Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He cannot decide whether to focus upon the stage, or to stare at the icons upon his Scroll; both are too tempting, too tantalizing, grabbing his attention amidst the stark darkness shrouding the rest of Amity Colosseum’s central stage. So, he settles for the next best thing, holding up the screen so that he can see the status icon shift from blank to ‘Active’ with every step Penny takes, all while watching the look of wonderment fill his nieces’ faces.

Finally, the rank is promoted. The job is done. Ruby Rose, Yang Xiao Long, and all of their friends, are proper, newly-ordained Huntsmen and Huntresses.

They exchange quiet words of thanks with James and Winter, but Qrow ignores those formalities. Half of him wants to scream, to jump up and cheer the way he used to at Yang’s softball games when she had been a child playing for the Patch Pacers. He wants to clap and holler, shooing the other kids off the stage to leave more room for Ruby, the clumsy young girl as awkward on stage as ever. He wants to run down, to gather them up in his arms, to ruffle their hair and take them out on an adventure and hold them tight and set the little demons loose onto the world and-

I shouldn’t be the only one to see this.

Just like that, any joy that had filled his heart whilst watching his nieces finally achieve the goal which had been stripped away from them so callously at the Fall of Beacon empties out of his soul. His throat swells, closing up, his palms clammy as they rise, moving to pat his breast pocket.

Nothing is there.

The smile which emerges onto his lips is bittersweet. The flask is gone- he has made a promise, and he shall see it through for Ruby and Yang’s sake- but even if he is sober, Qrow will never be an adequate replacement for the ones who truly should be at this event. He knows that his girls love him more than anything- whether that is a good or bad thing, he doesn’t know, considering how his weakness has cost them so much time and time again- but he will never equate to those who matter.

Their father should be here. If Taiyang were here, he would be sobbing. He would cheer, and cry, and run off the bleachers to hold his girls as a sobbing wreck. He would take photographs with them and force them to smile- he would whisper words of love and pride into their hair as he held them close. He would prove, yet again, that he is every bit the father they had always deserved, more than anyone could have ever asked for.

Silently, Qrow takes out his Scroll and snaps a few photographs of the children- now Huntsmen- lined up proudly in a single rank, their chests held high and their eyes shining with determined hope. For now, he shall save these moments, so that one day, he could show his best friend just how well the man’s two daughters had fared on their own.

With that thought however, his heart clenches, seizing so painfully that he almost doubles over, his world spinning for a long, surreal moment. Taiyang is not the only one who should be here watching them receive these qualifications.

…you would be so damn proud, Summer. Your kids are just like you now.

The thought makes him want to weep. His best friend would have been the proudest mother on the planet. He watches from this safe, almost cowardly distance as the rank finally pulls apart, the children walking off-stage and filling the air with excited chatter; Yang immediately walks over to Ruby and slings an arm around her shoulders, ruffling her hair and pinching her cheek, the smile on her face brimming with such pride that it eases the pain plaguing his chest. In turn, Ruby swats her big sister’s hands away from her face, but Qrow does not miss that moment when they intertwine their fingers and Ruby takes a moment to simply close her eyes and lean her tiny head upon her older sister’s shoulder, the two girls basking in the achievement of their lifelong goal together before breaking away to greet their other friends and teammates.

Yang is so proud of Ruby, and Ruby, of Yang. But they would be happier to have their mother with them, too.

His thoughts sour slightly as they drift over to his own sister. In contrast to Taiyang and Summer, the gratitude which curls up into his throat, curdling, spoilt, is undeniable as he thinks of Raven’s absence. She does not deserve this moment. Yang has always deserved more than what Qrow’s sister could ever provide for her.

“You should go down and celebrate with them,” an amused, low tenor calls.

Nearly leaping a foot into the air, Qrow twists in his seat, groaning as he clutches his aching, pounding chest much to Clover Ebi’s apparent amusement. Clearing his throat, he mumbles, “I- I wouldn’t want to intrude on their moment.”

