rage had started to boil now.

“C-clove— ” The choked off name was barely audible.

But it was enough to make Clover’s decision for him. He dropped Kingfisher and scrambled forward on his knees towards Qrow. His hand flew instinctively to his neck, despite him starting to see that the bleeding really wasn’t that serious; a bad scratch, but not a wound as he had thought at first.

But as Clover reached towards him, Qrow saw the glint of Harbinger and the tundra scene flashed before his eyes. Clover couldn’t be there. Qrow couldn’t let it happen again.

He flinched away from Clover, forcing out a much louder sound; a pained bark, that seemed to be a shock to both of them.

“No!”

Followed by a renewed mumbling plea, as he curled back in on himself, hands returning to tangle in his hair, unknowingly smearing a thin streak of blood across his cheek.

Clover fell backward, shocked at the outburst, unsure of what to do. His heart rate had slowly started to lower a bit, but it was still racing, along with his thoughts.

But one thought stood out above everything else: Qrow was alive.

Something was very, very wrong, and he would need at least some degree of medical attention, but he was alive, and practically unharmed.

Clover realized then, just how scared he had been that that would not be the case. How heavy his chest had been with the fear that he would get there too late.

The rest of the Ace Ops had thoroughly searched the room after they entered behind him. Finally, Marrow approached Clover cautiously.

“Clover? There’s no one here… No one’s been here. The windows are locked. There’s no sign of forced entry or a struggle… Should we raise the alarm?”

The younger soldier was flustered and confused, still on edge. Clover knew that the images of the panic during the night of the election must have been playing in his head. He took a moment, standing, carefully stepping around Harbinger on the floor behind him, and placed a comforting hand on Marrow’s shoulder briefly, as he looked around the room.

Nothing aside from the bed was disturbed. The blood smear he’d seen looked like it’d been left by a hand dragging across the sheet, leading to Qrow’s spot on the floor. He looked back to Qrow, seeing the blood on his fingers, the pattern of the scratches on his neck, and the similar but less severe inflamed scratch marks on his forearms and chest.

Clover slowly pieced things together, and his hands relaxed. He hadn’t felt the sharp pain of his nails digging firmly into his palms until that moment. The fear was fading, but concern still bubbled in his chest, a cold sweat coming over him.

He turned to the rest of his team standing behind him, waiting for instructions, and spoke softly, forcefully keeping his voice steady and collected.

“I think I know what’s going on. I’ll stay here with Qrow. Harriet, go find Ironwood and let him know that there was an incident, but there isn’t any security risk. Elm and Vine, if you see any of the kids, especially Ruby or Yang, tell them that something happened, but that Qrow is okay and I’m handling it and… and that I’ll talk to them later. And Marrow, I need you to bring me a first aid kit from the training room.”

The team nodded and headed to the door.

Right as Marrow turned into the hall, he called back over his shoulder into the room.

“Uh… Clover? I think the kids heard.”

Clover now recognized the stampeding sound of eight sets of feet coming down the hall — which then became seven — and suddenly, in a burst of petals, Ruby was in front of him. She had Crescent Rose drawn, fully extended in its scythe form. Her eyes, which seemed starker, a faintly sharper silver than usual, darted around before settling, panicked, on her uncle’s crumpled, quaking body in the corner.

“Uncle Qr—” She started towards him reflexively.

Clover rushed to her, pulling her back gently, his eyes wide but soft.

“Ruby! Hey, hey. Slow down, alright?” He tried to meet her eyes reassuringly. “He’s okay. I... I don’t think he was attacked.”

Yang entered the room then, a fire — not from Burn — in her eyes. The rest of the kids were crowding the door, all with their weapons drawn. Elm and Vine were trying to calm them down, reassure them that there was no current danger. Marrow was gone, headed towards the training room, and Harriet off toward Ironwood’s office.

Yang was now at Ruby’s side, taking her gently from Clover, as she looked frantically between her sister and uncle.

