Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“When I grow up, I want to travel the world, visit other Kingdoms and the rest of Remnant outside of the Kingdoms!” Summer declares, stars lighting up in her silver eyes already amidst the slow sunset. “And I want to help people and bring joy wherever I go.”

“I want to be a professor,” Tai announces. “I want to have lots of vacations and young kids running after me begging me to tell them more about my exploits as a Huntsman back in the day with my legendary team STRQ - ow! Raven, what was that for?”

The blonde turns to his teammate who just elbowed him in the ribs, barely washing the grin off his face. The whole team sits on the rooftop in the aftermath of initiation, watching the sunset dappling the desaturated towers of Beacon Academy with warm gold and soft vermillion. 

“Sit still, Rae, or your braids will be all wonky,” Summer commands, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she attempts to tame the mess of feathery hair atop the other female’s head into orderly plaits.

She may have more luck braiding Tai’s hair, he seems way more docile. Or even Qrow’s, which looks so soft, so fluffy in the wind. 

“More like you want to have young Huntresses swooning at your feet, Tai,” Raven snorts. 

“Oh yeah? And what about you, Rae? Any better ideas? What profession do you want to do when you grow up?”

“I’m already grown up.”

She crosses her arms across her chest, just as Summer holds up a hair tie between her teeth to attach at the end of a long, messy black braid. 

“What about you, Qrow?” the team leader prompts once she’s extracted the hair tie from between her lips. “What do you want to be later?”

“I’m also grown up,” he groans, looking down at his feet and how they dangle over the ledge, weightless above the vastness of the landscape below. 

“Nope, you’re baby,” his sister decretes. 

“Ten minutes, Rae! I was born ten minutes after you!”

“That’s enough to make you the babiest in the team,” Tai chimes in, concurring with the female twin. 

“I hate you all.”

“But have you picked a profession for later, after we graduate?” Summer continues, ignoring her teammates’ bickering. “You can tell us everything, you know? If you say baking cookies to make young children happy, we won’t judge.”

“Yeah, if you say harem manager, we won’t judge either,” Tai offers with a vigorous tap on his shoulder that’s meant to be friendly. 

“Or if you want to braid hair for a living,” Raven drawls. “Nope, won’t judge.”

If he says killing Huntsmen, would they judge? Would they even believe him? He and Raven could always push the two other kids off the ledge, if their secret were compromised. That would make two less Huntsmen. Summer and Tai are strong, but they’re no superior to the twins, and with the element of surprise on their side, the siblings could easily gain the upper hand…

But is killing Huntsmen even a profession? Killing Huntsmen, killing the weak so only the strong could survive. Like killing prey, hunting to keep one’s stomach full until the next day, to stay alive through the night. Like setting camp, starting a fire, fishing, cooking, wrapping up camp, like breathing, like being. All base instinct, all things people in the tribe should be able to do to survive, not professions that would distinguish one tribeman from the next. 

But Qrow looks at Tai and Summer, and they’ve both chosen the path of Huntsmen, but they have different dreams. Different dreams, yet the stars that twinkle in their eyes at the mention of their chosen professions shine just the same, rivalling the brightest of sunsets, blazing through the darkest of nights. There can be this passion about professions - and for the first time, Qrow can sense it. 

Except he still has no idea what to say, what to think. So many paths, so many possibilities. Hopefully he wouldn’t get lost, with his luck.

“You know what, Sum?” he finally capitulates. “Making cookies does sound kinda lovely.”

“Great!” the team captain calls out, clapping her hands and letting Raven’s plaits slap down onto her back, eliciting an annoyed grumble from the red-clad girl. “Then let’s go do some baking.”

Chapter Text

The first step is always the hardest. The first step to a long journey. The first step, a leap of faith, a leap into the void. 

Literally. 

The verdant orbs atop Beacon tower stare down at him menacingly, judgingly just over his shoulder. At first, Qrow found them reassuring, benevolent. The green was unlike anything he’d seen before. Back with the tribe, the earth was red, everything was red, his world was red. The sand stained everything red, his hands, his clothes, his hair, it even got into his bedsheets, his pillows, his dreams at night. His eyes are red, his sister’s eyes are red, their grandpa’s eyes are red. The bruises he left on their gangly, pale limbs were yellow, blue, but more often than not, red. The leaves autumn winds swept into the campment were crimson, brittle underfoot, their crackling sounds announcing when Grimm treaded through the forest to come close to the tents. And when the creatures of darkness stared from the woods at night, their eyes were burning red too. 

Qrow had thought the green was different. Hopeful. 

Now, he can only hope this time will be the right time. Because if he chickens out instead of crow-ing out, or turning into the wrong kind of bird as Tai likes to joke, he’d just have to run back down all the stairs to the bottom of Beacon tower, his bony cheeks burning with exertion and embarrassment. Because of course, just his luck, the lift to the top floor of the tower had stopped working, all thanks to someone’s Semblance. 

He wishes the orbs could stop watching him, peering down the nape of his neck as his feet near the void, near the dozens of storeys of void below, near the dark, quiet air of midnight. It feels like Ozpin’s watching him, sending shivers down his spine. 

The wizard gave the twins their powers a week ago now, but they can’t seem to get it right, not unless there’s a reason. Back in the tribe, the weak died, and the strong survived. Surviving was always enough of a reason. Surviving to see the next sunrise was everything. When Raven accidentally managed to shift for the first time, it was when the rest of her team ganged up against her during sparring, and Qrow’s misfortune somehow made it so that their team leader mistakenly loaded devastatingly more powerful rounds than those meant for training into her weapons. His sibling had turned into a bird as a flight reflex, in order to escape, to save her life, to survive. 

There’s always a reason to survive. 

Because surviving is the reason. 

Surviving, because those who didn’t would have wanted him to survive, to honour their memory. 

Surviving, because who knows what misfortune and fortune will bring on the coming morning, maybe different shades of red, different shades of green, different colours altogether. 

Qrow doesn’t do as well when he’s being watched. But he can close his eyes, and pretend the green lighting is just a dream, a calming dream, a hopeful dream. He can close his eyes, and wonder what colour his parents’ eyes were. Red, probably, too. They’d have been proud, probably, too, if he survived. If he jumped, and survived to tell the tale. 

They’d have been proud, he thinks as his feet leave the ledge. As up turns down, and down turns up. The green lights are at his feet, streaking the sky at his feet. The world is at his feet, and he falls, and then, he soars. 

Invisible. Nothing but a shadow among shadows in the night. Nothing but a shadow, a thought, a breeze, and a burst of black feathers.

Chapter Text

“Really?” Qrow shrugs, inspecting his fist and his fingernails.

“Yeah, like that,” Tai confirms, bumping his fists together with a sound crack. “And then you bring it back, straight back without going to the side, like that.”

The brawler guides Qrow’s fist back away from the punching bag, back to that position where his arm is ready but not outstretched. His hand’s far enough from his face to keep any enemies at bay while still bent enough to be able to unwind like a coiled up string and deliver a swift, powerful punch. He’s very aware of the elastic tension pent up in that arm of his, of the blonde’s warm fingertips ghosting against his wrist, guiding him, encouraging him.

“But I can’t do anything straight, Tai,” the former tribeman wails, rearranging his unkempt hair with his free hand. “Have you seen me? Have you seen my spine? That bloody bitch won’t ever unbend.”

“That so? Well, you don’t need it to be entirely straight to be able to defend yourself using your fists in the field,” the blonde supplies, “should you ever lose your weapon.”

“Harbie is my sweet little baby! I would never lose her...”

“But you wouldn’t be defenseless if you did! You’re doing well! Yeah, just like that. Don’t overshoot when you bring your arm back, or you’ll lose energy and time before you can punch again. Stop right there. Yup, that’s right.”

Qrow punches the bag, again, again, and again. Release the energy, recoil his arm, strike again. He falls into a rhythm eventually. Unwinding, rewinding. Inhale, exhale. A respiration. A beating heart. Soon, it’ll be second nature. As second nature as surviving. Ultramarine eyes watch intently, a smirk gracing a tanned face as the blonde boy crosses his arms, pacing around on the training mat…

“What?” Qrow finally pauses, steadying the punching bag with one hand. “Why are you staring like that? Am I that ridiculous?”

“Nah, you’re making good progress. But you still don’t pack as much of a pun as I do.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. I’ll never get Tai red of your puns.”

The brawler’s fist moves in to punch Qrow in the shoulder in retribution, but he catches the attack reflexively, because survival is second nature. Not getting punched in the face is second nature. They remained locked like that for a fraction of a second, tension meeting tension, tension clashing with tension, until the training mat slips under the pressure of Tai’s feet, sending both of them tumbling into an undignified heap of limbs. 

Qrow tries to press a palm to the floor, in an attempt to help himself up under the heavy weight of his teammate crushing him. Instead, his hand finds Tai’s bicep, just his luck. How the blonde’s arm even ended up there, he can’t tell, their limbs are just really, really entangled. Just his luck. 

“Well, it’s no wonder you pack more of a punch,” the leaner boy remarks. “With those...” his fingers palp the taut muscle, before trailing down the curve of a vein toward Tai’s forearm, “nice big gauntlets of yours.”

“Oh. Then I might have something to help you,” the brawler smirks, springing back to his feet. “I believe I might be able to lend you a hand .”

Qrow represses a chuckle as he seizes his teammate’s offered hand to pull himself back to his feet. But once they’re face to face, slightly flushed from the exertion, Tai doesn’t let go of his hand, instead fumbling with the contents of the many pockets of his cargo pants - finding keys, postcards, a rotting pear, a teddy bear - until he extracts some metal rings and slides them onto his teammate’s fingers. 

“There you go, birdie. Those punches should deal a ton more damage now.”

The steel feels nice, cool, calming against Qrow’s heated skin. 

“Thanks, Tai,” he utters, struggling to swallow for some unknown reason. “For the rings, and for proposing to train me.”

It never even once occurred to him, until several years later, that those rings were the reason waitresses always turned away from the shapeshifter eventually - they thought he was spoken for. They were wrong, just his luck. Because that had nothing to do with a proposal. Nope, nothing at all.

Chapter Text

“There’s always a pattern. Bad things always come in three,” Amber declares, setting down her mug onto the inn’s wooden table. “And we’re at two.”

“Really?” Qrow drawls. “Me and… is that my doppelganger, or have I had too much to drink?”

The world doubles, triples before his eyes, and his head is throbbing with slight pulsating pain. But if he takes another shot, the pain will go away eventually. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.

“Listen, Qrow. The Goliath destroying the bridge in Oniyuri is one. The dead Huntsman we found south of the waterfall is two.”

He counts on the fingers of his ringed hands as she speaks, and then pulls up another finger pointing to himself. 

“That’s four, kiddo. Now who’s the one who can’t count?”

“I don’t understand why you have so little faith in yourself when Ozpin considers you as the best of the best,” she sighs, taking another sip of her tea. “You’re a very seasoned Huntsman, you should be prouder of your accomplishments.”

“Seasoned, huh? Well, let me tell you my only seasoning right now is salty. Don’t tell me what I should do, kid. And don’t give me any more of those stupid superstitions. If I’m as seasoned as you say, then why would I believe silly folk superstitions like that?”

A sad flame flickers in her rose gold eyes as she stares down at her hand, at her reflection in her teacup, at the mangled moon in the background through the window. Great, he shouldn’t have been that harsh with her, and now she’s offended. She’s just a kid raised outside of the kingdoms after all. She’s never had a proper education after all, or been to a Huntsman academy, she only had a crash course on self-defense by Ozpin after discovering her Maiden powers.

“Qrow, I’m worried.”

“There’s nothing more we can do about the bridge. Or about the Huntsman at the waterfall. He’s dead. Done for. Gone forever.”

“But what if it happens again and I...”

“You what? Can’t save everyone? Sorry to break it to you, but welcome to the real world, Amber. People die and shit. You’ll never be able to rescue everyone, you’re not some kind of perfect superhero.”

“But I’m -”

“Shhh.”

He catches her wrist to pull her closer to him across the table and readjusts her hood over her face, worried other patrons in the inn may see her face or hear her words. A waitress shoots him a dark glare at that, wordlessly telling him to let go of the young lady. He could ignore the warning and punch the waitress, if he wanted. But he’s just tired, he doesn’t want anyone else to notice them, especially after the stupid little altercation he caused by grabbing her. He just needs another drink. He wants to feel the burn down his throat again.

She’s a superhero. She was endowed with great powers. And yet, she can’t save everyone. The world is unfair. Life is unfair. Especially when he’s here.

“Are you coming with me tomorrow? I heard the next village north from here is facing a drought.” she asks.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oz said you must!”

He should stay away from her, and then the odds might move more in her favour.

“I can’t.”

Not if he wants her to live. Not if he wants her to succeed, go be a superhero, save the day, save everyone, like she could, like she should, like he never could. 

“But what if I need you?”

“I’ll be watching from afar. I’ll be here when you need me, but only when you need me.”

“Promise?”

He takes another drink, then another, then another, until he’s okay with lying to her. 

“Promise.”

He closes his eyes, and he stops seeing double, but the back of his eyelids is red in the candlelight. Red like her blood, red like roses. He still remembers how the petals scattered that night. He still remembers despite how much he wants to forget. It’s almost winter now, but the summer solstice still feels like yesterday.

“Hey, Qrow?”

She tries to pour herself some more tea, only to find the pot empty.

“Huh?”

“What can we do, then? To break the pattern?”

To break the rule of three. To break the curse. Break the misfortune that has plagued him all his life… If he knew, he wouldn’t be at this point, would he? 

He takes another gulp of whiskey. He wishes he’d forget, but he can’t. He still remembers what she said, in his fantasy, perfect superhero version of her, standing atop the hill with the breeze buffeting her white cape.

“Keep moving forward, she’d have said. It’s hard, and it’ll always be hard, but that’s what all those you couldn’t save would’ve wanted, and that’s the least you can do for them now. Keep moving forward.” 

If he downs this drink (and then the next one, and then the next one), maybe he’ll numb the pain enough to break free of the pattern and keep moving forward.

Chapter Text

The world turns purple, and he’s never seen so much purple in his life.
Purple and red, but the red he’s used to by now. He grew up in a land where the earth was red, the sky was red, where one had to kill to survive, to bleed to survive, and that was red.
But now, there’s purple. Purple spreading through his body at an alarming rate from the stinging, throbbing side of his gut. Purple pouring down each of his veins, purple poisoning his body, his mind, his soul. Purple burning down each of his arteries, scalding down every of his nerve ends. He’s numb, he has next to no idea what’s going on, other than they’re carrying him on a stretcher, and he failed to protect them, as always, he failed.
The purple swirls at the edge of his consciousness, like ink drops turbulently intermingling with clear water. He’s not sure what’s real and what’s not, now. The hallucinations won’t stop, just won’t stop… Why is she here? Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? Long dead, long gone, gone forever? But now she’s standing here before him, back to haunt him, back to taunt him because he failed.
Except her cape is red now.
Red like roses.
Red like blood.
Like her blood that was spilled, like the life flowing out of her, too soon, too young. All that because he failed.
He failed to save her. He failed to save everyone. It’s all his fault.
The boy with blonde hair tries to tell him something, but he can’t hear because the damn hallucinations won’t shut up. He tries to discern straw-shaded strands, concerned blue eyes, he tries to remember a name.
He can’t have forgotten, he can’t possibly have forgotten.
The rings on his fingers almost don’t feel cold anymore, with how much he’s burning up. But in a last-ditch effort, he tries to focus on them, on the cool, sleek metal anchoring him to reality like a lifeline. On the memories, whichever of them were real, on a name.
He reaches out a hand.
“Tai...”
He wants to apologise, to say he wished he’d stayed. For the girls, for their lonely father...
But even that hurts too much. It hurts too much and nothing is real yet it still hurts and the world is painful. Painful, and purple.