“What’re you talking about?” the brunet chuckles, hopping over the seats with ease to perch a few feet away from Qrow. “I mean, you’re Ruby and Yang’s uncle, aren’t you? I’m sure they’re happy to have you here.”

Qrow pauses, assessing his words. The man seems to mean every word, a sense of earnestness hanging about him that makes him open- almost as if Qrow is… a comrade.

His breath hitches in his throat. It has been far too long since he has fought beside someone who had considered him truly an ally, and not merely a liability, thanks to his Semblance. He cannot deny that fighting alongside Clover that day in the mines had been an oddly-refreshing change of pace.

The other man gestures again to the girls, now approaching the large cake which had been brought for them with a sense of glee which Qrow feels like he has not seen since their time in Mistral. “Go on, unless- let me guess, you’re not a fan of cake?”

He cannot deny the smile which quirks his lips. Yet, his body refuses to move, to take the first step needed to meet his nieces down upon the stadium floor. “I just…” Qrow sighs, leaning back in his seat. His arm flops over his eyes, the weight and familiar leather texture of his armband reassuring, yet painfully taunting in its familiarity. It is fraying, he notes suddenly in the back of his mind. Perhaps it is time to change it, trade out the old for the new. Perhaps it is time to let go of the past.

He won’t, though. He never will.

Letting out a long, weary breath, the elder finally locates what he wishes to say. “I… shouldn’t be the one here,” he murmurs at last. “I wish their parents were here. My teammates- they deserve to see their kids shine like this.” A small smile quirks his lips as his mind’s eye conjures images without any hesitation: Taiyang leaning over Ruby’s crib with Yang nestled into the crook of his arm; Summer wiping flour off of the girls’ faces after a batch of making cookies; Raven leaning back against the window, one hand laid flat against her bulging stomach, a sense of serenity around her which Qrow had rarely ever seen in his sister-

The hand which lands upon his shoulder is warm, calluses and lack of subtlety clear even through fabric. Still, he cannot deny that the weight is oddly comforting, almost as if it tethers him here.

He blinks. Glances at the girls. Ruby and Yang smile, and when they catch him watching them, those smiles widen, and for a moment, they are infants again. They are his little girls.

He will love them forever, unconditionally. He merely wants what is best for them.

“Well, it may not perfect,” Clover voices at last, his touch firm and reassuring upon Qrow’s bony shoulder, “but I’m sure they’re glad you’re here, at least. What would they do without their hero?”

Qrow snorts at that last statement. “Trust me, boy scout,” he growls wryly, shaking his head as he stands at last, “I am not their hero.”

“Boy scout?” A thick brow raises, but Clover does not comment further. Instead, he adds, “They fight like you, though. It seems like Ruby specifically ordered that cape, too- looks like she’s playing dress-up. I don’t blame her though.” Winking, the younger turns to walk away, hand pulling away from Qrow in favour of tucking into his pockets, all leisurely confidence and easy-going pride. “It’s a good look. Lucky girl.”

Qrow’s smile widens, flustered pride and embarrassment and joy seeping into his soul despite his woes. He agrees with Clover; it suits Ruby far more than it suits him.

…Perhaps he will get along with Clover Ebi, after all.

Chapter Text

Clover is actually a pretty decent guy, Qrow finds. James could have done a lot worse in picking a leader for his most elite unit. The younger (only by two years, Clover continues to remind him, so it’s ‘not that big a deal’ although Qrow refuses to let that detail slip) is still a little too uptight for Qrow’s taste, but he cannot deny that he genuinely begins to like Clover’s company after a few missions together.

It is thanks to their Semblances, he tells himself. After all, with Clover’s good fortune, Qrow finds that for the first time in… well, ever, he can actually fight without focusing solely on protecting his comrades from himself. His misfortune has caused too much grief to his teammates and allies in the past. To have someone who is so effortlessly able to brush off Qrow’s misfortune and wear such a jovial smile is so comforting it is almost gutting.

It just… doesn’t feel real.

It doesn’t feel fair.