“Clover? What happened?!”

Before Clover could answer, Ruby had collapsed Crescent Rose and started to walk towards Qrow, slowly dropping to her knees in front of him. Clover wanted to protest, to suggest that she not crowd him, but she was family. Maybe she had seen this before, maybe they both had. Maybe they would know better than he would about how to help Qrow.

Qrow had retreated into himself, tugging at his hair, realizing over and over just how hard it was to breathe. The realization that he was going to die there washing over him, again and again. Everything was lost. Clover. Oz. Su—

He saw a form crouch in front of him and he was about to retract again when a muffled voice broke through his chaotic head.

“Uncle Qrow? Uncle Qrow… can you hear me? Please, Uncle Qrow… What’s going on? What happened?”

His name and her voice were all that he registered. His hands fell from his hair and, as he looked up, he was sure that his heart would burst from his chest.

His eyes wouldn’t focus fully, but his stomach dropped when he saw her face. That soft, kind face, framed by sweeping red hair. Those gleaming silver eyes that he would always have a soft spot for. That gentle, encouraging, bratty smile that she shared with the other silver-eyed huntress he loved more than anything.

A new sob tore from him at the sight of her. It was a sound that left Yang, Ruby, and Clover all flinching, before rushing forward to help him again.

And then.

“S-summer?”

Ruby froze. He was looking at her and she’d never seen that kind of fear in his eyes. That kind of sadness. She’d seen him at what she thought must have been his lowest points, but that look, how it seemed to settle into his features with such familiarity, it was a different kind of low. And she somehow knew that it had been from a part of his life that she was too young to remember.

“S-summer? H-how...” His voice was so fragile, so cautious.

His hand had been reaching out to touch her cheek when suddenly he pulled it back, digging his nails into his wrist, holding his hand to his chest, his head shaking forcefully.

“No. No. Nonono… You-you’re not. Y-you can’t be… here. You’re not real. This isn’t... I... I can’t go there again! Not again. Not now. Not after I promised them...” Every word seemed like a struggle to form the sound, and his teeth gritted in frustration. His voice dropped until he was just mumbling to himself weakly. It was too small for even Ruby to hear.

She stared at him in shock, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“U-uncle Qrow... It… It’s me. It’s Ruby.” Her voice remained impressively steady, careful.

Qrow froze again and looked up, his vision finally focusing fully. The breath he let out as he saw her, really saw her, sounded like he’d been punched in the gut. Like the air that he’d worked so hard to bring into his lungs was forcefully ripped away all over again.

Ruby. That was Ruby. Not Summer. Of course it was Ruby. And she was scared, crying. Because of him.

“Oh... Oh, gods no— R-ruby! I... I’m sorr— I’m so sorry!” His voice was a sad, remorseful shell of the dry, playful tone that she’d grown up with.

He fell back against the wall, hands clasped over his mouth, his eyes wide and bloodshot, as he stared at the floor between them, unable to look into those familiar silver eyes.

Ruby moved away from Qrow and stood shakily, turning back to Yang and Clover, her eyes wide with panic and confusion. Yang rushed to her, pulling the smaller girl to her chest as she stepped back towards Clover.

“W-what’s happening, Clover?” Yang asked, her voice steady in comparison to Ruby’s shaky tears.

Yang was pale as a ghost though and barely trembling, just staring over Ruby at their uncle. Clover could see the gears turning in her head.

“I… I’d hoped that maybe you two had seen something like this before, and might know how to help. But I get the feeling you haven’t…”

Ruby shook her head, peering at him from her sister’s shoulder. But Yang remained silent, and Clover could see an understanding starting to wash over her.

He guided them closer to the door, away from Qrow, to talk.

Finally, Yang spoke. Her voice was the least steady Clover had ever heard from her, but still firm. She spoke carefully.

“He’s having a panic attack… or a flashback or something like that. Right?”

Ruby looked at her in surprise but Yang didn’t acknowledge her, she just kept talking.