Chapter Text

The last drop of whiskey flows down his tongue, down his throat, caressing his vocal chords, tracing a searing path through his body until it trickles into his stomach. He wishes it would burn more. Burn harder. Burn longer. 

He shakes the bottle, but nothing flows anymore. Then why is his blood still flowing? Why is his heart still beating? Why is the air still flowing in and out of his lungs? It doesn’t make sense, and it’s unfair. 

Life is unfair.

Life is unfair, and he’s so tired. This wretched farm is so cold, and those dead bodies they found foretell nothing good. He wishes he could be as cold as them, as blissful in painless sleep… but no. The blood is still flowing through his body, and he can’t tell why.

They say glass is a liquid. That stained glass windows, left a long enough time, would progressively flow down under their weight until the bottom was thicker than the top. It doesn’t feel like it though. When he drops the empty glass bottle in his hand, it breaks. 

He wishes he could break, too. Be hard, but brittle. It would hurt, but he deserves the pain after feeling. He wishes he was made of glass. But he’s made of blood, and blood flows. And he doesn’t break, he bends. 

He bends, and that hurts. Everytime the tempest bends and twists him, it hurts. It hurts so damn much.

As the hazy corner of his vision, he sees red. Is it blood? Is he injured? At least then the hurt of his body would match the hurt in his mind. 

But this isn’t the right red. This isn’t red like blood, red like the Tribe, red like his sister. 

This is red like roses, red like rubies, and then he remembers why his blood still flows. Why the earth still turns, why he can’t break, why he must bend and take the damage so his red rose, his cherished red rose doesn’t break, so she never has to break.

He can do it. He can do it for her. 

That’s the least he could do for Summer. 

Shattering is easy. Shattering suddenly, like softly she scattered. Bending, flowing, living is hard. 

But he can do it. He can follow his niece and the rest of them everywhere, to the end of the world, to the end of the sky if need be. He can just go with the flow.

Chapter Text

“And over there is the Atlas observatory,” Ironwood points. “It’s the darkest place in all of Solitas, away from all the light pollution so that the stars can be studied. I donate to them regularly. They have some of the best telescopes in all of Remnant.”

The crow perched on his hand only emits a soft caw in response. But it’s enough. It’s more than he can hope for, standing in his office in the middle of the night and staring out the panoramic glass window. Qrow’s going through a rough patch, he knows. Withdrawal’s painful. Withdrawal’s a bitch. James should know a thing or two about it, after how impossibly hard it was to get off painkillers after the whole ordeal that happened to the right side of him. 

“Councilwoman Camilla suggested switching to a new generation light source for Atlas, based on hard light Dust technology. It’s less light pollution, don’t you think? Better for bird’s eyes at night should they fly through Atlas, right?”

The avian nods, nuzzling softly into the General’s hand. James wonders if he prefers to stay in his bird form because the stimuli are more bearable that way, because bright lights and loud voices are ever so slightly less unbearable under that shape. If so, then he really can’t blame Qrow for spending his nights in his bird form, flying around because he’s too restless to sleep, with how sharp and defined everything suddenly feels with his newfound sobriety. 

Outside the window, city lights dimly glitter like diamonds along a geometric lattice, while the skyline cuts a proud, futuristic shadow over the star-sprinkled sky.

“Still, we can’t see that many stars from up here. But that’s the morning star up there, the brightest one. It’s actually a planet, which is why it doesn’t move like the real stars, and why it’s so close and we can see it so clearly. Its colour depends more on the components of its atmosphere. For stars, however… stars moving away from us look red. Those moving toward us appear blue. It can take billions of years for the light to reach us, from the most distant stars. So by the time we see them, those stars may already be long dead.”

Sometimes the memory of those who are gone comes back to haunt us, to stir our nightmares and keep us awake at night. But sometimes, their legacy still lights the way through the darkness, through the darkest of times. And those who live must keep moving on, carrying the burden of the memories of those who couldn’t make it with nothing but the weak warmth and pallid glimmer of distant stars to guide them. 

Qrow emits a soft whimper, prompting the Atlesian to run soothing fingers through the dark, luscious feathers. 

“Sorry, Qrow, I didn’t mean to sound so depressing. I'm no good at astronomy crash courses, I should get back to work now.”

But before he can even sit back in his chair, a mess of fluttering feathers and indignant caws snatches away his Scroll, tightly grasped between sharp talons like it’s the prettiest, shiniest thing in town. The General tries to reach for it, but the bird flies around too fast, black feathers against the black of night amidst the darkness of his office. 

“Okay, you’re right. I work too much. I should get some rest. We should all get some rest. I’ll tell Clover that we should give the kids the night off too, on election day.”

The corvid calms a little at that, intelligent red eyes staring at the General with curious interest. 

“Now, do you want to go up on the roof to see the northern lights?”

Ironwood doesn’t even need to ask twice. The crow immediately takes flight, soaring out of the chair and leading the way.

Chapter Text

“Can you lift it a little higher? No… wait… a little lower? More to the left? Now that’s too much.”

“Are you done already? Harbinger’s heavy, I’ll have you know,” Qrow groans before the white screen in the photographer’s vague direction. 

The reflectors are blinding him, and it’s a conscious effort not to squint. The lights bouncing off Harbinger’s blade, extended in full scythe mode, are all kinds of wrong, much to the official Atlas military photographer’s consternation. The kid behind the camera, a young, burnette bear Faunus with rounded cheeks and clammy palms she wipes against the fabric of her pants between two shots, is doing her best, but in this case it’s certainly not enough.

“C’mon, Qrow,” Clover intervenes, sitting next to the photographer’s chair, “you decapitate Megoliaths with that blade as if it weighed nothing, don’t tell me that holding it up for a split second for a photo is too painful?”

“Holding it perfectly still to shoot pictures is very different from swinging it around, where I can just use its own momentum to my advantage. Besides, I’m hungry.”

“Let’s just finish the photoshoot, and then I’ll treat you to lunch. We can go to the Mistrali noodle food truck that we -”

“Not helping, lucky charms. I’m sure drooling from hunger isn’t something anyone wants to see on promo photos to join Atlas Academy.”

“N-no, sir,” the photographer stammers, leaving Clover to rub his chin in confusion. 

Qrow looks like a god on the battlefield, dangerous, dynamic, determined, deadly, why does he seem so awkward in a photoshoot? Why has it been long minutes of him trying to pose for pictures, without getting anything near convincing enough to use for that new series of promotion posters James wanted to put out in Atlas and Mantle, advertising for the Atlesian military?

Ironwood's idea, for a change, consisted in using the fresh faces of the Huntresses and Huntsmen who’d just arrived in Atlas and joined forces with the Ace Ops in the war effort against the Grimm. James got professional photographers to shoot Qrow and the kids, tasking Clover to make sure the photo shoots went smoothly. And for the most part, they did, the newly minted Huntsmen acting more mature than the Ace Op captain would have expected. Until they got to Qrow’s photos, and well...

“Can you… do something with your jaw?” the photographer suggests nervously, well aware of the legendary status of the Huntsman she’s working with. “No, not gape like a dead fish. Just look less tense and less like you’ll murder anyone who dares come your way. It’s for a promotional poster, not a death threat poster. Maybe you’ll look less offensive if you sling Harbinger onto your shoulder instead of - hey!!! Stop reflecting the lights into my camera lens with that big blade!”

“Sorry,” the scythe-wielder sighs, dejectedly looking down at his feet as he sets down the heavy blade tip onto the floor. “I didn’t mean to...”

“Yeah, no, it looks like that camera’s fried. I’ll just use my spare for - stop that! The carpet is expensive, don't stab that with your weapon!”

“Is everything going alright?” a new voice asks as heavy footsteps echo from the door. 

“General Ironwood, sir,” the photographer mumbles while Clover executes a perfect salute. 

“Qrow? Are you okay?” James frowns, dark brows furrowed under the silvery metal band on his forehead. 

“I ruined her fancy flashy camera thingy with my bad luck...”

“I will pay for replacements and upgrades,” Ironwood declares, causing the photographer to finally let out the breath she was holding. “Clover, you worked efficiently and well, but it might be time for me to take over.”

“With all due respect, sir...” the Operative starts, unsure and concerned about what reprimands his superior could throw his way. 

As the photographer replaces her camera with her spare, James leans down to whisper something into her ear, leaving Clover and Qrow to exchange a puzzled look.

“Oh, so that’s how to shoot Qrow Branwen,” the photographer nods somewhat hesitantly.

And to demonstrate, James takes a step back and shoots Qrow Branwen. 

Point blank, with Due Process.

The blade of Harbinger traces out a perfect circle as Qrow twirls one-handed with effortless grace, crossing his lengthy legs to step aside, a mischievous glint dancing in his crimson eyes. For a fraction of a second, the sound of metal clashing against metal resonates as searing sparks fly - before Ironwood’s bullet finds itself cleanly cleaved into two halves, both tumbling quietly at the shapeshifter’s feet.

By the time they hit the ground, three things already happened.

One, the camera's fired off in a swift succession of flashes in the photographer's knowing hands.

Two, James allowed a knowing smirk into his usually schooled expression, blue eyes darting back and forth between the deadly scythe-wielder's stunt and the gawking, slightly drooling reaction of his officer.

And three, Clover's heart already exploded into a million hot pink confetti.

“Good try, Jimmy,” the scythe-wielder drawls, “but you should know by now you need to try a lot harder to kill me.”

A confident smirk never leaving the corner of his lips, Qrow bends down to pick up the sliced round, his bangs falling into his eyes as he leans forward while his pants hug his behind perfectly, leaving the Ace Op leader immensely grateful and appreciative of the outfit choices James made for Qrow. While the long, ivory-pale fingers of the scythe-wielder’s free hand brushes back his feathery black strands, vermillion eyes stare at the bullet’s inside with intense curiosity while the ex-teacher deduces:

“Latest generation hard light Dust round, huh? Well, isn't that adorable.”

A new wave of camera flashes on the background, drawing Clover’s attention back to the situation at hand. The General and the photographer are already sorting through the pictures, and Clover can tell the difference - or rather, the metamorphosis. Stunted, insecure smiles turned into confident, powerful poses. The scythe spin, the smirk, the bullet examination - the people of Mantle and Atlas are sure to drool all over these posters when they’re posted around town. If the people’s tastes were any little bit like Clover’s, anyway. 

About that, James is probably also to thank for the epiphany dawning in the Ace Op's mind right now, leaving him wide-eyed and gaping - he'd always admired Qrow's talents and looks during fights, but who knew the shapeshifter could be so… photogenic even off the battlefield? Just the perfect balance between incorrigible sass, shy adorableness, and supermodel levels of sex appeal? How can someone so off balance be so perfectly balanced and yet so cute and sexy when he trips on his feet... Clover's galaxy brain busts apart at the mere thought. Ironwood’s shooting method certainly proved efficient - despite the puzzled look everyone else in the room gratifies him with. 

“What?” James protests. “I didn’t even aim at Qrow. It’d have flown straight past his left ear even if he hadn’t moved.”

“Still, that'd have left a nice big bullet hole through the background screen,” the photographer points out, still lamenting the ruined camera. “Enough of my equipment was damaged today.”

“I can make up for that,” the General repeats. “But first, let’s all go out for noodles. I’ll pay.”

Chapter Text

Ruby likes her coffee with cream and five sugars. Weiss likes cream, but she’s already sweet enough. No sugar for the ice princess. Blake doesn’t take coffee, but she does enjoy milk in her tea. Yang likes coffee like her father does. Scalding hot, black as her soul. 

Jaune likes hot coffee too, but with lots of milk. Same goes for Marrow, even though he doesn’t say no to two sugars. Maria likes four sugars, no cream. Clover…

“I like everything!” the Ace Op leader assures with a suave smile, delivering a friendly clap on Qrow’s shoulder. 

A friendly clap that’s enough to make Qrow’s heart melt into a puddle of hot coffee with sugar and cream, apparently. Because that’s somehow anatomically possible, apparently. 

Dammit, withdrawal’s making everything too emotional and too loud and too bright inside his head, and he keeps getting distracted...

C’mon, Qrow. Focus. Ruby likes her coffee with cream and five sugars. Weiss likes cream…

“Qrow? Are you alright?”

Focus. On the hot, almost burning beverage in his hand, scalding his skin through the thin cardboard cup. On the smell of coffee wafting to his nostrils, filling the rec room. 

“Just peachy, lucky charm. And you? You seem… surprised.”

Qrow doesn’t understand how someone can like everything. Especially someone with such vibrant teal eyes and a dazzling smile...

“I’m just not used to people asking me what I prefer. I’m usually the team dad, you know? Making sure the newest recruits get on with everyone, making sure everyone in the Ace Ops is satisfied and improving as Huntresses and Huntsman, making sure everyone gets enough rest… Even the General, though that’s pretty tough...”

Oh, so Mr Perfect is running himself ragged caring for everyone, his subordinates and superiors included, and yet still putting in effort to look prim and proper and pretty and perfect? Qrow finds that… even more perfect from his part.

“No one’s ever offered to bring you coffee?”

“Not as of late, but I still do appreciate the offer, Qrow. I really, really appreciate it. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a team dad.”

“And it’s been a while since I got used to being a team dad,” the shapeshifter shrugs, staring down at the cups in his hands rather than at the smiling man with pretty bare arms before him. “It’s nice to get to hang around with adults and talk about adult things, finally.”

Adult things, like how to be team dad and care for younger, less experienced Huntresses and Huntsmen. Not adult things in the sense of… you know. But of course Qrow’s mind had made that slip before he noticed it, and Clover must think he’s horny as hell (which he is) and miserably touch-starved (which he is). Not a great start, Branwen. 

Qrow was barely starting to make a friend, and now he must be scaring him off by coming on too strong already. Really not a great start. 

Especially since the Ace Op captain seems to be catching on rather fast.

“Oh, so you have a daddy kink too? I thought the General was the only one.”

Qrow promptly chokes on his coffee. And spills the content of two steaming cups onto a pristine white uniform and pretty bare arms. 

“Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Language, birdie,” Clover admonishes kindly despite the burn, luckily finding a clean napkin to tidy his vest. 

“Uh. Let me help?” Qrow picks up a napkin of his own, just to figure out that this one’s dirty and was the last one in the pile - just his luck. 

Ever the quick thinker, Qrow dips his hand in cold water from the sink and rubs it over sculptural biceps, his fingers rummaging down toned forearms onto surprisingly soft, delicate hands.

“Looks like I’ve got some stuck on my nail,” the Ace Op remarks, somewhat shakily. 

And oh boy, does that entice the shapeshifter even more, when Mr Perfect’s perfect mask starts to slip ever so slightly. Before his brain can think of why that’s a bad idea, he picks up Clover’s hand and brings it to his mouth. Up close, he can’t quite see which nail was stained, so he sucks carefully on each long finger, watching the Specialist delectably blush and unravel at every swipe of a hot tongue past his calloused fingertips. 

“Uh… lucky me...” the Atlesian leader manages to utter while melting into a puddle of coffee with five sugars and ungodly amounts of cream. 

Lucky him, indeed, for around the exact same moment, Nora and Yang enter the rec room alongside Elm and Vine, the two kids recounting some tale about some or other shenanigans. 