Why couldn’t it have always been like this? he finds himself thinking far too often for his own good. Going on missions with Clover is delightful thanks to its normalcy, not due to their fighting styles. On the battlefield, in reality, they don’t match at all; Clover is better suited to fight alongside his teammates, and Qrow, on his own. But with Clover by his side, Qrow smiles and laughs and doesn’t have so much fear festering in his heart, and that itself is a taste sweeter than any liquor he has ever tasted.

It’s… nice. Wonderful, even. Soothing, and comforting, and nice. And he likes it.

He doesn’t even feel like he needs to drink that much when Clover is around, either.

He is grateful for the fact that it is Ruby who brings this up, and not Yang nor Weiss or one of the other kids. There is no suggestion, no subtle teasing in her words- well, not as much as what her sister would subject him to. With a wry, yet strangely gleeful smile, Ruby murmurs one day while they ride back up to Atlas from Mantle after a perimeter patrol, “It’s nice that you and Clover get along so well, huh, Uncle Qrow?”

The man can only snort and ruffle her hair and smile. She isn’t wrong, after all. As much as he loves his nieces, and as much as he hates James’ prickly penchant for following orders to a T, he cannot deny that he has greatly enjoyed getting to fight alongside someone his own age after what feels like a millennia. The fact that he’s been finding himself able to almost ignore his Semblance is no small feat.

That being said, going on missions with Ruby isn’t exactly a slouch, either. Winking at her teasingly as she pouts while attempting to fix her mussed bangs, Qrow comments dreamily, “You know, going on missions with you these days, kiddo… it reminds me of your mom.”

At these words, her eyes spark to life, brimming with such glorious pride and wonderment that his own eyes sting and water in response. “Really?!”

That look is so similar to her mother’s that it hurts. Chuckling softly, he nods, reaching into his pocket. His clothes have changed since he landed in Atlas, but this photograph’s presence in his life lingers on, always within arm’s reach. Unfolding the creased, aged image, he points to Summer Rose’s gentle, yet quietly wicked grin at the edge of the shot. “I told you. Such brats, the lot o’ ya.”

Ruby immediately sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry at him, but he does not move away as she leans upon his shoulder, her boots kicking out almost childishly. The sight of it makes his heart swell, nostalgia filling every pore. Missions with Summer used to be like this, too; teasing banter and smiling eyes, the two of them moving around one another so fluidly that it had always felt like Qrow would be able to take down anything as long as they were together-

“You’re a good Huntress, kiddo,” he murmurs, stroking her hair absently. “Your dad would be real proud to see you now, too.”

Ruby’s grin softens for just a moment before growing to reflect the grin in the crinkled, aged photograph still laying in Qrow’s palm. “Who’s better- me or Clover?” she teases without restraint.

Rolling his eyes, he mocks and pokes fun at the teenager for the rest of the ride up. It is safe and warm in the airship, and by the time they arrive back at Atlas’ docks, he can feel his cheeks aching from having smiled so much, the exhaustion leaving him heady and giddy with the warmth her affection and pride and happiness brings him.

Still, someone has to write the final reports. Qrow waves Ruby off so she can eat dinner with her teammates, leaving him to wander over to the Ace Ops’ office to get their daily mission logs filed away. The mess hall will likely still be open by the time he is finished, so he is not concerned.

To his surprise, although the sun has already sunken past the edges of Atlas and Mantle’s horizons, Clover is still working away at his desk as Qrow flips on the lights. The younger man grimaces and swears quietly, squinting as he swivels in his chair to look at the intruder. Upon seeing Qrow, however, the man’s face melts into a wide, easygoing grin. “Finishing up reports?”

Qrow shrugs, wandering over casually to a terminal diagonal to Clover’s dedicated desk. “I mean,” he says airily, “we ran into two Grimm hordes. It delayed our return trip, what can I say?”

Clover’s eyes twinkle mirthfully, and Qrow’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way his thumb rises off his keyboard to flick the large clover-and-horseshoe brooch which rests upon Clover’s lapel, the green and silver piece standing out starkly from the red of his uniform. As he does so, his other hand flies across the keyboard, a satisfied grin blossoming across thin lips.