“I… I had a few back on Patch… after I lost my arm.” She laughed dryly. “Once woke up thinking I was still at Beacon, looking for Blake… or Adam.”

She glanced back towards her uncle, her gaze soft, sympathetic. “Dad helped. He knew how to help. He... he said he’d gotten someone through it before, but he didn’t say who it was... Makes sense though. But... mine were never this… They were never like this.”

Clover nodded, as he subtly moved his hand to the rabbit’s foot clipped to his belt and squeezed it for a moment.

“I think so, yes. I don’t know what caused it but…” Clover paused, not sure if they would like what he was about to say.

“I think I can calm him down. I’ve dealt with— I think I can help. But I’ve got to be careful. I don’t know what will help and what might make it worse. And I don’t think he knows where he is. For now…” He sighed before continuing, only able to hope that they would listen to him.

“Look, girls… I-I know he’s your uncle, and you still barely know me, but… I just want to help him. I think I can, I just… Could you two wait outside and let me see if I can talk to him myself? If it doesn’t work, or it looks like he needs you specifically, I’ll come get you right away. I promise. But the more people around him at once, the more overwhelming it could be… I just… You can trust me with this…”

The ‘with him’ was unspoken. But they heard it all the same.

The girls looked at each other, and then at Qrow, and finally back at Clover.

It was true, they still didn’t know Clover that well. But they had seen, over the past few months, how much Qrow had been opening up around him, how hard he was working on staying sober, how supportive Clover was of him, and the effect that had had on Qrow. They saw Qrow joking and laughing and walking taller. They saw how he’d get flustered when Clover complimented him, outright flirted with him, and how he’d slowly begun to flirt back — though they were both pretty sure he was still, on some level, oblivious to it. Or in denial.

And right then, they saw the way Clover was darting his eyes back to Qrow, how worried he was. They saw how much he truly cared about their uncle. And despite how concerned — and as much as he was trying to hide it, nervous — Clover was, the girls could tell that he truly thought he could help. He wanted to help.

They looked at each other for a moment more before nodding and looking back at Qrow compassionately, and they then headed to the door.

Clover followed them, making sure to keep Qrow in his line of sight. He hesitated in the doorway as they sat on the wall opposite Qrow’s room, pressed up against each other, Yang pulling Ruby to her side protectively. He realized that the rest of the kids, along with Vine and Elm, were gone. Hopefully, they’d been able to convince them to go back to their rooms and try to get some sleep.

But Clover knew better than to suggest that to the girls sitting in front of him now.

“I… I’m going to leave the door cracked, in case I need to call you, okay?”

Yang nodded, while Ruby buried her head in her sister’s shoulder. He could tell the older girl was trying not to start crying herself.

Clover left the door open just barely, and finally turned back towards Qrow. He reached out and turned on the main light by the door. But he saw Qrow flinch as it came on and quickly turned it back off.

“Okay! No light. It’s okay, Qrow….”

Clover took a slow, quiet breath and then walked towards the other man. As he reached the bed, he carefully pushed Harbinger from its place on the floor, from when he’d knocked it over, moving it out of the way to the foot of the bed. Then he sat in front of Qrow, leaving a couple of feet between them. It was difficult; to keep his distance like that.

Qrow had grown quieter again, but his shoulders were still trembling with waves of sobs, his hands still a death grip around his wrists.

And there was still that intermittent, so very quiet, repetition, “No. Nonono.”

Clover wanted to go straight to him, to comfort him, but he knew that that would likely just make things worse at the moment. Instead, Clover watched his fingers carefully, ready to pull them away if it looked like he’d hurt himself again.

The smattering of blood on his neck had dried by now and seeing it set something off in Clover’s chest. He knew now that no one had been there, no one had attacked Qrow. But he still felt an anger in him at the sight of his partner in such distress. An anger with no focus…. Just anger…. Protectiveness.