“And then, Uncle Qrow said, I licked it, it’s mine!” the blonde exclaims, eliciting a short salve of heartfelt chuckles.

Qrow stops dead in his tracks, immediately pausing his meticulous process of licking Clover’s pinkie. The Ace Op leader stares down at his cleaned hand for a second. 

“Thank you, Qrow. I hope the coffee tasted good at least. Cream with five sugars, right?”

Swallowing audibly, the shapeshifter has to change his mind about coffee with cream and five sugars. It’s good. It’s unexpectedly good. 

“Not too bad, although too sweet,” Qrow pouts, looking pointedly away from the giggling and winking kids. “Why? Do you like that much sugar in your coffee?”

“I like my coffee like I like my women.”

“... Oh. How so? Steaming hot?”

A low chuckle past Clover’s lips, a mischievous glint in his aqua eyes.

“I prefer tea.”

At that, Qrow’s mind blanks out for long seconds, as his subconscious focuses on a reassuring mantra... 

Ruby likes her coffee with cream and five sugars. Weiss likes cream, but she’s already sweet enough. No sugar for the ice princess. Blake doesn’t take coffee, but she does enjoy milk in her tea. Yang likes coffee like her father does. Scalding hot, black as her soul. Clover likes tea. 

Qrow should keep that in mind, and ask Clover if he wants to go out and grab a tea together sometime. 

Chapter Text

“I… I can’t...” Oscar mumbles, icy winds whipping his face as he struggles to even breathe, to even speak.

His emerald force field flickers off and back on as more flocks of Manticores descend from the skies, their fiery breaths barely blocked by the magical shield. 

“Can’t hold it much longer?” Qrow replies, dancing beneath a low-swooping Grimm’s paws to turn Harbinger into scythe form and clip off one of the monster’s wings. 

Veering off its trajectory, the injured Manticore collides into one of its comrades, knocking it straight onto the shield where it dissolves into a myriad of particles. As the one-winged monster growls in pain, the scythe-wielder is already there to intercept it, angling his blade into its war scythe mode and tossing it straight between the deadly jaws and rows of razor-sharp teeth. Shifting to his bird form, he flies off to collect his weapon even as the Grimm disintegrates. 

But it’s not enough. They’re still too many, and the force field needs to last. 

They’re setting up an antenna in Mantle, supposed to connect the city to the Amity communications tower once that’s launched, on the site for the previous Atlesian CTC. Oscar’s force field is just supposed to last long enough while workers are setting out the hard light defenses for the antenna. Just long enough - and even so, what he can do is not enough.

Qrow never supported the idea of the farmboy, only freshly enrolled into Huntsman training, involved in such a perilous task. But Oscar volunteered himself, probably out of guilt of feeling so useless while incapable of making Ozpin return while his friends were off performing cool heroics in their missions with the Ace Ops. Oscar volunteered - and Ironwood protested initially, but eventually accepted in hope that the effort would help jostle Ozpin back into existence in the kid’s brain. 

That was the catch, though. With Ozpin’s soul locked away in some dark, mopey corner of Oscar’s mind, the boy can only access a small fraction of the magic left in him. Qrow gave him a quick crash course of how to use it, aiding himself with the Long Memory, but that’s not enough. 

They don’t have enough power. 

They won’t be able to hold on for long enough. 

Blocking a vicious Manticore stinger diving down at Oscar with the flat of his blade, Qrow hails Clover and the kids in his earpiece. They need support. And since they also need to protect the tower, not just from the Grimm, but from the snow storm raging outside, they need a miracle. 

Maybe they do have a miracle. Just as the wizard divided his power with the Maidens, just as Ozpin gifted magical abilities to the twins, magic can be transferred from a soul to another, temporarily or permanently. Magic is ever-flowing, ever-changing, ever-shifting. Perhaps even miraculous. 

Qrow leans onto Harbinger for support. He’ll need that. And with his free hand, he reaches out for Oscar’s wrist, causing the boy to flinch. 

“Trust me, pipsqueak. I’m only trying to help out.”

Magic can be miraculous, but it’s tied to Aura. And as Qrow closes his eyes, his Aura meets Oscar’s at the point of contact between their hands - red bleeding into green. 

And green bleeds into the force field, strengthening its surface, expanding its spread. The shield grows like a tree, with Oscar and Qrow at its roots, the antenna at its trunk. A tree whose branches reach into the sky, powered by Oscar’s magic melded with the magic Ozpin gifted Qrow, whose protective canopy keeps the creatures of Grimm at bay, rebounding soundlessly, harmlessly in the distance.

Qrow’s Aura is draining. With every breath he takes, his Aura flows away like sand between his fingers, slowly, surely. With every beat his heart beats, his mind edges closer to unravelling, to shattering to pieces. His legs are crumbling under his weight, forcing him to use Harbinger as a crutch, but his hand still clings to the boy. Black spots cloud his field of vision, but his hand still clings to the boy. 

His Aura, his fate, his survival don’t matter. Remnant needs a beacon of hope, not a harbinger of misfortune. Remnant needs Oz, the tower, the antenna, Remnant needs the kids, not an aging Huntsman past his prime who holds them back like a dead weight. Because if it can protect Oscar, if it can protect the damn antenna, it’s worth it. Worth maintaining the connection that’s draining his magic, his soul, his life, if that can support the shield for one more minute, one more second, to keep the kid alive and safe before help arrives...

And in the distance, far away, too far away, eventually help arrives. After a long time, a too long time, but help arrives.

As soon as his ears perceive the faintest swoosh of airship reactors, the shapeshifter senses his consciousness slipping away, his Aura torn down to nearly non-existent shreds. He only has time to turn to Oscar, barely supporting himself with the aid of his cane, but still standing. Qrow’s lips stretch into a small smile, before his whole universe topples over into the abyss.

Chapter Text

The first thing Qrow notices is warmth. 

The warmth is soft, steady, secure - sounds echo in the distance, more or less distinct voices, but he feels safe here as he slowly returns to consciousness. He cracks an eyelid open, but the light is blinding, but it’s okay, he’s safe here. He trusts the warmth, he trusts it to keep him safe even with his eyes closed.

His head is swimming, pounding, his spine aching, in fact his whole body is aching from the end of his hair to the tip of his toenails, and he’s never felt this drained in his life. Too drained to sit up, too drained to say a word. Drained of his Aura, drained of his magic, drained of his stamina, even drained of his body heat - but at least here it’s warm. For some reason.

The warmth is safe, strong, a steady respiration gently rocking Qrow’s unmoving body. At every inhalation, the warmth presses into Qrow’s side, strong, and he can sense the contours of taut muscles under soft, flawless skin, long, he can sense deft fingers rummaging through his feathery hair…

Wait, why does the warmth have fingers, and nice skin, and hot muscles? Qrow has no idea, at least until he takes another peek and recognises the familiar shade of teal eyes staring down at him with concern.

“Qrow? Are you awake?” Clover’s voice calls out somewhat hazily.

“Wha- whatappened...” the shapeshifter slurs, because by the Brothers, even talking is hard and exhausting.

“We’re in a plane back to Atlas. You managed to secure the antenna until our arrival, but passed out soon afterwards. As soon as I landed you fainted straight into my arms. Just my luck, I guess.”

The usually polite, playful tone of the Ace Op leader’s voice carries a hint of relief, and the shifter’s tired heart flutters in his chest at that. 

“How -”

“Field medic’s not sure, she’s never seen anything like this before. She mentioned… magic exhaustion? I know that sounds ridiculous.”

Qrow emits a weak chuckle as his mind slowly pieces the fragments together. The mission, the Manticores, the shield, the green magic shield...

“Oscar? He’s safe?”

“In the same state as you were. Uninjured, stable, but still unconscious.”

“Where is he?”

Qrow jolts upright, adrenaline spiking in his body at the mention of one of his flock members being knocked out. Red eyes search frantically for a glimpse of the boy’s green coat and black hair. The shapeshifter casts a look around in the small plane, trying to extirp himself from Clover’s arms, but soon after his sudden moves the world starts spinning again, his legs are cotton, and he feels himself falling, falling…

"Hey, easy,” the Ace Op captain shouts, catching Qrow as soon as he notices his knees folding under his weight, his vermillion eyes rolling back before fluttering shut again.

Clover’s stomach sinks as the body in his arms remains limp, too pale, too cold, his heartbeat too weak, his skin not warm enough. Muttering under his breath, the Specialist taps Qrow's gaunt cheekbone, first delicately then more vigorously in an attempt to rouse him. 

But the scythe-wielder's eyelids remain closed as Clover's throat tightens, realising how frail and vulnerable the legendary Huntsman is. The unconscious man's thin frame nests between his arms, his back gently arched over the Operative's knee, his head lolling back into the crook of the captain's arm, his lips slightly parted letting out shallow breaths almost devoid of warmth. 

The Ace Op bites his lip in nervosity - the shapeshifter looks dashing, even out cold, and the fact he heroically performed some magic ritual without hesitation to save the farm boy and the mission only adds to the respect and affection aflutter in Clover's chest. He almost feels bad for the redness blossoming atop Qrow's pallid cheek as a result of his light slaps.

This is stupid - Clover can't do anything, he knows that he can't do anything, but still. He leans in and deposits a soft kiss onto the reddened skin.

The Operative can swear his heart misses a beat when Qrow responds with a weak groan, heavy-lidded crimson eyes staring up at him through thick black eyelashes. 

"Woah, rude," the shifter bemoans. "But cute."

And summoning all the strength left in his body, Qrow pushes himself upward to press a small, trembling kiss against Clover's jaw. That's too much effort, far too much effort, but it's worth it, the shapeshifter's mind judges from the sight of blushing cheeks at bewildered teal eyes glaring down at him.

“Qrow, you scared me.”

“Scared of kisses? Didn’t know of that phobia,” the shifter tiredly arches an incredulous brow.

“I mean, please think about calling for more help before risking your life like that. We could’ve sent Penny to help you out, I don’t know, but there was a chance. I don’t want to see you getting hurt like that.”

“It was for the kid! For the mission! What kind of Huntsman would I be if I put my own life before those things?”

“I’m not telling you not to do your job, I’m only telling you it’s okay to ask for help. The kids will understand and be willing to help. James will be willing to help. The Ace Ops will be willing to help. I will be willing to help. Because we all care about you. And I care about you.”

“Awww.”

Clover’s heart aches when the older man doesn’t say it back, doesn’t say that he cares, at least not yet. But those pale vermillion eyes say what his words don’t, and the way his thin, blanching fingers desperately grip the Atlesian leader’s arm like a lifeline, the way he’s ready to sacrifice himself for any of them rather than risk any of their lives on the battlefield should they intervene, the way he perked up for a mischievous kiss despite his weakened state speak a thousandfold louder than words ever could. 

“Promise me you won’t do that again. Please, promise.”

“I promise, lucky charm,” Qrow manages to whisper just before drifting back into a fitful sleep within the warmth of those strong arms.

Chapter Text

Her tears are salty, but not as salty as the sea. All the same, they drip around her puffy cheeks and down into the ocean, the ocean that’s rhythmically crashing onto the beach in sweeping waves, the ocean that treacherously invaded her sandcastle, rising from the moats through the seaweed portcullis to bring down golden walls and graceful towers built with the determination of her tiny fingers, her rusted bucket, and her plastic spade. She tries to wipe her face with the back of her hand - but both her arms are covered in sand to the elbows, and that itches, and now she only wants to cry more. 

“C’mon Ruby. Don’t cry,” her uncle wipes her tears with a tissue. “Too bad that this one castle got flooded, but see how soft the sand is now? It’s gonna be really easy to start anew and make new things with that.”

He bends down and takes a handful of soaked, salty sand and molds it in his palm, shaping it to his will into gentle domes crowned with fleeting spires under her bewildered silver eyes. But already the spikes melt, tilting sideways under the scorching sun, so he has to find something else to entertain her… Long, sand-covered fingers rummage nervously through unkempt charcoal hair as red eyes scan the surroundings for inspiration.

“See Yang and Daddy over there? Think we can help them with that wet sand?”

The blonde brawler and his daughter, barely two years older than Ruby at her five years of age, are busy burying Zwei’s legs into the warm sand as the corgi puppy merrily yaps, pink tongue dangling out from his grinning muzzle. Filling Ruby’s bucket with humid sand, Qrow tosses some handfuls at the canine’s feet, quickly sculpting a mermaid tail out of the malleable material. Soon, the silver-eyed toddler joins in, picking up a small twig to trace the folds where the fin fans out at the bottom. Meanwhile her father carves out some scales with his nails, strong, tawny hands revelling in the delicate and meticulous exercise. 

“Pretty!” Yang claps her hands ecstatically. “But mermaids shiny, no?”

“Great idea!” Tai exclaims, ruffling her golden locks before taking her by the hand and leading her to where the sand meets the sea, where seashells glimmer in the distance. 

Hand in hand, father and daughter walk along the line that the silvery seafoam traces on the sandy ground, picking up seashells: some flat, some spiralled, some opaque, some translucent, some spotted, some creamy, some rough, some smooth, some broken, some whole. They hand them on to Ruby and Qrow, who are only too eager to adjust them onto Zwei’s sand tail. The puppy’s fluffy pom pom tail, meanwhile, wags excitedly at the sight, knowing full well that he’s the prettiest shiniest happiest merdog there ever was. 

“Oh! Big seashell!” the blonde girl screams, pointing at something green just uncovered by the waves. 

Qrow’s heart sinks. He knows that green. 

He knows that bottle green too well.

“No-no-no don’t touch that!” Tai calls out, running after the slightly unstable toddler trotting on the soft sand, leaving tiny footprints. “It might be sharp, you could hurt yourself.”

A firecracker like Yang is difficult to deter, however. So her uncle has to race after her, digging up the glassy object with his larger hands before she can reach it.

Tai’s worries were unfounded. This isn’t a sharp shard. It’s rounded, smooth. It’s a whole bottle, unbroken, with a rolled up note inside. 

The brawler notices that and immediately darts after Qrow away from the shore, up the hill and into the tall windswept grasses whose sharp blades graze their thighs. After he’s passed the hilltop, the shapeshifter casts a glance back to check he’s out of sight from the kids before taking a swig out of his flask. But he hides it away at the feeling of Tai’s hand on his shoulder, hazy red eyes hesitantly meeting ultramarine irises. 

Qrow wants to memorise this blue. This blue, the sea, the sky, home. Qrow wants to drink in all that blue before it’s too late. But maybe it’s too late already. 

The shapeshifter holds up the green glass bottle, pouring out its contents before Tai’s eyes. From the inside of the paper slip, autumn leaves fall out. Dappled gold, crimson, brown, drifting slowly until they meet the grassy ground. 

“It’s too early for autumn leaves,” the blonde murmurs. “It’s the middle of summer here, nowhere in Remnant is autumn right now.”

“You know what that means, right?” Qrow mutters, looking down at the note clenched between his blanching fingers.

Tai knows. They both know.

“The Fall Maiden. She needs help.”

“She hoped the current would take her note from Vacuo to somewhere towards Vale or Patch. Towards us.”

“Are you gonna say goodbye to the kids at least before you leave to save the world again?”

Tai’s not sure it’s a good idea. Qrow already smells too much of alcohol, and he knows it. They both know.

“Kiss them goodbye for me. Tell them I love them, and tell them I’ll be back.”

“And me, you don’t kiss me goodbye?”

Despite his playful smirk, Tai already knows the answers.