The pin is his good luck charm. Idly, Qrow taps his own fingers upon the desk, waiting for the terminal to recognize his credentials so that he may finish up his work for the evening. Normally, he would probably find someone with Clover’s confidence as grating, but Ruby was right to say that he has been genuinely enjoying his missions as of late.

And, in reality, it is mostly due to the fact that he can take a load off and simply fight.

With Clover around, there is no fearing for his comrade’s lives; there is no terror that one day, with one wrong step, Qrow’s Semblance will rear its head and take someone else away from Qrow. He is so at ease with the missions he has been assigned in Atlas that he is almost looking forward to the next one.

It’s a novel idea.

As he waits, only one thought rings through his mind: Are you my good luck charm then, boy scout?

…If someone like Clover had been around Team STRQ, how different would his life have been?

“Qrow? It’s asking for your log,” Clover calls, dragging Qrow out of his thoughts. With a start, Qrow bolts upright, grimacing weakly as Clover laughs. Then, the younger asks for Qrow’s thoughts, a curious glint in his eye as he leans back from his own terminal, crossing an ankle over his knee and leaning forward in anticipation.

Qrow gulps. Clover has no business knowing his random musings, and yet, he finds himself telling the younger anyways.

“Well,” Clover murmurs once Qrow quiets down again, “I, for one, don’t know how it would’ve ended up if we had worked together earlier, but… hey, I’m glad to be here now.” His grin is nothing like the calculated, professional amicability he portrays to the junior Huntsmen, Qrow realizes. “And I’m glad you’re here too, Qrow.”

To this, Qrow smiles. And that smile doesn’t fade, even as they finish up their work and wander to the mess hall together, only to find it closed. It doesn’t fade, even as they head back to the officer’s lounge to get some frozen meals. It is not much, but with company, it is more than he could have ever asked for.

Chapter Text

He wants to drink. He doesn’t.

He had thought, by virtue of the first few days being relatively painless in his journey to leave the bottle behind, that he had moved on. He was over the worst of it, and his old demons will slowly learn to haunt someone else, giving him the sobriety and freedom he had always been too feeble, too weak, to achieve on his own. Alcohol would be his constant companion no longer; the shame which always illuminated his heart whenever he drank around his nieces, around his old teammates, around his memories, would disappear, too.

He had been wrong, though. That peace had lasted as long as his Aura had managed to fight off every fiber of his being screaming for more, screaming to fill the void which he himself had carved into his very bones since he had first tasted liquor and the sheer peace which it had brought. His Aura had fought valiantly against the dependency that is so deeply engrained into his very being that he finds himself no longer able to think without his hands drifting to a flask that is not there, a high and low that he can no longer reach. Without his Aura there to aid him, he is defenseless against the terrors of his own mind.

Cravings are far more frightening to him than the Grimm could ever be.

He wants to drink. It is innocent, his mind whispers evilly. It is just one drink. No one will know- Yang and Ruby would understand- the officer’s mess is always open for Huntsmen, and it would be so easy to waltz in a put a drink (or twenty) on his tab, because what the hell else is he going to buy when everything is provided for him?

He does not drink. Instead, he sits in the darkened office of the Ace Operatives, silently plugging numbers into spreadsheets and handling work that is decidedly not his. He does not care, however; he will take anything to keep his mind occupied. So long as he does not have to think about unquenchable thirst and his pathetically-empty Aura, he is happy.

It takes Clover two days to crack under the pressure and finally ask what is going on with Qrow’s sudden gaunt figure, his failing strength, his desperate attempts to keep working. It takes two more days for Qrow to finally crack and tell him; the elder had wanted to keep it close to the chest, but after hearing Marrow cheerfully announce for the nth day in a row, “Let’s go to the officer’s mess and celebrate!” he had lost his temper. For that, he had no excuse.

And yet, it does not go how Qrow had imagined. Rather than mocking his weakness, Clover’s jade eyes go wide, thick brows furrowing together in horror. Then, the man closes a dropped jaw and races out of the office, leaving Qrow behind to wallow in his own pathetic nature.