There was a small sound at the door as Marrow stuck his head in.

“Clover? I uh… I brought the first aid kit.”

Clover turned without getting up, motioning Marrow in. He threw up his hand as he saw Marrow reach for the light.

“Leave it off.” He whispered, just loud enough for his teammate to hear.

Marrow pulled back quickly, startled, but nodded and brought the kit to Clover.

“Thank you, Marrow… Would you mind staying close by? Make sure the girls are okay out there?”

Marrow nodded and looked behind Clover at Qrow.

“Is… is he...” His voice was genuinely steady, but Clover could still sense the kind concern in his question.

“He’ll be okay… I just need some time to talk to him.”

Marrow nodded again and quietly left.

Clover set the first aid kit off to the side as he turned back to face Qrow. As much as he wanted to take care of his neck, he still knew trying to touch him right now wouldn’t be a good idea, especially touching an area that was bound to be overly sensitive like that. But he could tell, now that he was closer, that the wound wasn’t even as bad as he had originally thought. Most of the severity of its appearance was just inflamed scratch marks, already starting to fade. There actually wasn’t much blood at all. It just looked like more with how Qrow had spread it in his panic. Though, Clover could tell from its placement: right between his collar bones — impossible to really keep it still — that, even with aura, it would take a little while to heal. Clover took a moment to breathe again and focus on how he needed to proceed. What his first step would be.

He looked at Qrow; heard his heavy gasping, saw his shoulders heaving.

Right. First step: steady his breathing.

Chapter Text

Qrow’s eyes snapped open, as he became painfully aware of the tightness in his throat. He could still hear that awful scream; the sound moving from his dream to reality. The blood that had just been sticking to his skin — thick and warm and nauseating — was now only sweat. His skin felt wrong on his body.

Brothers, it was all too much. Everything was so present — so sharp — around him, and he had no control over anything at all. He could feel his skin holding him together, suffocating him. He felt the rush of blood in his veins; heard it pounding in his ears, a sound only matched by the reverberations of that incessant, awful, screaming. His fingers pulled along his arms; unaware of the red, inflamed, scratch marks they started to leave behind. Everything felt wrong: the sheets, every inch of his body, the hair hitting the back of his neck, the air so heavy around him.

He couldn’t catch his breath.

He couldn’t breathe. He actually couldn’t breathe.

Qrow gasped for air, knowing he was taking in huge gulps, but feeling his chest continue to grow tighter and tighter.

That head-splitting scream seemed to come from all around him. It seemed to dig its way into his chest and force his struggling breath to match its pace.

It took him a moment to connect the screaming to the pain in his throat.

That was him. How was he screaming like that when he was clearly suffocating?

Now the scream was all he could hear, or feel. It was broken only by sobs, rasping inhales, sputtering coughs.

He was wrong. This was not from him, this was not under his control. This was agony ripping its way through him like he was just collateral damage. He was sure it would kill him at any moment.

But it didn’t. It just kept coming. He couldn’t stop the despair tearing from his chest and past his lips. He was shaking uncontrollably, his head dropping into his hands as his fingers scrambled for purchase in his hair. He was pulling, yanking, trembling, for some reason he couldn’t understand. At this point, he couldn’t even remember why he was screaming, what was happening, where he was. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to get his racing — but somehow still empty — thoughts under control.

Qrow pressed his palms to his eyes, without ever taking his fingers from his hair.

That was a mistake. The blooms of light on the black of his eyelids quickly morphed into an image, and he remembered why he was screaming.

Clover’s eyes; the light slipping away from them over and over. And Qrow could do nothing but watch every time; knowing the grief that was about to consume him and being utterly unable to stop it.

Qrow’s eyes flew open, as he tried to get as far away from that image as possible, not noticing the dull ache in his side as he fell from his bed and landed, heavily, on the floor.

The screaming had new vigor as it tore him open; now morphing from a wordless wail to a mantra: a litany of pleading ‘nos’ that seemed to spill from him like a gaping wound.