They can’t get attached. They both know they can’t get attached. Tai’s job staying home for the kids, Tai’s job being the home Qrow returns to when he’s hurt, returns to when he wants to see his nieces. Tai's job is important, and losing another loved one would be devastating to him and his job. After Raven left, after Summer never came back. He can’t afford to love Qrow, should the shifter not return either, every mission adding to the risk of him never coming home again. They can spend beach days together, they can serve as parents together, but they can’t love. 

Tai already knows the answer, so instead he wraps Qrow into a bear hug, exhaling a shaky breath as he wishes he’d never have to let go. 

And for a second, Qrow wishes the same. And conveys it into his embrace, holding the blonde tightly, every fibre of his lithe body tense as if his life depended on it. He wishes this could last forever, wishes he could stay here forever, for a split second. 

That split second gone, all that’s left between Tai’s fingers is a handful of feathers, jet black and warm in the hot summer air.

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. 

Chapter Text

"I hope you didn't ask me to help you because crows like shiny things," Qrow drawls, hands buried deep into his pockets.

"No, I chose you because you were the only one with nothing better to do but help me find a wedding ring for my future fiancée,” Winter snaps back, pacing elegantly in front of an umpteenth jewellery store, her heels clicking against the cold asphalt, “and because you wouldn’t struggle to find something Robyn will like, seeing the ruffian Bohemian bird fashion style you two share.”

“I’m an emo bird, she’s a boho bird, there’s a difference! It’s not because you only know Atlesian jet-setter and prim and proper military styles that the rest of us are all the same, ice queen.”

“... Do you think I’m doing it right?” she stops in her tracks, and silence subsides. “Or is it too much? Is this place too upscale and representing everything she resents about the upper class in Solitas, the mining and all that? Is proposing even a good idea? I’ve been dating her for a while, and we’ve discussed the idea of marriage, but I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing...”

“Hey, Winter,” he pauses in turn. “You came down here to Mantle and looked for small local businesses that sold wedding rings. I’m sure she'll appreciate the gesture. Besides, if she’s been dating you for a year, she can’t possibly hate everything about the Atlesian upper echelons, can she? What do people say, opposites attract?”

“You think so?” She huffs, shooting him a hopeful glance. 

“Well, I’m dating a high-ranking officer in the Atlesian military or two myself, as a ruffian emo bird, I would know. But yeah, sometimes I doubt myself too, I have no idea what they see in me when we have so little in common, so I can relate to what you're feeling. Don't worry, that's just totally normal and valid and a sign you're being a good girlfriend and trying to understand Robyn's background and… hey! That one’s nice!”

A mischievous glint in his crimson eyes, he points at a small silver band studded with square diamonds through the pristine glass of the store front.

“You’re sure you’re not irrationally distracted by shiny things?” Winter groans, a gloved hand on her hip. 

“But don’t you like it?”

“Too shiny.”

“This one?”

“Too big and gaudy.”

“What about that?”

“Too gay.”

“And that one?”

“Not gay enough.”

“Hmmm. This?”

“Hmmm.”

“Interested, ice queen?”

“I do admit I appreciate the smooth oval and the colour of this gemstone...”

“The blue is very you, very Schnee periwinkle meet Atlesian military Irondaddy’s pants dark blue...”

“Ahem.”

“But at the same time, the shape is very reminiscent of robin’s eggs, which is perfect foreshadowing for what's going to result from this union should she accept your -”

“Qrow! How dare you have the nerve to insinuate that… You fiend!”

She swivels around, raising a menacing hand - but he predicted that too well, redirecting her teasing blow with a smirk on his lips. Onlookers pause for an instant, curious about the sudden mayhem caused by the two Huntsmen play-fighting in the middle of the street. Until Winter decides she's tired of playing around, lifting a knee to pin Qrow against the glass front of the nearest jewelry shop. A glint of laughter glimmers both in pale red and icy blue eyes - until just his luck, the shapeshifter hears a jewellery display stand toppling over under the impact of his back and the glass.

A wistful sigh escaping her lips, Winter elicits a small glyph through the store front, lifting the stand back to its original position. Until she sees the wedding ring originally concealed behind the stand they dropped, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping at the simple, sleek motif.

"Oh," she comments eloquently.

"Indeed, ice queen, indeed."

"... You know, sometimes I am starting to think your Semblance might be good luck. At least, when you're not all emo and moping all alone."

"I've heard that before, maybe it's not such a stupid… oh! Look! Shiny!"

He doesn't even have to stare at her reflection in the store front glass to notice her gloved hand face-palming onto her forehead with a resounding sound.

Chapter Text

“Wanting to win the Vytal Festival was petty, but that I could understand...” Raven snorts, brushing the flour out of her unkempt black locks, “but a cake baking competition? Isn’t that just… childish?”

“Hey, this is Summer’s dream, be mindful about your teammates’ hobbies, sis. The rest of the team does a pretty good job of accommodating your weird passion for collecting pickle jars.”

Qrow sighs heavily at his umpteenth attempt to pipe out frosting scales for the dragon Tai sculpted out of marzipan atop the cake Summer baked, while said silver-eyed girl was busy spraying the roses in edible gold paint around the edge. Unfortunately, that’s the time the plastic pouch in his hand chooses to explode, spraying sweet frosting all over the kitchen counter. 

Fortunately, the twins are there to lick everything up, and they will lick everything.

“But pickles are a necessity, Qrow! When facing a Grimm apocalypse, pickles will be our only way to survive. Sweets, on the other hand, are not necessary.”

“More like you like the pickle jar lids because they’re shiny,” her brother scoffs, a slight smile across his lips.  

“Hey, Qrow, Raven,” the team leader reprimands fondly. “I know the roses I just sprayed are shiny too, but that’s not why you should lick them up.”

“Really?” the older sister shrugs, sucking on her frosting-coated hand before withdrawing her finger from her mouth and carefully inspecting her crackled black manicure.

“Oh, sorry,” Qrow mumbles as he runs awkward fingers through his hair - only to fill his messy strands with sweet, frosting remains. 

Dejected, he races to the sink and drenches his hair down the tap, secretly grateful when Tai, currently busy cleaning up an assortment of bowls, spoons, and whisks, tosses him a towel and a wink.

“Can you blame them though, Sum?” The blonde asks smoothly. “They revel in the sweetness and shine of the frosting, because they can’t appreciate just how sweet and bright your smile is, sweetest Summer.”

“Aww,” the white-caped girl echoes, effectively melting as fast as butter in the sun.

“Cut the sap, Tai,” Raven scolds, slapping a wooden spatula onto the counter. 

“Exactly my point, Rae,” the brawler pouts. “You can’t appreciate beauty or sweet things.”

“Yes I can,” she retorts, and to prove her point, she leans down to place a kiss onto the team captain’s cheek, who blushes redder than the reddest of her namesake flowers. 

“Hey, you put frosting all over our fearless leader’s face,” Qrow drawls, sticking his tongue out slightly as he focuses on filling another pouch with frosting, tipping it over and spinning it around to close it. 

“That’s okay,” Tai intervenes, promptly licking up any traces of cake on Summer’s cheek. “Hey! I licked her! She’s mine!”

Qrow lets out a long exhale, taking upon the arduous task of finishing the cake decoration while the three lovebirds are distracting each other. Raven’s right, sweets were a luxury in the tribe, not a necessity. The twins only discovered how, well, sweet those treats were after joining Beacon Academy and meeting Summer. Eating them, of course, is infinitely easier than making them, but Qrow would do anything if it helps the cohesion of their team. Anything to earn his keep, earn his place, earn his teammates’ friendship even if they preferred frolicking amongst themselves sometimes.

“Hey Qrow. You have something here,” Tai whispers into his ear, making his smaller teammate jump out of his skin at the blonde’s sudden proximity. 

Swiping a tawny finger onto Qrow’s temple at the edge of his hair, he tastes the surface of his digit thoughtfully. And leans onto the counter, pressing his hand down a little forcefully which causes the almond paste dragon to topple, demolishing part of the buttercream roses in its downfall.

“Look… I’m really sorry,” the male twin capitulates. “But this is really not for me.”

“Nope, none of that in my kitchen!” Summer calls out brightly. “You’ve come so far and your cake looks delicious! And as long as you don’t give up and keep trying, so-called failures only mean more cakes for us to enjoy!”

“Looks good because you did most of the work, Sum, and yet I had to ruin everything. And we’ll only enjoy cakes if we don’t get food poisoning. Which, since I made them...”

“Quit moping, baby bro.”

Raven casts him a scornful look.

“Yeah, less moping, more mopping,” Tai teases, ruffling the other boy’s raven hair who glances down at how much mess needed to be mopped off the kitchen floor tiles.

“Right, let’s get to it!” Summer exclaims. 

Eventually, they try another cake. 

With their bad luck, the frosting is too liquid this time, and it looks more like a lake than a cake. 

They try a third time. This time, Raven trips and drops the cake pan’s contents all over the floor.

They mope again, mop again, and try again.

A fourth time. The cake explodes in the oven. 

They mop, mope, and try again.

A fifth time. The oven explodes. 

Still, Qrow somewhat fixes the oven with his Harbinger repair kit, and they try again. 

In the end, in that year’s edition of the Beacon Academy Baking Competition, team STRQ comes in second.

But will forever go down in history as the only team to ever have baked no less than thirteen delicious cakes for themselves and the rest of their schoolmates to enjoy.

Chapter Text

Crows, ravens, magpies have a reputation for stealing things. Especially shiny trinkets, especially shiny charms. 

But they don't just take. They give, too. They give to those they court, they give to those they care for. 

Raven gave Qrow his cross-shaped metal pendant when they got into Beacon Academy. He doesn’t really talk about it, but it matters to him. It’s cold, steady against his heartbeat, and the way the small, sharp corgers dig into his palm when he holds it tight feels familiar, comforting. 

He gave Raven her necklaces, and sometimes he still wonders if the beads feel soothing too, hanging so fragile against her thick skin. 

The first thing he gave anyone outside his family was to Ozpin. A silver cross brooch with a dark green gemstone in its centre. Qrow had felt bad about the schoolteacher losing his scarf due to the wind and his student’s misfortune when they’d trained together. Not only had he caught a cold in the aftermath, but he’d also lost the pretty shiny charms pinned onto his old scarf, and Qrow had been determined to make amends. The Headmaster had chuckled at first, aware that the teenager was more likely misguided than attempting bribery on a teacher, but still wore the trinket every day of his life.

Then, Qrow had forged a shoulder plate for Tai, of the same steel that made up the deadly blade of Harbinger. He was tired of seeing the blonde getting hurt on missions trying to impress their female teammates. And Tai didn’t have anything shiny, Qrow preferred seeing shiny things on him. Especially when they reflected the sunny disposition of his golden hair and optimistic smile. 

To Summer, he offered some flowery hair clips. He noticed how her flowing, windswept crimson locks kept getting in her silver eyes, how she liked pushing it back when she was nervous or needed to think. She joked he should get some hair clips too, to keep his bangs from falling onto his face mid-battle since he preferred it out of his eyes, and the whole team giggled at that. 

She said she’d get him hair clips some day. 

She didn’t keep her promise. 

Every time he brushes his hair back before springing into action now, he thinks of her. 

And every time he thinks of her, it hurts. 

Every time, it still hurts. 

But every time, a piece of her keeps living on. A memory, like a trinket, like a charm, a shard, broken, shattered, but each of its rough, damaged edges glisten even brighter. 

Glynda gets earrings matching her eyes, matching her shirt. That’s easy. 

Yang gets an infinity orange scarf. It’s fireproof. With how often her hair’s set ablaze, it’s the only of her scarves that survives infinitely. Tai thinks it’s exactly like her - bright, soft, sunny, fireproof. 

Ruby gets a rose-shaped steel pin she hangs at her belt or on her cloak. She loves it, pouncing upward to give him a hug, the way her messy crimson hair gently tickles his neck feeling familiar, too familiar. 

When he gets to know Clover, he isn’t sure what to get him at first. Clover has all the good luck he needs, and all the good luck charms he could possibly need. The four-leafed pin, the rabbit foot, the lucky red kerchief… there’s nothing that this man can possibly be missing. Qrow wonders if he’s missing anything in his life. If there’s any crack, any gap in this seemingly complete life he could fit in, make his nest in, and call home. He wonders if Clover needs him at all, likes him at all. 

Eventually, Winter is the one who helps him out. She tells him that he’ll never know, unless he tries. Unless he tries to give Clover something of his own, a charm, a trinket, something. 

They go jewellery shopping together. Winter gets a ring for Robyn, Qrow gets something for his trinket. 

Then he gets out the tools he uses to make Harbinger, and starts working on it.

“Is that… one of yours?” Clover wonders quietly, running a gentle, slightly calloused finger along the small, faintly iridescent jet-black feather sealed to a delicate silver bracelet. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, and thanks,” Qrow focuses on the clasp, the cold, the metal, the point edges that dig into his skin as he fastens the jewellery around the Ace Op leader’s wrist.

“No, thank you for gifting me something that’s a part of you. That feather will grow back, I hope.”

“It will. It’ll have the same shape, keep me warm and help me fly just as well, but it’ll be a different feather. This particular one is unique and yours forever.”

A breath, a hesitation. Pale, slender fingers waltzing across warm skin, warm veins.

“So is this some kind of bad luck charm? Because you think I have too many good luck charms on me already, and I need some bad luck too? Because that’d be fair?”

“Yup, that’d be fair game to give you some bad luck. Why? Are you superstitious to the point you wouldn’t wear a feather from a bird of bad augure?”

A hesitation. An anticipation. Need for an answer, yet resentment for the truth, resentment for rejection. Qrow’s heart beats slow, weightless, too weightless before the inevitable fall. 

“Oh, you must think I’m superstitious because of all the other charms,” he chuckles, “but nope. They’re more for the public image, you know? So that people can feel safe when I’m here, so they can feel like they have luck on their side. And also because people have offered me these trinkets throughout the years, so they’re like mementos, they remind me of those people even when they’re far away.”

“I get that, lucky charm. I really do.”

The weight of his necklace on his skin, familiar, cold. The sensation of his rings on his fingers, chill in the windy Atlas air, seeking warmth against Clover’s bare forearm, a lighthouse amidst the storm, a nest, a home. 

“But for once, it’s nice for someone to give me something of theirs, rather than something of me, like a luck-related colour or item. It’s a welcome change.”

“Really?”

“Really. I feel incredibly lucky that you offered me this, Qrow. And more generally, I’m incredibly lucky to have you in my life. You’ve given me so much, not just this bracelet, and you give so much to those around you, I think that’s fantastic.”

The shapeshifter’s fingers, the same fingers that carved deadly weapons, the same fingers that crafted delicate jewelry, tiptoe tentatively against the Operative’s wrist, against the cold line of the bracelet on his soft skin. A line that wants to be crossed, a point of no return. 

Soon, the fingers fly away - replaced by the onslaught of lips. Soft, slightly chapped lips, dropping a feather-light kiss onto the inside of the Clover’s wrist. 

“Still feeling lucky?”

A raspy, slightly shaky question escapes those same lips. 

“I feel like the luckiest man alive.”

The line has been crossed, the bridges have been burnt, and Qrow can only move forward. Trailing gentle touches, gentle kisses up his forearm, caressing every muscle, worshipping every vein. 

Until Clover gets impatient and leans down to cup Qrow’s face, joining their lips in a passionate kiss. 

Clover’s eyes slide shut, savouring each second, each instant while Qrow’s lips brush against his, bruising, breathless, breathtaking. He wants to remember this, every instant, every second, every time he feels the silver chain slide against his wrist, every time his fingers run through the single black feather. He wants to remember this, all of this, he wants this memory, unique, infinite. 

