Chapter Text
James has punched giant monsters in the face, fought countless wars and won them, been beaten down so many times only to get back up, weapon in hand, ready to fight again. But nothing compares to the fluttery feeling of apprehension in his stomach when he’s about to touch Qrow.
The first time it happened, they were sparring together. Qualifiers were ongoing for the Vytal festival, and Ironwood had been honoured to that Qrow Branwen, member of the previous year’s winning team, had agreed to train with him.
Looking back, James thought he’d have fared better in the fight if he hadn’t be so entranced by the fierce look in those vermillion irises, by the unkempt locks of ashen hair his adversary regularly pushed away from his face, by the way those long, lean limbs moved with savage grace, the way those bony shoulders lifted like a bird’s wings before taking flight every time he swung his great scythe as if it weighed nothing. Still, James had put up a good fight, before ending up pinned down to the training room’s mattress by the blunt end of Harbinger pressed into his chest.
The two breathless teenagers bantered briefly, still keenly aware of the nervous proximity between them, when James saw an opportunity. And as always, was determined to seize it. His eyes found an opening through the other teen's relaxing defenses, and he punched Qrow in the face, forcing his sparring partner back to regain his footing and continue to fight.
And Qrow had shut down.
James had asked the rest of team STRQ in panic, only had fragments of hushed responses, something about resurfacing memories from Qrow and Raven’s time with the tribe, when they were only children. Memories of blows and cuts and bruises that had faded or become scars, but the violence of which still stained their minds in vivid shades. After the match, Ironwood had found Qrow crumpled in a corner of the changing room, trembling, hyperventilating, eyes downcast, long raven eyelashes cluttered with tears that refused to fall. James had tried to reach out a hand at the leaner teen, carefully as if approaching a wounded wild bird, to caress the side of his arm, to offer an apology, support, ears to listen and a shoulder to lean onto.
Qrow’s defense mechanism, as a reflexive reaction to being touched, had been outright biting James’s hand.
James doesn’t really remember how it happened, when he touched Qrow at Beacon. Or maybe it was Qrow who touched him, he wasn’t sure. It all happened so fast. One day, the scythe-wielder had just stumbled into town, reeking of alcohol when he leant in dangerously close to the General’s face to complain about the amount of military airships in town, straight after his altercation with Specialist Schnee. And then the next week… Beacon had fallen, Salem had attacked, Ozpin was dead. And Qrow was there, uninjured but devastated, one of his nieces had lost an arm, the other was in a coma.
And yet, Qrow was still there, still standing, somehow having found the strength to save James’s life, while the General had no idea where the shapeshifter could even all that relentless energy. Until, suddenly, he couldn’t any more. Suddenly, Qrow burst into tears, and James was there, James was a shoulder to cry onto. He didn’t know what to do, when the legendary Huntsman buried his face into the tattered remains of his white uniform. He didn’t know what to say, when simultaneously his arms wrapped around the frail figure, to protect him, to comfort him. Ozpin had been even closer to Qrow than to Ironwood, Ozpin meant the world Qrow, and suddenly, his world had vanished into the void, into the abyssal immensity of intergalactic space.
All James could do was rub his way down Qrow’s shoulders, quaking and cold, too cold in the windy nighttime air. All he could do was brushing Qrow’s hair out of his eyes, brushing back those bangs he usually didn’t want in his field of vision when he wasn’t too broken to care. All he could do was let his arm slide down until the small of the shifter’s waist, patting the small of his back, drawing him into a tight embrace to tell him he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to be alone, that he’d never be alone for James would never allow it.
All he could do was take Qrow back to his bed so he could rest, so they could all finally rest for the next day would be a long day. Qrow had been too tired to even try to push James back when the taller man touched him, far too tired to even bite this time around.
It took a long, too long time before James and Qrow got to meet again, to touch again. The scythe-wielder and his flock of kids just landed at the General’s doorstep somehow, like birds stranded after a storm. That time, they had fallen into each other’s arms, as if pulled by the strings of gravity. Or rather, James had fallen, and realising what made him fall, whom he was falling for, had chosen to embrace the freefall. Qrow, on the other hand, had frozen for a few seconds at the touch, and James’s heart missed a beat, and those instants stretched into eternities…
Should he not have hugged Qrow? Had he invaded the smaller man’s personal space with too little warning? Had he triggered bad memories to resurface again, after all that time? Had the unfortunate shapeshifter racked up another collection of bad memories on the long journey that took him to Atlas with a relic and a gaggle of children? James’s stomach was sinking, his mind was racing, time was freezing… Until Qrow hugged back. Slowly, awkwardly, giving the General a fond clap on the back. That wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Infinitely better, in James’s mind.
It takes a few more steps, a few more baby steps for Qrow to grow more comfortable with being touched. It’s a learning curve - not only for the shapeshifter, but for Ironwood too. Qrow’s presence in Atlas is a blessing in disguise, finally providing James with someone to comfort in his loneliness, but also someone to confront him about his decisions in ways his subordinates in the military could never dare to. Qrow always speaks his mind, and James just has to bite back his pride and learn to listen.
The learning curve isn’t straightforward, far from it. On days where James’s stress spikes and seeps out of each pore of his skin, on days where Qrow’s withdrawal symptoms are especially pronounced, they do less touching and more shouting at each other from opposite sides of the General’s office or his private quarters. On those days, James eventually learns the hard way that he shouldn’t touch Qrow, and instead retreated to his desk where important matters of state awaited him.
But days that started roughly aren’t lost, because even beaten down James would get back to his feet and keep fighting, because there is this relentless energy in Qrow that always keeps him going and James still doesn’t know where it comes from, though he admires and adores it. In the evening, Ironwood will try to cook something simple for Qrow, maybe some form of egg or another. James is a terrible cook, he’ll eat the whole thing before being able to tell if it was salty enough - so he feeds Qrow a small bite at the tip of a fork so the shapeshifter can better judge, being the more picky eater of them two.
At some point, James points out a little bit of omelette stuck at the corner of the other man’s lips, and moves his flesh hand forward to wipe it with his thumb. Time stops, James forgets how to breathe. But Qrow doesn’t flinch. He looks away bashfully, nervously fidgeting with the seam of his pockets - but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans into the touch, finally letting himself tumble into the gravity that binds the two of them.
And then, their lips touch, just so.
James has fought countless wars and won them, punched giant monsters in the face, and nightmares of the past still plague him at night, and anxiety often keeps him awake. Then, he’ll indulge into the softest of touches, running a single finger down the side of Qrow’s slumbering body through the thin fabric of the bed sheet covering them both, mapping each line, each curve until the angle of his hip bone, warm and rounded like a bird’s nest. James has been beaten down throughout many a war more times than he can count, but nothing defeats the defenses around his heart more effectively than the floaty, giddy feeling in his stomach when he hears the shapeshifter giggle at the tickling touch.
It’s a raspy, sleepy, broken, imperfect laugh, but it’s all that James needs, it means a million victories and much more. So much more.