As he scrambled into the corner — his back pushed tight to the wall — one of his hands left his hair, finding its way to his throat and chest.

There was something there — something ripping him apart from the inside, trying to get out. He needed the pain to stop. He needed the screaming to stop. But it kept coming, even as his nails broke skin.

The pain didn’t yet register to Qrow: too focused on trying to stop the screaming to even realize that his movements had gone from rubbing to scratching. The only thing he could feel was the enormity of the scream surrounding, engulfing, becoming him.

He didn’t notice the injury until he felt a warm, saccharine, slickness between his fingers. Panic bubbled in his chest again, rising like bile to the back of his throat.

Clover. Clover’s blood.

Clover’s blood was still on his hands. It was… It was still real!? It couldn’t still be real.

He needed it not to be real.

But the evidence stuck to his hands like a mocking accusation, admission, of guilt.

A part of him, a frantic, lucid part deep in his gut, knew that it wasn’t much at all, that it was only a trickle from a small scrape. But the panic had buried that voice deep enough that, to Qrow, it seemed like the small trace of red on his palm was growing, blooming, spreading until it would envelop, corrupt, take everything he held dear.

The scream caught in his throat and, somehow, that was worse than before. The push was still there, but there was no air to expel. He simply couldn’t catch his breath long enough to scream anymore.

He was gasping again, falling onto his side and curling around his torso as his hands pressed to his chest. He desperately mouthed his sustaining, purposeless, plea.

“No. Nononono. No. Stop. Just stop! Please...” But no sound escaped his lips, aside from the racking sobs and useless inhales.

------------

Qrow didn’t hear the stampeding feet in the hallway, or the door to his room bursting open; he didn’t even hear the agonized voice calling out his name.

------------

The first thing that alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone, was the deafening clang of metal hitting the floor. His head jerked up, hearing the splitting sound of metal weapons scraping across each other, ringing in his ears. And then he saw someone in front of him, and heard a strained, familiar voice say his name.

“Qrow! What— ”

And that was all he heard before his eyes focused, and he saw Clover kneeling in front of him, his eyes wide with worry.

No. With panic.

The fear in his eyes struck Qrow somewhere deep; a consuming guilt washing over him instantly. His eyes darted over Clover’s face and down to his chest, looking for the wound that Qrow knew would be there: the reason for Clover looking at him like that.

But it wasn’t. Clover was right there, alive, unharmed. Maybe it hadn’t been real after all.

“C-clove— ”

But his voice choked off as his eyes caught the glint of Harbinger laying on the ground behind Clover, light spilling over it from the open door.

And suddenly, there was snow. Harbinger was discarded; the engraved patterns on its blade completely obscured by an oil slick of blood. Qrow dragged his eyes to look back at Clover, dreading what he knew he’d see, but unable, unwilling, to abandon him.

Clover was... just, staring at him, utterly unaware that he was already dead: that Harbinger had already— Qrow knew it was inevitable, that any moment he’d hear that awful sound, as his weapon, a piece of his soul, struck down the first true partner he’d had in nearly two decades.

When he saw Clover reach towards him, Qrow finally willed himself to move: trying to push the younger man aside — trying to change the outcome — so that the blood on his blade would be his own.

“No!” The shout felt like an open flame on his throat, but it was nothing compared to the clenching pressure that clawed at his chest.

The pain wasn’t what he’d expected Harbinger to feel like, cutting through him: it was duller, broader, completely sourceless — but it was enough that it must have meant that he’d succeeded. That Tyrian had missed his target. But as he closed his eyes, accepting that he was about to die — that this agony was what dying felt like — he saw the image of Clover; eye’s distant, hollow, drained of color.

The string of mournful ‘nos’ pushed from his chest once more, and this time he couldn’t even tell whether or not there was any sound behind the strained motion.

He’d failed. It hadn’t been enough. He could never save Clover from his misfortune, no matter how hard he tried.