When they part, the cold touch of the metal bracelet in the cold Atlas air sings like a promise.

“You know, I was wondering if the gift was a gesture of courtship, or just something that crows do to show they care,” the Ace Op muses a while later. 

“Both, but in your case, I think we’ve established you guessed correctly.”

A shared pause. A shared laugh. Simple, free as the wind that carries the merry sound away.

“You got something for Winter? You two seem like quite close friends lately, when you’re not yelling at each other.”

“I helped her choose wedding rings for herself and Robyn. She should count herself lucky for that already.”

“And the General? You two date way back, right? He clearly cares for you a great deal.”

“He’s already so shiny already... have you seen all that metal? I don’t know what to give him...”

“Hmmm… I might have a couple of ideas.”

A mischievous glint in aqua eyes, shining brighter than the brightest of stars. 

“In that case, lucky charm, we should plan a shopping date.”

Chapter Text

Dancing had become second nature for Qrow. Dancing is a weapon of choice for a Huntsman spy, dancing as naturally as smoothly as he wields Harbinger, while focusing on eavesdropping on important political matters that were discussed in ballrooms during lavish parties. Dancing with James or Clover is particularly easy, both military men having spent years honing their dancing skills throughout a myriad of official balls and galas. Both of them move with precise, powerful grace, and it’s not difficult for Qrow to follow with practised agility, each of his gestures fiery and flowing like silk between their experienced arms. 

But dancing sober is a different experience. The surgical precision of each pause, remaining perfectly still until the next beat flows through and movement is borne again, time starts again. The cool spot of Clover's pin against his chest, the warmth of his hands, the slight calluses on his fingers. The satiny softness of James's gloves, the metallic resonance of his right foot at each step, the gentle tickling of his beard against Qrow's skin. At the other end of the dance floor, Weiss waltzing with the elegance of a ballerina, Ruby following with the turbulence of a rose petal storm. And all around the ballroom, the delicate clinks of glass cups, the heady scent of red wines and bubbly champagne that make the shapeshifter’s stomach lurch, ever slightly out of pace with the languid music. 

Eventually, the song ends. As background conversations resume, the music dies into cacophony like a fire burns down to ashes.

Try to make small talk, try to smile, stay polite, try to watch as James asks Clover for a dance. Try to listen to the endless list of wedding guests congratulating Winter and Robyn, looking happier than ever on the dance floor in their matching bridal gowns. Look away from the drinks. Try to breathe and make no noise, to ignore Qrow’s own parched throat, to discreetly ask a waiter for a glass of fresh water. Look away from the drinks. 

It’s stupid. It’s been months since Qrow stopped drinking. Yet, it’s still hard. Withdrawal is hard. Ignoring the clicks of glass against glass is hard. Ignoring the sloshing and swirling of the familiar shade of burgundy fluid is hard. Ignoring the scent that used to promise deliverance, that used to promise to ease his pain is hard. It’s hard, and it hurts. It seems like a never ending journey, and every step of the way is hard. 

Fortunately, every other step of the journey is met with support, with encouragement. The kids cheer for him for persevering when things are hard, Winter respects him because he’s still trying things are hard, Clover and James are there for him when things are hard. So he doesn’t give up. 

It’s hard, but he doesn’t give up. He just has to look away from the tray loaded with champagne flutes on the table in the corner, covered with a fine white cloth. He just has to look away from the table and the woman who stands by its side, in her sophisticated mother of the bride evening dress, her silvery hair pinned up in an elaborate bun, the longing light in her cerulean eyes familiar, painfully familiar to Qrow…

He should look away, but he feels drawn in. Drawn in by the familiarity, the foolish familiarity. Drawn in because he’s been here, he’s done that. 

But fortunately, he wasn’t alone. 

He’s drawn in, because she doesn’t have to be alone. 

So he takes her hand. 

“Mrs. Schnee, may I have this dance?”

Her skin is slightly clammy under his fingers, her breath smells like alcohol. But she’s a fine dancer, her father taught her how to dance as soon as she could walk, and each of her twirls spins out with effortless elegance as slowly, but surely, she starts to trust him. As slowly, she lets him catch her, guide her, be there for her. As she understands that she doesn’t have to be alone. 

It seems to be a never ending journey, and every step of the way is hard. And like dancers on a dance floor, sometimes they stumble off balance, sometimes they pause instead of moving forward, sometimes they retrace their steps, sometimes they end up back right where they started. But at least, while the music still plays, while they still dance, he’s distracting her from her demons, from her temptations, and she’s distracting him. At least, now she’s holding him, and he’s holding her, each trusting the other to catch them should they fall.  

It’s still a long journey ahead, but at least they don’t have to be alone.

Chapter Text

In front of Penny, Pietro calls it routine check-up. 

But Penny’s sensors can hear through walls, and she knows what her father tells Maria. She knows every time he puts her to sleep to update her hardware or software, every time a piece of her body or mind needs to be taken out to be replaced, it’s costly for his Aura, and she knows every time, there is a probability, however infinitesimal, that she may not wake again. 

Maybe robots shouldn’t be worried. Maybe robots shouldn’t know what fear feels like, the fear of the dark, the fear of not being able to open your eyes to see your loved ones again, especially since that happened to her once already. Maybe robots shouldn’t know any of that. 

Still, Penny is worried. And it’s hard to fall asleep when you’re worried. 

As it turns out, bedtime stories help. 

Pietro has many dusty books in his dusty office. Every time she has to go to sleep, he sits down by her side, the scent of dusty old pages wafting to her olfactory sensors as he opens the book and reads her a fairytale. She loves the sound of his voice, she loves the muffled thunder of flipping pages, steady and regular like a heartbeat, she loves the stories he reads. But Penny is a robot, her hard drives remember each myth perfectly after one reading. She knows them all by heart, from the Shallow Sea to the Tale of the Two Brothers.

So Pietro calls in the Grimm Reaper herself, the living legend herself, to tell Penny stories of her youth, of her numerous adventures slaying monsters and saving innocents all over the surface of Remnant. The reminiscence sparks light anew in Maria’s prosthetic eyes, and Penny’s equally inhuman irises brighten as well at the thought of the intrepid scythe-wielding lady facing down creatures more than a dozen times her size, freezing them with a mere blink of her silver eyes, and living to tell the tale. 

Eventually though, Maria’s voice runs dry, and she runs out of ideas, at least for now. She needs a nice hot tea, and some time to collect her thoughts. So she calls her scythe-using colleague, legendary Huntsman Qrow Branwen, to the rescue.

At first, Qrow doesn’t know what to say. He’s been brought up hearing myths and fairy tales about the Grimm Reaper, and he never never thought he’d live up to the legend. Even now he knows she’s a real person, even now he knows she’s not that perfect hero story books depict her is, it still feels weird. His life is a graveyard of misfortune, mistakes, and missed opportunities. He needs to find a nice story, but he doesn’t know where to start. 

So he talks about team STRQ, their perilous missions, their tournament wins. He talks about their friendship, their cake baking antics, their hair braiding sessions. He talks about his secret missions, the faraway kingdoms he visited as a spy, their exotic garments and unfamiliar customs, their forests full of creatures he’d never seen before, fruit he’d never tasted before. He talks about the Maidens he fought side by side with, the Maidens Oz tasked him to protect, the villages they saved together and the thankful village children who gifted them flower crowns, hugged them and clung to their legs as they tried to walk away. He talks about his travels with his nieces and the rest of the flock, too.

It’s funny, the last time he tried to tell bedtime stories the kids were still kids, and Ruby and Yang loved his stories about Summer. Already, she was gone, so it was easy to depict her as brighter than the sun at the summit of its trajectory. Now, Yang, Ruby, and the rest of the kids are part of his stories as heroes in their own right, and now he somehow achieved the status of legend himself, somehow, he still has next to no idea how. 

As he tells his bedtime story, he wonders what it means, to be a legend. To commit his life stories to the hard drive of Penny’s memory, stories that will outlive him, stories that might be told again, again, and again, long after he grows old, long after he’s stopped treading the earth and flying through the skies of Remnant. 

As she dozes off listening to these stories, Penny wonders if she’ll have stories of her own like that some day. Beautiful stories that elicit personal feelings, beautiful stories that could be written down in dusty old books for the next generation of children and robots to fall asleep to. She wonders if she’ll have stories of her own, stories about her own friendships and adventures worth remembering, and if one day, she too, following in the footsteps of Uncle Qrow and Auntie Maria, can be a legend. 

Chapter Text

“You can make tea with stinging nettles, right?” Ironwood wonders aloud, wiping the sweat of the skin and metal of his brow with his sleeve while his other hand holds a sizable handful of said nettles he just uprooted from the parterre. 

“Yeah, why?”

Qrow shrugs. He’s tried that before. On an empty stomach, it tastes fine. When they lived with the tribe, they’d eat and drink just about anything edible they could find just to survive through the night, just to live to see the next sunrise. Of course, he’s not surprised James doesn’t know, given his urban upbringing in cold Solitas. 

“Because we have so many more of those weeds in this garden than the vegetables we’re trying to grow,” the General explains patiently.

Because James Ironwood, leader of the world’s largest most technologically advanced military, has a newfound passion for gardening. 

Qrow finds it rather cute, honestly. Kind of silly, but cute. It started during Salem’s siege of Atlas, during which imports were difficult and the sky city needed to grow its own foods in its greenhouses, but James’s passion remains long after the whale’s fall and Salem’s defeat. 

These days, the General can be found every now and again in one of the greenhouses, earthy browns and greens staining his usually pristine uniform and gardening gloves covering both his flesh and steel hands. 

Often, Qrow is there with him. Some say the dumb effort of gardening helps him cope with withdrawal, helps him cope with things in general. Some say that he just likes to spend time with James, and neither are wrong. Sometimes the shapeshifter will be perched on Ironwood’s shoulder in his feathered form, ready to pick at any worms in the fruit James was tending to. Other times, like now, he’d be standing in the mud next to James, both his hands grasping impressive handfuls of wild clovers. 

Only, gardening is an arduous task, requiring ample amounts of patience. Looking down, they contemplate the expanse of dirt at his feet sprinkled with timidly growing leaves. Then, his iron hand throws away an umpteenth handful of stinging nettle into the compost bag. Why are the plants and flowers he needs to grow always so fragile and slow to blossom, while weeds are so swiftly expanding and invasive? 

“Even if we get something useful out of the nettles, there’s nothing worthwhile we could make out of all those clovers,” Qrow sighs, gesturing toward the many shamrocks he’s tossed into the compost bag, and the many more shamrocks left for them to pick.

“Qrow, you and I both know very well just how good clovers can taste.”

A twinkle of mirth in James’s cobalt eyes at the thought of their common lover. Qrow smiles too, it feels good to see that spark again, that spark that still shines after everything they’ve been through, bright as a distant star through the darkest of nights.

“Only one particular Clover,” the shifter teases back.

Qrow chose to stay around to help rebuild Atlas, to help rebuild Mantle, to help Clover and James rebuild themselves after all the trauma and hardships they’ve been through. 

Eventually, Qrow, Clover, and James would all help rebuild each other, after all the scars that the war etched onto their bodies and minds. Eventually, with all their hard work, Atlas would rise again from the ashes, like wild plants always find a way to grow through the cracks of a broken curb when spring comes. 

Out of the three of them, through some ironic stroke of misfortune, Clover’s body ended up the most broken, his chest still paining him each day. But with both his boyfriends by his side, at least he doesn’t have to suffer alone.

Neither of them has to suffer alone, because no one ever should have to suffer alone. The weight of Clover’s pin is heavy, cool, calming against Qrow’s lapel. The cold weight is familiar now, the memory of the cold, heavier flask he used to keep there until months ago having slowly faded. The cold weight is a reminder of just how much the lucky Specialist has helped him recover since the day they met, and still helps him recover everyday. The pin’s shiny and comforting, nothing like the large collection of rather annoying three-leaved shamrocks in his hands. 

“Hey, you know I’ve never seen a single four-leaved clover in my entire life?” the shapeshifter says.

“They’re supposed to be rare, Qrow.” James explains. “That’s why they’re viewed as lucky.”

“Well, not really surprising with my luck, huh?”

“I’ve never found one either.”

“Really? What are the odds?” a familiar voice comments as their boyfriend stumbles onto the scenes.

Maybe he was beckoned by the mention of his namesake lucky plant. Or maybe his timing was just that fortunate. That would be just his luck.

“Not everyone is as lucky as you are, Cloves,” Ironwood replies fondly.

Setting down the heavy fruit-loaded crates he was carrying, Clover bends down to the nearest parterre where he fumbles for short seconds under his lovers’ careful scrutiny. Soon, with a small, ragged grunt as he clutches his chest, he gets up again, a shamrock in each hand and a recognisable smirk on his lips.

“Guess what I found?”

Of course they’re four-leaved, perfectly symmetrical, and adorable, because that’s just his luck.

“They’re cute, lucky charm,” Qrow comments. “They match your eyes.”

“Yes, they’re a beautiful shade of green,” James agrees. 

“You’ve got something here,” Clover points out, leaning in to wipe the dirt the General smeared onto his forehead while trying to wipe it with his muddy hands before delicately tucking one of the shamrocks behind Ironwood’s ear. 

The gentle green stands out against the blackness of his hair and beard streaked with silver, and his doubtful expression is a sight to behold - Qrow wants to kiss that hesitant pout off his face, but Clover does it before he can, gracing Jimmy’s cupid bow with a playful peck. Then, before the shapeshifter can even start to think about complaining about the unfairness, the brunette leans over and kisses his other boyfriend squarely on the lips too, while  brushing back the feathery strands of greying hair to adjusting the other four-leafed plant atop Qrow’s ear with uttermost gentleness.

Chapter Text

“Who the hell likes pizza with pineapple?” Harriet sneers, insistently eyeing Qrow whom Clover invited over for cooking and dinner with the adults for once. 

“Yeah right, who does that?” Elm echoes, a hand on her hip while her other arm ominously waves a rolling pin around as if it weighs nothing. 

“Pineapple with anything is lovely,” Vine points out patiently as he arranges the salad leaves atop a pizza, ready to toss it into the oven. “I don’t see why this is a matter for arguments. All fruit is a welcome addition to a meal, pineapple included.”

“Pineapple sure is tasty,” Elm concurs, to which Qrow arches a confused brow. 

“Didn’t you just say you didn’t like pineapple on pizza?” the shapeshifter wonders. 

“Elm just likes to see arguments degenerate into fights,” Vine sighs by way of explanation, quickly starting the oven with a series of beeps.

“Yay! Pineapple fight!” the tall girl calls out excitedly.

“No fighting!” the team leader calls out from the other end of the kitchen, the sound of his knife against the chopping board resonating through the small room as he methodically chops vegetables. “Let’s move to another topic… like crusts?”

“Pizza crusts?” Marrow repeats immediately. “I love pizza crusts! Especially the cheesy ones!”

“Meh. I don’t mind them,” Hare judges.

“Then can I have your crusts? Please?” 

The rookie’s tail wags in excitement at that, defeating the purpose of his poker face. 

“You can have mine too,” Qrow groans, wondering if the Ace Ops are in any way more mature than the kids he usually eats with. 

The older Huntsman almost lets out a sigh of relief as he pushes his leftover pizza crusts over to the canine Faunus’s side of the table, while the third serving of pizzas has only started to cook in the oven. While the rest of the Operatives start bickering and fighting over Hare’s cheesy crusts, Qrow jolts at the warm presence of a hand on his shoulder, covered in a thin layer of flour, only to find teal eyes looking down at him with genuine concern. 