-------------

Qrow fell further into his panic, not hearing Marrow update Clover on the lack of any sign of a struggle, not noticing Clover move away from him and give his team orders, not hearing another stampede of feet nearing the room, or Marrow calling back from the doorway, or Clover’s whispered attempts to calm Ruby down, or Yang’s low growl as she asked Clover what was going on. All of it was too far away for him to register.

-------------

The first thing that did break through, though, stopped his heart.

“-le Qrow?”

His name.

That soft, sweet, strong, kind voice saying his name.

That voice that he’d do anything for, to ensure that it never sounded as pained as it did right then. That voice that he loved so much that it terrified him. That was so similar to another voice that kept him going, another, smaller, younger voice, that could soothe and paralyze him, all in the same breath.

Qrow’s hands fell from his hair and his chest felt like it was about to burst as he held his breath, sat up, and forced his eyes to focus on the figure before him. His stomach dropped as her face came into focus… mostly, as he noted how she seemed to not quite appear solid around the edges. But it was enough. Her kind, soft, face framed with a messy mop of red. Her striking silver eyes that Qrow had decided, years ago, would always be his favorite color. It was her. It had been so, so long since it had been her.

A sob ripped from his chest as he continued to stare, and he couldn’t see how it sent a shock through her, and the two figures shadowed behind her.

“S-summer?” His voice was a rattle, scratchy and broken, but determined to say her name; to say fourteen years worth of everything, of anything, to her. He stared at her, feeling new tears fall onto his lap, unable to even think of stopping them.

He didn’t notice how she tensed at the name or the overwhelming sadness that pooled in her eyes — a sadness that reflected his own.

His hand lifted on its own, shaking as it reached out towards her face. That face he’d longed to see in more than just faded photos, for so many years. That face that had filled his sleep for over half his life: first in beautiful dreams, and then in horrific, haunting — and for a short time, fevered — nightmares.

“S-summer? H-how...”

His fingers were just about to cup her cheek when her face flickered, and the dream was replaced with the nightmare.

Bruised skin. Drying blood. Vacant eyes. She was just like Clover. Or, rather, Clover was just like her.

Because this was his history, a history that he was destined to watch repeat over and over again, because his existence was a curse to the people closest to him.

His hand recoiled as her empty eyes bore into him, and blood trickled from her mouth. He saw her face fall as she looked at him: disappointed, betrayed, remorseful. His nails dug into his wrist as he held his hands to his chest, shaking his head and staring at the floor, too scared to close his eyes and see both silver and green lives fade before him, and too ashamed to see his own failure in her eyes as she sat there.

That wasn’t Summer. She wasn’t there. She couldn’t be there. Not even that nightmare version of her. She was gone. She had been gone for so fucking long. She’d been gone from his life now for longer than she’d been present. She wasn’t coming back.

He couldn’t go there again. He couldn’t let his brain tell him that — if he just looked hard enough, he would find her in a crowd.

“No. No. Nonono… You-you’re not. Y-you can’t be… here. You’re not real. This isn’t... I… I can’t go there again! Not again. Not now. Not after I promised them...”

He stayed there, pulled into himself, desperate for something, anything, to wake him up from this nightmare.

Until he heard the other voice: the voice that sounded so much like Summer but was still so utterly unique. And now it was so pained, thick and strained with the effort of held back tears.

“U-uncle Qrow... It… It’s me. It’s Ruby.”

It felt like all the wind, every breath he’d ever taken or ever would take, had been knocked out of him over and over as his head flew up, his eyes finally focusing fully on the figure… the girl. The terrified, confused girl in front of him, with tears streaking her cheeks. Tears that he had caused.

Ruby was in front of him, crying.

Ruby. Not Summer.

Of course it was Ruby. How could he not have seen it was her?

“Oh... Oh, gods no— R-ruby! I… I’m sorr— I’m so sorry!” That was the closest his voice had come to sounding like his own. Of course it was. When he was apologizing for letting her down, hurting her, again.