“Qrow? Is everything alright? You look a bit sick,” Clover murmurs, making sure the others were too busy to eavesdrop. “I hope the others didn’t gross you out with their discussion of what can and cannot go on pizza. Some of us have… not exactly usual tastes on the matter.”

“Nah, all good with me. Homemade pizza is just an excuse to throw whatever things you like onto the dough and call it a meal, so I don’t mind that Marrow likes to put strawberries on his pizza.”

“Oh yeah, he did that once. Elm was furious.”

“I can imagine.”

“But you’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m just… a bit bloated. That was a lot of pizza. And I don’t digest too well these days.”

“Because of stress? Need a massage?”

The most subtle suggestion of strong fingers rub delicate circles against the nape of Qrow’s, sending a delectable shiver down his spine and almost making him forget what they were talking about.

“... that too, I guess. But also, a psycho scorpion Faunus slashed me in the abdomen with his stinger, and the venom corroded some of my digestive system. So my relationship with food has been rocky at best as of late.”

“Qrow, I’m so sorry. You could’ve told me, we’d have settled into something a bit easier to digest for dinner than three pizzas per person.”

“But you guys seemed so happy to have pizza and...”

He feels shameful. Pathetic. Disgusted. Disgusting, and ashamed that his gross digestive problems might spoil an otherwise nice and fun pizza night between fellow Huntsmen… They’re warriors who slay monsters on the daily, laughing off injuries like they’re nothing to spring back into battle the next day, why would they have time to entertain his petty tummy problems?

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay to not always be okay. You don’t have to be ashamed, and you most certainly don’t have to force yourself to eat pizza because you’re afraid of ruining the night for us if you don’t finish it. A lot of us love cold pizza leftovers for breakfast, believe it or not. At least that's one thing we can agree on regarding pizza. You probably did something really brave and ended up injured, but you survived because you’re strong, and that’s what matters. Besides, my offer for a massage still stands.”

How is Clover not disgusted by his issues? How does he not find them pathetic and petty? Qrow’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“That’d be nice, actually.”

Agile thumbs methodically map their way down his spine, and closing his eyes, he focuses on the warm, gentle pressure, momentarily distracting his mind from his aching abdomen.

“We can get Vine to make you his secret herbal tea, it does wonders for digestion," Clover suggests.

"Thanks, lucky charm… if that's not too much to ask, can I eat my pineapple for dessert, since your team tried to kill me when I tried to put it on my pizza?"

"Sure! You can get all the pineapple you want, pretty bird."

Chapter Text

“What on Remnant...” Tai exhales slowly from the doorsill, his unfocused eyes blinking, his pyjamas wrinkled, his hair still a raging case of bedhead. 

He seems to hesitate to slam the door shut in Qrow’s face, leaving the shapeshifter and his precious package alone in the dead of night. Yet, he still stands there, blue eyes nervously flitting back and forth between the shapeshifter’s red gaze and the huddled, drooling silhouette nested between Qrow’s thin arms. 

“It’s a corgi,” the scythe-wielder clarifies helpfully.

“Wait, just let me recap… you rescued a baby corgi that used to belong to some villain on a mission… and you came here in the middle of the night because you want me to adopt it?”

“I was just hoping he’d find a home and a family here,” Qrow shrugs. “Yang always wanted a dog.”

“A family? That’s easy for you to say. You’ll be gone again before sundawn, flying off to whatever dangerous mission Oz got in store for you, and you’ll leave me alone to take care of the dog, just like your sister left me alone to take care of Yang, and there’s Ruby too, and...”

“Shh. Tai. You’ll wake up the girls.”

"The girls?! Are you using the girls as an excuse not to listen to me now?!? While I'm the one taking care of them, I'm the one who's there for them day and night, while you only swoop in for a heroic save every now and again and get all the credit and love? You know that Ruby and Yang ask me every morning where you are and what adventures you're up to? You, and Summer, and Raven. The girls love you three the most, because you're not there so it's easy for them to believe you're off saving the world or doing something interesting..."

Maybe Raven is off doing something interesting, though knowing the tribe's occupations, Qrow doubts it. Summer died saving the world - or at least they believe so, she never said why she left. But Qrow? He's tired of trying to save the world, he's tired of trying to keep moving forward when the world won't budge even an infinitesimal amount amidst the pitch black vastness of space. He's just tired, and he wishes he could care for Tai, for the girls, for this puppy too, for the strange dysfunctional family they make, but he's just tired.

"Listen, pal, I'm too knackered for this, and I'm sorry for my terrible timing. Just… take the dog to the vet tomorrow for a check up, and try to find someone to adopt him, ask your colleagues, ask your students, I don't kn-"

"Daddy?" Another blonde head emerges from behind the door as a toddler hesitantly waddles her way to her father's side. "Unco Qwow? … Doggy?!?!"

"Hey, firecracker…" her uncle greets. "Careful, okay? It's only a baby dog."

Undeterred, Yang rubs her tiny fingers through the soft fur, curious violet eyes seeking the cabinet's gaze under the broken moonlight. Qrow stiffens as the corgi whimpers softly, recoiling at the touch - before suddenly leaping out of the shifter's grasp to headbutt the young girl, pinning her to the ground with a deafening crash. 

"Yang!" Both Huntsmen call out as they rush to her aid.

Only to find her laughing to the point of tears on the carpet while the dog enthusiastically barks and licks her face and hair, snugly perched atop her tummy.

"Pubby, pubby!" She giggled merrily under the two men's relieved eyes.

Tai lets out a small, endeared sound, having seldom seen his girl this happy, while his former teammate leans down to attempt to pick up the corgi, relieving his niece's small body from the animal's weight. But as soon as his hands touch the fluffy fur, black and white hair blurs into gray, and the next thing he knows, a brutal impact hits him in the abdomen, sending him unceremoniously tumbling onto the floor.

The carpet is very comfortable. Tai chose it well, for the carpet is very comfortable. Qrow would get up, but he's too tired, he hadn't realised he was that tired, and the carpet is too comfortable. The legendary Huntsman would not let himself be tackled to the ground and utterly defeated by a small corgi pup who's currently proudly prancing and parading around his chest, but he's too tired to move, and the carpet is way too comfortable, and the impromptu dog-paw massage isn't a bad sensation to fall asleep to…

"Hey… comfy here…" he slurs in protest as strong arms scoop him up the floor.

Blinking warily, he sees the brawler lifting him up bridal style, effortlessly carrying his weight alongside the dog's that happily rests on his stomach. Qrow's vaguely aware that Tai ushers Yang back to her bedroom, before benevolent blue eyes stare back into crimson irises, conveying a gentle promise, warm and secure amidst the darkness.

"Let's get you to bed, birdie, and tomorrow we'll walk the dog to the vet together. Yang already loves him, and I’m sure Ruby will be ecstatic we’re welcoming a new family member. But for now, I just need to make sure that you don't go off risking your life to save the world again before you’ve gotten enough rest, okay?"

"M'kay… 'm sleepy…"

Before they even make it to a bed, Qrow drifts off into a deep slumber, finally able to close his eyes knowing that he's home in this wood cabin, home in those strong arms, safe and surrounded by family.

Chapter Text

Clover is used to cooking with his window open, the cold Atlesian air alleviating how hot it gets in his kitchen. Even the potted plants sagely lined up against the windowsill seem to agree, seemingly sighing in contentment when a chill draft ruffles their leaves. 

So it’s Clover’s fault when a wayward bird finds its way inside. It’s his fault when the animal all but crash-lands amongst his carefully chopped cauliflower, courgettes, and carrots and starts nibbling at the perfect colourful cubes. It’s his fault when it prances across the chopping board, wings fluttering as it peers over the pasta that just started cooking over the fire. It’s his fault, he should have left the window closed.

So the least he could do now is entertain his unexpected guest - unexpected, but not unwelcome, just his luck really.

Intelligent eyes shine with curiosity as the bird cocks its head, intently staring at the fleeting shine of bursting bubbles as the water reaches its boiling point.

The Ace Op isn’t too sure why he’s not actively chasing the newcomer back out the window. Perhaps because he needs a friend, with the rest of his team vehemently denying any friendship between them, with Winter who’d be a lot nice if she warmed up, no pun intended, to people, with his boss who was, well, his boss first and foremost as well as perpetually snowed under a pile of paperwork, with the flock of kids constantly running around, and with their chaperone Huntsman, a certain brooding scythe-wielder who always seems oblivious of Clover’s flirting...  It feels nice to have someone to talk to. If a bird could count as someone.

“Hey, little crow,” the Captain murmurs, gently pushing the visitor away from the steaming pot as a fluffed up feathered head nuzzles into his palm. “Why don’t you go nibble on the safe stuff over there rather than the boiling stuff? Yeah, that’s better for you… wait, is it really better?”

He’s not sure what crows can safely eat, so to avoid any accidents, he pulls out his Scroll with one hand and runs a quick search while stirring the pasta with his other arm. Only to notice that his control-freak boss, in the best sense of that qualifier, shot him a text about all meetings being delayed due to some Schneencident following a phone call with Jacques. Clover types back a quick answer and explains his current predicament, at which the General immediately replies that if his experience with crows is anything to go by, crows usually like diced fruit like strawberries or pineapple, as well as nuts. Especially pistachios, James adds in another message for some reason.

The soldier’s Scroll buzzes a few more times, but between searching for pistachios in the closet, making sure the pasta doesn’t boil over and ensuring that the tomato sauce remains safely out of reach of swift wings and an inquisitive beak, he doesn’t have much time to check the extra texts.

Pistachios, huh.

Well, that’s oddly specific. Clover had no idea Ironwood is that much into birds.

Unless…

Clover wants to slap himself in the face with the wooden spoon he uses to stir the pasta.

James had told him about Branwen’s shapeshifting abilities… he just hadn’t made the link until now.

“Wait, you’re not just any crow, aren’t you? You’re the Qrow? Like, the one with legs for miles, a cute shy smile, and a really cool scythe? … wait did I actually say that? By the Brothers, that’s so embarrassing...”

Clover wants to slap himself in the face with the wooden spoon. Twice. Hard.

But the bird only squawks in response, shifting its weight from one skinny leg to another, halfway between a shrug and a dance.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just so easy for me to talk to you like this, I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because we’re not on the job right now, or it’s because you can’t snarkily deflect compliments when you can’t talk… but I’m just really sorry if this ruined our friendship or our professional partnership, I should’ve thought twice before...”

Another caw interrupts him. 

And the Captain’s jaw drops with a soft plop as another crow saunters in through the window. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he thinks he should shut the window before a full murder of those corvids comes in, since he doesn’t own all that many pistachios. But soon both birds engage in a screeching context, prompting Clover to cover his painful ears amidst his own kitchen. It’s loud and brutal, but brief. The newcomer crow soon wins, chasing out its predecessor. 

And shapeshifts into a recognisable Huntsman, leaning onto the kitchen counter in a way that highlights those famous legs for miles in their sinfully tight black pants. 

“Sorry to intrude, Jimmy said you needed some help with birds so I thought I could lend a hand. By the way, I think the pasta’s done, lucky charm.”

“Oh, uh...”

Pretend nothing happened. Pretend Clover has never, ever been wooing the wrong bird for a long moment. Pretend nothing happened. The heat rising to his cheeks, Clover picks up a spoonful of pasta. Pretending nothing happened. Focuses on judging the texture, on softly blowing the swirls of vapour away before taking a tentative bite, appreciating how much cooking is still needed. And pretending nothing happened. Because maybe nothing happened, Qrow just arrived and didn’t hear anything, so nothing happened and everything can go back to normal...

“Did you...” the Operative barely manages to stutter.

A mischievous glint in familiar crimson eyes. 

Clover’s heart misses a beat as Qrow catches his wrist, guiding the wooden spoon toward his face so he can taste the pasta too, thoughtfulness painted onto his alabaster features. 

“Well, Oz gave me the power to shapeshift for spying purposes, it was hard not to eavesdrop,” Qrow shrugs, lifting Clover’s forearm so he can drop a quick peck onto the soldier’s knuckles and watch the younger man’s face flushing till it matches the shade of the tomato sauce slowly simmering on the fire.

“And I’m glad you find Harbinger cool,” the shapeshifter adds. “I love my baby girl too.”

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Clover mutters under his breath, unsure what to do, unsure what to say, only certain of the fact that Qrow is so close, so intoxicatingly close, the warmth of his fingers still very present on Clover’s wrist alongside the lingering memory of his lips brushing the sensitive skin. 

“Hey yourself, boy scout.”

Gentle touches, despite the electricity tracing arabesques across their skins where their fingers touch, despite the tense undercurrent in the air. The quietness is nervous, but companionable, the quietness is everything, and they know this instant must end, just like all good things come to an end, but they don’t want it to end, don’t want the sparks to fizzle away, don’t want the floating feeling to ever fade.

“How did you know?” Qrow’s whisper is raspy, as reassuring as the calm that always precedes thunder. “How did you know I could turn into a bird?”

“... James told me.”

Calloused fingers dance up the veins of Clover’s arm, causing the brunette to suck in a ragged breath.

“Oh, so he trusts you, lucky charm. That’s really good news.”

A sincere smile in those vermillion eyes, a sincere smile Clover has been witnessing and more often as of late, but every time he sees it he falls in love as if for the first time.

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Nope. If Jimmy hadn’t done it first, I’d have told you myself. I’ve known that tin man for a long time, and it’s hard for him to get to trust anyone… All of us in Oz’s inner circle are used to his little secrets and have a hard time opening up others, actually. So I’m glad he can trust you.”

As some of Ironwood’s most trusted, they know how lonely at the top he must be, how hard it has been for him, after all that happened, to let his guard down and trust people to help him, to comfort and confront him. Still, a bubbling feeling rises in Clover’s chest at hearing from Qrow that James trusts him… and that Qrow supports this...

“So you trust me?” genuine hopefulness laces the Ace Op’s tone.

“I really want to.”

Clover can’t even imagine what Qrow has been through, how long he’s had to hide himself and never trust anyone as a spy, how many times he’s been betrayed and hurt until his hair started turning gray. 

“Do you trust me enough to transform again in front of me? I’d like to see that one more time, if that’s fine with you.”

The shapeshifter doesn’t reply. Instead, he bursts into a storm of feathers, playfully gliding across the kitchen before Clover’s eyes. The military man can only gape, even though it has always been obvious. The first time Clover saw Qrow, heard that cute, albeit edgily spelled name, his mind had already spiralled out into making up a myriad of adorable bird-related pet names for the legendary Huntsman. Really, it has always been somehow obvious that Qrow can turn into a bird. As to what kind of bird, it’d have been ironically hilarious if it were any other than his namesake species, like a cute little dove, though given his careful dedication with his chicks, a mother hen wouldn’t have been too out of character. 

It has always been obvious, it’s everything he expected, and yet it’s so much more, so infinitely better. And he can only marvel at the sight of intelligent crimson eyes, as beautiful and unique as that of the human he came to love, for man and bird were but two sides of the same coin, at the sight of onyx feathers fanning out as the bird executes a steady, swooping arc around the room with a confidence that the human version rarely displays, except when swinging that giant scythe around as if it weighed no more than a feather. 

Somehow, before Clover can realise, the swooping arc ends on the edge of the pot, as the crow perched there swiftly extracts still-hot spaghetto as if unearthing a worm. The soldier rushes in to collect the small feathered form before its talons could dirty or damage the pot, before his mind registers that holding the Huntsman that way between his palms feels rather awkward.

“Do you trust me enough to let me pet you as a bird?”

The corvid produces a small nod, as strong yet delicate fingers rummage through the soft feathers, contemplating the faintest of iridescent sheen atop the shifter’s plumage in the warm evening light. The barely noticeable hint of a prismatic reflection can be witnessed from this close only, and to Clover it’s like holding a precious jewel that’s his and his only, like witnessing the rainbow after a long, lonely hike in the rain and storm when the light finally comes.

The sensation of petting the crow form feels just like how Clover had always thought, imagined, dreamed running his hands through Qrow’s unkempt human hair must feel like. Just his luck, the shapeshifter must be sensing his thoughts, because the handful of feathers he’s stroking suddenly turns into a mess of silver-streaked strands on a very human, very pretty head. Awkward, yet adorable. Only then does he notice just how close the older man stands, the warmth of his breath buffeting the brunette’s own hair.

“Do you trust me enough to let me kiss you?” Clover murmurs.

Teal eyes avert red, looking down to the suddenly fascinating tiling on the kitchen floor. And then, the touch, the taste of soft lips upon him, capturing his nervous smile in a gentle kiss. The contact is brief at first, a shared breath like a warm breeze, a silent answer, a quiet promise. Tangling his fingers into the shifter’s ashen hair, Clover draws him in for another kiss, and another, and another. Until their lips never want to part again, until crimson eyes blink blissfully shut, and there is only blind trust, unspoken trust, unshakeable trust.

Chapter Text

Clover and Qrow work together quietly, easily, finishing cooking dinner and setting the table. It doesn’t take much convincing for the Ace Op to accept inviting James over or dinner. After all, it’s thanks to the General and his trust in both of them that everything unfolded the way it did. 

What surprises Clover, however, is that after Ironwood arrives and curtly greets both Huntsmen, he wraps a gentle arm around Qrow’s waist and softly kisses his cheek, the shapeshifter readily reclining into his touch. 

“Wait… you didn’t tell me...” Clover mumbles, confused, anxious, jealous, regretful, unable to comprehend the maelstrom of emotions that starts bubbling within him, a million Nevermores fluttering in his thorax as if threatening to break free at each and every of his heartbeats. 

“Qrow, I thought you’d told Clover that you and I were seeing each other,” James addresses his lover, safely nested within his arms. “Do you not trust him with that information?”

Clover understands. He kind of understands. Ironwood is secretive about his relationships, as a General should be. Qrow is secretive too, as a spy should be. They look so perfect for each other. 

Clover has learned to love Qrow as if loving for the first time, has learned how it felt to kiss him every time as if it were the last time, as if time was running out, as if luck was running out… but James was Clover’s first love if he ever had one, the role model he aspired to become in all his perfection, in all his wholeness and his brokenness. And the cracks, the cracks through which the line shine through, the scars that only serve as a badge of bravery in the Operative’s eyes, all these imperfections only make Clover want to hold James closer, to support him harder so he doesn’t break, so he doesn’t have to break, so he never has to break. 

But now Clover doesn’t need to, because he loves each of these men in his own way, but they’re perfect together, and there’s no crack left unfilled, no space left for Clover between jigsaw pieces that fit perfectly.

“Nah, I do trust him,” the scythe-wielder shrugs. “But it’d have been weird to break the news to the boy scout without you being there.”

“I apologise for only being available now,” James sighs, straightening his uniform, “some exasperating but important meetings ran overtime. Now that I’m here, I guess we should let you know, Clover.”

“I’m all ears, sir,” the younger soldier replies as smoothly as he can. 

“Please, call me James. And I wanted to let you know that we both trust you.”

“I know that -”

“And the two of us have been dating on and off for a while,” Qrow adds. 

“I guessed that might be the -”

“And we’re both interested in you,” the General finishes. “May we hug you?”

“Uh… sir, I… I mean James, I… yes, please!”

The sudden warmth is everything. Encompassing, gentle, trusting, and above all, warm. James’s beard is just as soft to the touch as Clover imagined as it tickles slightly against his cheekbone. Qrow’s shirt is wrinkly after all the previous antics, and the hugging doesn’t help, but Clover wants to memorise each of the folds, let them be etched into his body, let each ripple be marked into his skin when he grows old, because he wants to hold on to this moment, hold on to these men he’s learned to love and trust, these men who, with time had come to trust and love him too. He doesn’t want to ever let go, but alas time must pursue its course like an unstoppable river, and somewhere from amidst the three-way hug someone’s stomach groans hungrily.

“C’mon,” Clover says, disengaging regretfully, “let’s have dinner before the pasta goes cold.”

Chapter Text

There were songs in the tribe, sung around campfires after sundown. There were stories too, told in the semi-obscurity of the tents when shadows grew tall, dark, and scary. There were songs and stories, but they were rare, hardly a survival necessity between quick village raids and encounters with the Grimm. 

Through James and Clover, however, Qrow hears a lot more fables. Tales and stories of feathered or fur-covered creatures, of fishermen and unfurled seas, cleanly polished with a moral at the end. There’s a fable about a crow too, a crow and a fox to be exact. Always the charmer, the fox praises the crow about its singing voice, and the flattered avian, opening its beak to demonstrate its musical talent, lets go of a piece of cheese that the fox catches before running off. 

Clover and James are endlessly charming and seem fond of complimenting their pretty bird, but at least they don’t flatter his musical skill, for he wouldn’t believe it, with the meagre repertoire of songs he knows. He’s picked up rather motley music tastes from his teammates back during STRQ days, some jazz from Summer and… whatever was the eclectic mix of country music, hard rock, and film music from Tai. But still, he doesn’t really have what it takes to entertain his lovers and keep them distracted from their work through the night with his singing voice alone. 

Instead, in the evenings when the storm rages outside and staying in is the only option, sometimes Clover lies on their shared living room sofa across Ironwood’s lap, preventing the General from getting up and returning to his desk and paperwork, and reads some fable or other story from a book that smells like dust and old libraries. These nights, the crook of brunette’s neck is the perfect, warm place for Qrow to nest on in his corvid form, rocked by the soldier’s respiration as he delivers line after line, his voice as smooth as the softest of satins. 

And that, the sound of Clover’s voice, the muffled sound of snow crashing onto glass windows and winds howling between the skyscrapers outside when they’re warm indoors and nothing can hurt them, the flip of pages as regular, as certain as the moon pulls the tide, the ever so slightly laboured breathing from the Ace Op’s chest as he still slowly recovers, surely recovers from his injury, the soft beating of James’s heart echoing through metal and flesh, solid, steady, barely even discernible but still there, always there to remind them that the tin man does have a heart, all that is music to Qrow’s ears.

Chapter Text

“Thanks, Jimmy, but this isn’t my colour...” Qrow sighs, plopping down on the large, soft bed.

“For sure the uniform won’t look suitable if you keep hunching over and fidgeting with the hems,” James admonishes gently, his hands smoothing down the folds of Qrow’s new white shirt and blue waistcoat as the shapeshifter emits a soft, surprised gasp before leaning into his lover’s touch. 

“I love being manhandled like that,” the smaller man deadpans, burying his face into Ironwood’s shoulder when the latter runs his fingers against the sides of his sensitive, ticklish waist. 

“Sometimes I wonder if you don’t wrinkle your clothes on purpose because you enjoy it when I straighten them for you,” the General teases back.

“No matter how much you straighten our clothes, there still won’t be a single straight thing about us, James,” Clover comments from the other side of their shared bed, teal eyes intently inspecting Qrow’s first trial of his Atlas Academy professor uniform before the room’s full length mirror.

“Maybe that’s for the better,” the Headmaster chuckles softly.

“Lucky charm, can you tell Jimmy that this colour doesn’t work on me?” the shifter groans as he turns around to face his younger boyfriend.

“But the red accents match your eyes and cape beautifully,” Clover replies, gesturing to the crimson lapels and button details of the brand new waistcoat hugging a long, lithe torso.

“Yeah, fine, but the white?” Qrow counters, staring down at the stiff fabric of his shirt. “What if I stain it with tomato sauce while eating lasagna?”

“What, mess hall lasagna?” the brunette giggles. “I’ll make you the best ever homemade lasagna, so you won’t crave mess hall lasagna ever again.”

“And when you’re at home eating Clover’s lasagna with us,” James adds, “you won’t need to wear any clothing that you would be at risk of staining. If you feel cold in your state of undress, I’m sure we’ll be able to provide you with sufficient cuddles.”

“Okay, you have a point,” Qrow concedes. “But all the blue? Blue waistcoat, blue tie? Blue looks great on you guys, it complements your eyes, but it’s really not my cup of tea.”

“But isn’t that great that we’re all matching now?” the Ace Op leader wonders, cocking his head with a genuine smile.

“Qrow, I know this is a lot to get used to, but I’m sure you understand how uniforms remind people that we still stand together, after these difficult times that have divided the Kingdom.”

“Well duh, it’s a lot to get used to,” the shapeshifter grumbles. 

And it’s true, it’s a lot to get used to. Salem’s defeat, the grounding of Atlas, the large-scale reconstruction still undergoing in Mantle, the new comms tower launch, everyone still recovering from their scars, both physical and mental, racked up during the war, Qrow’s new teaching job at Atlas Academy, the kids preparing to depart for Vacuo… For sure, it’s a lot to get used to.

“Everything okay, Qrow?” Clover prompts quietly at the shifter’s sudden silence.

“Yeah, I was just feeling… a bit blue for a second, I guess.”

Both his boyfriends share a glance and a chuckle at that.

“C’mere,” the brunette beckons, both Atlesians wrapping Qrow into a tight hug.

It’s nice and warm, but...

“Hey... need … to... breathe,” the scythe-wielder pants with difficulty. “hard with the tie.”

“Then it might be best to do away with the tie for your uniform, for practical reasons,” the General decides. “I think you’d like that.”

That makes him look less blue, so Qrow mentally executes a fist pump and a dance while James’s warm fingers trail their way up to the collar of his shirt, expertly undoing the tie knot and gracing the pale skin of his Adam’s apple. Contemplating the uncovered alabaster skin as he unbuttons the top button of Qrow’s shirt, Ironwood leans in for a brief peck onto the base of the shifter’s neck.

“Yes, I believe I can authorise this,” he hums in approval, his beard softly tickling Qrow’s sensitive neck.

“But what do you think, boss?” Clover comments. “Should we punish Qrow for being ungrateful for the outfit we picked for him?”

“Yes, Operative. Yes, I believe we should,” James replies, both soldiers moving in to bind Qrow’s willing wrists with the cobalt tie, a mischievous smirk stretching their birdfriend’s lips.

Since they did away with the tie, they might need something else to cover up any marks on Qrow’s neck when all of this is over. Maybe a blue or green scarf, that would be cute, James and Clover reflect - though Qrow would look adorable whatever colour he wears.

Chapter Text

Qrow has few accessories. He’s constantly taking to the road or the skies, like the wind that always passes but never stops. He has to travel light, only taking what is necessary with him. Only taking what he can’t throw away, what he must always keep. 

He has few accessories, so it’s easy to notice when one is missing. He aligned them all on the wooden nightstand, like a ritual when he needs to settle into a new nest. He has a pocket watch Ozpin gave him. He rarely ever uses it, but it becomes handy when he’s travelling in the wilderness for days and can’t charge his Scroll. There’s also a hairbrush that Summer gifted him during their team’s many hair braiding and feather grooming sessions. There’s the rings Tai gave him, apparently for punching purposes, and the tilted cross-shaped trinket his twin sister offered him when they got to Beacon, and… his flask used to be there. His flask used to be there, but now it’s gone.

It’s going to be okay, he reasons, digging his nails into his clammy palms. It’s going to be okay, he doesn’t need it anymore, he’d only been keeping it for sentimental reasons. It’s going to be okay, it likely wasn’t stolen, he’s safe now, he’s in Patch now and it’s safe. He and the kids stopped over on their way to Vacuo, to have some time to rest and recover because it’s safe here. It’s safe, he’s safe, and it’s going to be okay. 

Only when he leaves the guest bedroom and walks down the stairs does he figure out what happened to his flask. 

“Like what I did with it?” Tai prompts, sipping from his coffee on the sofa. 

“You turned it into a flower vase.”

It’s not a question. It’s not a criticism. Just a surprised comment - it’s so outright weird, and yet so strangely fitting. 

“I know you aren’t using it any more,” the brawler explains, “but you kept it nonetheless.”

“I didn’t know what else to do with it.”

“Did you keep it because the girls and I gifted it to you at graduation? Or because it reminds you of the hurdles you’ve overcome?”

The flask is a vessel for past tears, past loves, past losses, a sore reminder of past mistakes so they may never be repeated, of past victories so Qrow may never forget they’re possible, despite all the odds and misfortunes in Remnant.

“I’m not sure. Both?”

The sofa is old, soft, and welcoming when the shapeshifter plops down next to his former teammate.

“Hmm. Thought so.”

They stare at the new vase in silence, morning sunlight pooling against glistening metal, filling the emblem that scars the leather in its centre. Stemming out from the accessory, the sunflowers and roses are in full bloom. 

“Putting flowers everywhere, such a Tai thing to do,” Qrow grumbles. 

“And groaning and complaining all the time when people try to be nice is such a Qrow thing to do, right birdie?” the blonde counters. 

“I’m not complaining. I love it.”

The shifter reclines against Tai’s side like molten sunlight.

“I love you too… Uh. I mean. I love it too.”

The brawler doesn’t realise some stroke of bad luck made his tongue slip before it’s too late, bringing a hand to his lips after he realises what he just said. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Qrow murmurs in his most soothing voice, removing Tai’s digits off his mouth to drop a feather-light kiss on his slightly calloused fingertips. They smell like cut flowers and dew-cluttered grass at sundawn, but they taste like coffee. 

Tai’s lips must taste like coffee too - not that it would be too hard to verify.

Chapter Text

When Qrow first got bird powers, he and Raven liked chasing the fireflies in the Emerald Forest at night. So shiny, and so crispy too. They were high-protein, so Ozpin only chuckled and approved, sipping his coffee while watching the twins hunt. Qrow wondered, if he ate enough of them, whether his avian stomach would glow and flicker in the dark in bright shades of green. Then Raven pointed out that there was a risk they might shift back to their human selves while feeding, and have to spit the insects back out as humans. That kind of disgusted him from fireflies. 

For a while, at least. 

“So is this what they look like?” Weiss asks, drawing him from his memories, her summoning glyph spinning softly atop her palm. 

The tiny, translucent Lancers she summons flutter around them as she focuses, twirling in interwoven trajectories and leaving trails of pale blue light behind. Within the training room’s quietness in the middle of the night, the overhead light intensity lowered to a minimum, Qrow can practically imagine the heady tone of their incessant buzz, the mossy scent of the forest, the nervous warmth of summer nights, just watching the winged creatures’ weightless ballet. 

“Yup. Looks about right. Good job, kiddo.”

“Thank you. At least now I have more of an idea of how it feels to be surrounded by fireflies at night. I always wondered what it would be like.”

Growing up, she had all the wealth in Remnant, but even all the wealth in Remnant cannot buy carefree, quiet summer nights in the forest, carefree because there’s nothing to lose, quiet because there’s no one to yell at you, just the insistent sound of buzzing, just the faint lighting from the moon, the stars, and the fireflies. 

Now at least she can experience it with her favourite uncle. 

And he can recall STRQ days and hunting nights with his sister, watching all those delicious treats dancing before his eyes…

“Uncle Qrow?” she quirks a silver brow, confused at his behaviour. 

Because Father and Winter may have scoffed at that, but when it’s just the two of them in a training room, she’ll call him whatever she wants. 