He fell back against the wall, slumping down, hands clasped over his mouth. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as he stared at the floor between them, unable to look at her.

Qrow forced himself not to let out a sob as he saw her figure move, as she walked away from him.

He wanted to comfort her so badly, to hold her like when she was little, and soothe her tears; feel her small fingers wrap around his, holding onto him like he was the safest place in her world.

But he wasn’t. He hadn’t been back then and, despite all his efforts and his determination to never let her and Yang down again, he still wasn’t now.

As much as it hurt to let her go, he knew he’d be selfish to try to make her stay. His pain, his loneliness, was nothing if it meant keeping her safe.

Why hadn’t he understood that befor— No.

He had understood it with Summer. But he’d convinced himself to stay. He always convinced himself to stay. He was always too weak to leave for good. And eventually, it would catch up to him, and he’d lose her, lose Yang and Tai as well.

Just like Summer. Just like Oz. Just like Raven. Just like... Clover.

So he let Ruby go, pressing his hands to his mouth, not trusting himself to not call out to her, to just apologize if nothing else. He sat there, hoping the pain in his lungs would just kill him already, so he couldn’t fuck things up again. So the people he loved could actually stand a chance.

His breath was ragged again, and no matter how many countless gasps rattled around his chest, it never felt like any air reached him.

So, Qrow Branwen waited to die there — in a pathetic, whimpering heap on the floor — alone.

But death refused to come — continuing to taunt him as it lingered in every breath he struggled to take — intent on keeping him in paralyzing suspense.

Suddenly a flashing, striking, sting of light pulled him from that inexplicable nowhere. Qrow turned, trying to shrink away from the light. It was too much, too clear, too blinding. He gripped his wrists tighter and waited again, desperately expecting that one final blow to end this torture.

But the light was gone just as suddenly as it appeared, and Qrow was still there. Somehow even the dark remained overwhelming. Whether in presence or absence, he didn’t know how to handle being part of the overbearing existence around him.

Qrow could barely hear a quiet voice coming closer to him. It was gentle, safe — and some warm, twisting, calming thing in his gut told him to listen to it, told him to let it soothe him.

But the panic infesting his head was too afraid of hearing the cruel delusion of Summer’s voice again. Too afraid of letting his heart open once more to the toxic belief that he could hear her again. That she could ever again be anything other than missing.

His hands twisted over his wrists, trying to find some sensation, some action that would dull this continuous, stringent feeling that he knew must be the movement of every cell in his body pushing against his skin.

That panicked, overburdened part of him told him to pull, to scratch; that friction would be the answer.

He ignored it. He knew if he scratched, he would hear the sound of himself falling apart, of his brittle outer shell of a body breaking down. His body tearing itself apart and ringing in his ears like striking metal on stone.

But even ignoring that urge led his thoughts to traps. Now he couldn’t stop thinking of skin and bone and blood and viscera. His own, the fragile components of his body now so close to becoming a brutal scene of inevitable carnage. The image of his mangled body in his mind then melded with Summer’s. Oz’s. Every person he’d failed to save. Every person he’d killed with his own hands.

Clover.

And once again he was a deceptively whole person. As his knees dug into packed snow. As warm blood melted the snow around him.

It was all so vivid. So real. So unending.

He knelt beside Clover’s body and knew that this was why nothing before had killed him.

Because it was all the build up to this: to kneeling there, over one more person he’d cursed with his care, and being powerless to change the outcome. To feeling the frigid air, biting chill, seep into his bones, as it slowly made him numb to the existence of the world, the pain, around him.

That was why he hadn’t died before.

Because this was the fate meant for him.

Frozen in place above the evidence of the tragedy he dragged in his wake. Caught in the only thing worse than that ceaseless pain of feeling everything at once. The only thing worse than always hurting.

Becoming completely, unendingly, irrevocably, numb.