But he doesn’t reply, so she doesn’t exactly know what to do when he starts chasing the Lancers one by one in bird form, swallowing so many at once that blue light starts to flicker through the feathers of his abdomen. She waves off her summons, letting them disintegrate into a rain of light particles, but the flickering lights only excite the feverishly fluttering corvid further. Puzzled, she wondered if he sustained any damage eating so many summoned Grimm. 

Oh well. She calls Uncle Clover. He’ll find a solution. He always finds a solution. 

In the end, Uncle Clover lures the crow in with the shiny hook of Kingfisher, wrapping the fishing line securely around the feathered form and reeling in his catch with a confident smirk. He only has to kiss the bird at the base of its neck, right between the wings, to watch it transform back into a human, a wide-eyed human tangled into a fishing rope and coughing silvery sparks of light between hysterical fits of laughter. 

It turns out, summoned ‘fireflies’ aren’t a very filling treat. 

Not that it matters. Uncle Clover can make mac n cheese for late night snacks.

Chapter Text

Qrow is used to navigating in a natural environment. He was born in the forest, learning to walk in the forest, hesitant toes treading the red dirt, leaving small prints on the red earth. He grew up in the forest, with nothing but a tent protecting him from the rain at night, with nothing but dirty hands to search for food and water through the lush undergrowth, with nothing but nimble feet to flee away from the Grimm, to do whatever it takes to survive. 

When he hikes through the forest, he’s quiet, his footsteps light, his gait alert, his ears open to the softest whisper of a faraway waterfall, to the gentlest chirp of a nest of fledgling birds. His eyes scan through the green - moss green that’s squishy underfoot, fern green tickling his ankles, emerald green, sage green, bottle green, lime green… until his eyes pause on red. He remembers red, he’s grown up learning to see red, to find red, to fear red. Red like the eyes of the Grimm lurking around in nature, red like the blood of the injured, red like his own eyes that brought nothing but misfortune…

Clover’s eyes are very green, but they’re a unique shade Qrow had never seen before meeting him. The closest name that comes to mind is seafoam green - Qrow was already an adult the first time he saw the sea and its unfurled natural beauty. The sea is boringly simple compared to the forest, yet it is mesmerising, and red eyes could not help but trace the horizon line where the waves meet the sky. 

Qrow remembers all that when he sees Clover, crouching beside the path at the top of the slope to catch his breath, heavy pants pouring from his lips. He remembers that when he sees green eyes flit down at the shapeshifter’s palms, contemplating the splodges of red standing out amongst the green surrounding them.

“Raspberries?” the soldier wonders softly.

“Open up,” Qrow teases, pressing the red fruit to his lover’s lips and smirking as the subtlest hint of a tongue darts out onto his digits to lick off the remaining juice.

In the winter, birds migrate somewhere warm. After Clover was injured in their battle against Tyrian, after they defeated Salem and her whale in Atlas, Qrow decided to take his boyfriend with him on a vacation to Patch, where the gentler climate is more clement to his still recovering lungs. They convinced their common boyfriend James to tag along too, after much insistence to drag him away from his desk even for brief days. 

As their host and the only native from Patch, Tai hikes ahead, leading the way. Ever the overachiever, Clover tries his best to follow the blonde’s pace, only occasionally pausing to breathe and calm the ache that constricts his healing chest. Qrow would have been just as fast if he wasn’t so distracted by picking wild berries, surprisingly still juicy and sweet at this time of year, and hand feeding them to his lovers. Weighed down by his metal half body, the General struggles to keep up when ascending the final slope, suppressing a curse under his breath as a rock jostles loose under his foot and tumbles down the dirty path. 

Immediately, Qrow flies to the rescue in his corvid form, transforming back just in time to catch his boyfriend before he can slip down the slope. 

“You okay there, Jimmy? You’re burning hot… not that you aren’t always a hottie, but...”

Flushed skin, sleek metal are warm, too warm under the shapeshifter’s touch, Ironwood’s brow beaded with sweat under the small steel band. Red eyes flicker down awkwardly, ashamed of the stroke of bad luck that caused the rock to fall.

“Yes, thanks. The ventilation capacities of my prosthetics are not too suited to warm and humid climates, unfortunately. But it’s not your fault, Qrow.”

“At least the warmth must be nice, when it’s cold outside in Atlas,” Tai turns back to comment. “And the metal looks really good too… wait, both sides look really good. I’m a big fan.”

As he speaks, the brawler tosses his shoulder guard over to Clover and discards his shirt and waves it to ventilate the General, serving as a literal human-sized fan. Qrow catches the Ace Op’s eyes trailing down the blonde’s tan shoulders and toned back, while James grins gratefully, a small smile that the shapeshifter wishes he’d see more upon his lover’s lips, a small smile that usually means James is in love. 

Tai shoots a triumphant wink in Qrow’s direction, and emboldened by the gesture, the red-caped man can’t help but wink back. The four of them can make this work. They can definitely make this work.

“C’mon, gentleman,” the blonde waves smoothly, “we’re almost there. Only a couple more steps, and we’ll be able to see the view. It’s worth it, I promise.”

As Clover scampers off after Tai, Qrow holds James’s hand to make sure he doesn’t slip again, both of them rejoining the others at the highest point of their hike, towering over the savage natural panorama of Patch island. At their feet, expanses of canopy spread, dappled in all possible shades of green, turning red, turning russet, turning gold as the cold season comes. The forest sprawls until it meets the sea, forest green and sea green only separated by a thin ribbon of smooth white sand where the waves come all the way from the horizon to crash, embroidering the shore with delicately pearly foam in their wake. 

“Wow,” Clover mutters under his breath, leaning into both Qrow and Tai on either side for support. 

“It’s beautiful,” James agrees.  

Qrow’s heart swells at the thought. This is unleashed nature, this is what he grew up knowing. This is home, Patch island is the home he chose for himself, the men that surround him and that he learned to love are the home he wants for himself, and feeling at home could never be more beautiful.

Chapter Text

“Hold up, pretty boy. What’s that? What the heck is that?”

Qrow’s crimson eyes stared down in astonishment at the gravity bolas tightly binding his hand together with Clover’s at the wrist, glistening faintly under the Mantle artificial lighting.

“Pietro has a hypothesis on tactile probability distribution transference...” the Ace Op captain mumbled.

“Gesundheit?”

“He thinks if we maintain physical contact, my Semblance will be able to better balance out yours and reduce the damage that your misfortune can cause.”

“What the hell? And we’re supposed to fight like that?” 

“We can give it a try,” Clover shrugged, confidently drawing Kingfisher and casting it, the fishing line wrapping around a Sabyr’s neck and sending it flying into the nearest concrete wall. “Need a hand lifting that heavy weapon of yours?”

“I’ll have you know I can very well wield it one-handed, thank you.”

A smug smirk creased the corner of Qrow’s lip as he withdrew Harbinger from the small of his back and shot at the trapped Grimm, causing it to disintegrate into a rain of sooty particles before it even hit the floor.

They fought side by side, getting used to their new fighting styles without much of a hitch. Qrow impaled another Sabyr through the back and slammed the heavy scythe blade into the ground, Clover lassoing another Grimm and making it collide with the one Qrow stabbed, killing both with one lucky shot. A few more shots at overhead creatures, the fishing wire dancing graceful circles around them to ground the monsters while the bullets flew past without even grazing the rope, both fighters moving in perfect synchrony until the area was swiftly cleared.

Only when they headed out did Qrow slip on a treacherous sheet of ice, his hand tied to Clover’s serving as the only thing stopping him from face planting onto the cold hard asphalt.

“Nope. Didn’t work. Still unlucky,” he grumbles, very aware of the Operative’s strong, warm fingers clutching his hand through the rough fabric of Clover’s glove.

“I’d chalk that up to me getting lucky,” the younger replied, wrapping a shapely arm securely around his partner’s waist to bring him back to his feet. “Though that could be tested.”

A mischievous light graced teal eyes, before the scythe-wielder found himself trapped inside a tight embrace. 

“What are you doing?”

Qrow sounded less bothered than he would have liked, having vastly underestimated how touch-starved his hug-craving body had been. 

“Verifying if more physical contact will be more efficient in counteracting your bad luck… uh, Qrow?”

The Specialist stopped dead in his tracks at the feeling of Qrow’s teeth undoing the buttons of Clover’s waistcoat, while the shifter’s free hand simultaneously unbuttoned his own shirt in a remarkable demonstration of multitasking.

“What if it’s skin to skin contact that we need?” the older man quipped back.

“Hmm… only one way to know… hey!”

Under the pressure of Qrow’s insistent mouth, one button popped with a resounding noise and clattered against the floor, causing Qrow to perk up, an inquisitive expression painted over his features.

“Is that your good luck too, boy scout?”

“We need to collect more data in order to verify that hypothesis,” Clover stuttered as he brushed Qrow’s shirt off the shapeshifter’s slender, toned shoulders.

“So… are you writing my Uncle Qrow and Clover getting naked in the middle of  a public Mantle street?” Yang wonders, leaning over Blake’s shoulder to peer at what the smaller girl is typing on her Scroll.

The screen’s pale blue light illuminates the girls’ faces and the narrow space they sit, at the back of the supply transport that they’re escorting to Amity. Until Blake suddenly slams the device shut, leaving the inside of the truck dark and quiet. Hopefully, that should conceal the blushing heat rising to her cheeks from Yang.

“What? No, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the feline Faunus replies precipitantly, fingers nervously shuffling to tuck the device away.

She underestimates, however, how numb and clumsy her frozen fingers are, when she should have been burying her hands into her pockets to keep them warm on the way through the icy tundra, instead of writing fanfiction with her thumbs on her Scroll.

“Your hands look cold,” the blonde notices. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

Blake can’t complain about the overused hand pun, can’t complain when her bluish hands are rubbed and squeezed between warmer flesh and metal palms, no doubt heated by Fire Dust. Until she realises the other girl’s not about to release her fingers anytime soon.

“Hey! Let go!”

“Only if you promise to stop writing dirty fics about my uncle,” Yang winks.

Chapter Text

Qrow has always known how to sew. With the tears his misfortune always creates, it is a matter of necessity to know how to mend and make amends. Back in the day, travelling with the tribe, the cuffs of his pants and the sleeves of his shirts would always be ripped by some brambles, snagged by some wayward branch if not slashed by the Grimm, with his luck. Learning how to stitch has become invaluable, even throughout the long missions he went on later in life. 

Somehow, amidst the havoc fate has wreaked on his life, threading a needle has become a safe haven. It’s the calm after the tempest, nothing matters any more in the world, no fortunes and misfortunes can hurt him, the world is the tip of the thread and the hole in the needle, and nothing more. It’s the cold touch of the metal needle between his fingers, the warm texture of the fabric against his skin, the silence and the concentration as he creates stitch after stitch, again and again, time stretching like thread, flowing like fabric within his hands. It’s the quiet, meticulous task he can lose his mind into, requiring as much precision as wielding Harbinger, except that no one, nothing is getting hurt, everything is getting patched up, everything is getting better. 

It is only in Atlas that he picks up knitting. 

When they got used to the new normal, Blake started collecting colourful yarns again. For Qrow, withdrawal is a long journey, recovery is a long, messy, entangled line like a ball of yarn. He wishes he could turn it into a soft, snug jumper - so Blake shows him. One stitch on one side, one stitch on the other. He can do this, his hands are shaky and clammy, the long needles slipping between his butter fingers, the yarn is so clear and precise and itchy, but he can do this. One stitch on one side, one stitch on the other. The world is so much more well-defined now that he’s sober. Take a deep breath - the warm scent of wool, the brightness of saturated colours, the softness of more muted shades. One stitch on one side, one stitch on the other. 

Naturally, after Salem’s defeat, he takes his needles, yarn, and projects with him on his vacation to Patch. Winter will reach Atlas soon, this is why they migrated like bird flocks in the wind, Clover and James coming along for the ride. To prepare for the cold season, the shapeshifter knits socks and scarves for the kids, he can’t wait to send them their gifts for the solstice celebrations. Time stretches like wool, steel needles clicking together like the tick-tock of a clock throughout the day. When did time pass so fast? Soon, Hallowe’en is just around the corner. 

They had made a Toothless costume for Zwei, so Tai decides to go as Hiccup, painting the dragon-rider’s emblem onto his usual shoulder guard. Qrow comes up with a Viking-style knit surcoat and the blonde starts wearing it even outside of dressing up, as a particularly warm cardigan that complements his middle-aged teacherly style in the winter. 

Surprisingly, James adores the notion of going out in costumes. Not to be recognised as General out of uniform, not to be recognised as Headmaster, be just another face in the crowd sharing the secret of his identity with his boyfriends only. He looks dashing as a pirate in a blue velvet coat, an eye patch concealing the distinguishable metal band atop his brow. James came perfectly prepared, so Qrow can only knit him mittens with leather straps and little skulls so that his hands won’t go cold while trick-or-treating, and kiss each digit, worshipping both sleek metal and scarred skin, as he slips the gloves onto his lover’s fingers. 

Clover’s costume is trickier, they underestimated the length of an adult man’s legs and needed to change the yarn colour part of the way through - so he ends up with a rainbow woolen merman tail. Not that he feels discontent, instead wearing it with pride alongside the simple fishnet draped around his sculptural shoulders. His boyfriends have asked multiple times if he’d catch a cold, if he needed gloves, or a scarf, or a shirt, or even sleeves for the Brother’s sake. But Clover is as solid as an anchor amidst the sea, he never feels cold, nor can he get sick. Not that his lovers would complain about his bare chest on display - the scar has healed and started to fade (when did time pass so slow, yet so fast?). Or if he caught a fever and they had to form a cuddle dogpile to keep him warm.

Qrow has worked so relentlessly for the others that he hasn’t thought much about himself. Some things never change - and some things never have to. Because his boyfriends worked just as hard for him, because he deserves happiness, he deserves not to be alone. Crimson eyes widen at the sight of the garments laid out on the bed, recognising the fantasy school uniform they had emulated, matched with a long black cape. Having teacher and headmaster lovers has its perks, when it comes to finding such items, he realises. 

But one of the pieces is not just from any girl’s uniform. Uniforms all start out the same - but their scars tell different stories. And those rips, those stitches on the side, he immediately remembers adding them after the damage his landing strategy had caused. He remembers Raven sneering, Summer stifling a giggle, Tai staring in silence, blue eyes bearing an expression the young Qrow had never witnessed before...

“Tai, you kept it?” the shifter mumbles in surprise.

“Of course I kept your first skirt as a souvenir. Your legs looked great in it.”

“I’m sure they still look great in it,” Clover supplies with a playful tap on Qrow’s shoulder, by way of reassurance. “Wanna bet?”

“In case Tai may be unaware, I learnt the hard way it’s futile to bet with Clover, being the luckiest man in Remnant.” James assures, helping Qrow into the skin-tight garment. 

Even before he can finish adjusting every item on, his lovers wrap a red scarf around his neck - a scarf they must have knitted themselves, with his own yarn, because the strings of love and destiny are entangled like that into long crimson scarves and these three men, these three wonderful men are all here for Qrow. Eyeing the mirror under the others’ scrutiny, the scythe-wielder notices it looks different - there are scars, more scars than the ivory skin had borne back in their Academy days. There are scars, memories stitched into constellations, testaments to a bravery that has been bent, but never broken. He has scars, he is damaged, but he deserves love. They’re there for him now. Even Zwei lets out a bark of approval at the stunning sight, that Tai needlessly translates as:

“Happy Hallowe’en, Qrow.”