There is no wallowing to be had, however. Clover returns swiftly, a worried fervour to his movements that he attempts to cover up with strained smiles and stiff motions. Even in his exhaustion, however, Qrow can see just how fearful Clover is as he looks at Qrow’s drained, broken Aura, the man’s hollowed eyes empty and feeble. To this, Clover simply places down a water bottle. Then, he unpacks the rest of the items he had brought back with him in a simple bag; there are water bottles to spare, and juice, and snacks. “I think Vine has an extra kettle,” he explains as he sets some tea which he most definitely swiped from the mess hall upon the table, “and we have more than enough money in our budget to get a coffee maker if you want that.” After a moment, he adds thoughtfully, “Actually, no- we’ll get the coffee maker. Marrow keeps stealing from that Jaune kid. It’s kind of pitiful, so at least this’ll be close enough to the briefing room that he won’t do that anymore.”

Qrow almost weeps as he realizes just what exactly the other man has so easily done for him. “You… you don’t have to,” he breathes.

That warm, comforting hand appears upon his shoulder again. “But I do,” he replies instantly. “We’re comrades, right? Besides,” and he pulls away, leaving Qrow’s chest simultaneously too warm in his thoughts and too cold in his absence, “what am I supposed to do without my partner, hm? The other Ace Ops pair off nicely. It’s been nice having someone to work with for once who can keep up; I’m not about to give that up!”

Biting back his protests, Qrow merely bows his head in thanks. There is nothing he could possible say; Clover Ebi has called him his ‘partner’, and the idea of someone else trying to step into the role which has always belonged to the one person he could never have back-

And yet… he does not hate the idea of being ‘partnered’ with Clover. He’s a good man. Qrow could probably learn something from his easy confidence. It’s not like this shall last forever, anyways.

For now, however, he shall focus on the task ahead. He won’t be of any use to anyone if his Aura is too low to function. So, he drinks his water and thanks Clover when his words finally return to him. The thirst lingers, but the support gives him a boost he never thought he’d receive.

Hopefully, with all of this help, he’ll make his girls proud. Hopefully.

Chapter Text

“You can’t be serious,” he deadpans, propping one hand upon a bony hip. A groan leaves his lips as he takes in the resolute expression which stands firm upon James’ face; the elder does not budge an inch, despite Qrow’s clear disbelief at the request.

“I firmly believe,” James begins diplomatically, voice even and kind, “that you two would be best-suited for this mission-“

Striding up to the large bureau behind which James is seated, Qrow demands, “Well, shouldn’t I just go on my own?! It’s not as if I don’t know how to do recon; that’s sort of all I ever did for Oz, remember?” His chest heaves as he speaks, the man desperately trying to choke back the desperation spurring on his words. He is haunted by far more than desperation, however.

He has lost too many comrades on the field. How can James risk the leader of the Ace Ops, good luck or not?! The reasoning does not make any sense to him! There are others who would be far more suited to the task, anyways, if James insisted that there be at least two Huntsmen on the mission. Hell, even two of the Ace Ops would provide better support for one another than the inevitable suffering Qrow would bring-

Qrow hates the ensuing silence this declaration welcomes into the headmaster’s office at the top of Atlas Academy. It lingers, stagnant and heavy, stemming from James’ tightly-gripped, interlocking fingers, his furrowed brow, and Qrow’s anxiety, palpable and raw.

James breathes in. Qrow’s breath stops short.

“I’m standing firm, Qrow. I really do believe you and Clover would be the best-suited for this; if our reports are right, then we are going to have a huge problem on our hands if this Grimm nest is not taken out soon. If no one can track down its location, though, we’ll never be able to launch a pre-emptive attack.  

For a moment, Qrow thinks of fighting back. A fleeting fantasy, embedded into the back of his brain after years of fighting alongside James, urges him to go so far as to pull out Harbinger; he had picked more than enough fights with Winter Schnee before the Fall of Beacon, always imagining that he could get away with venting his anger on James’ favourite subordinate if not the Atlesian general himself. There is no other way to express his sheer disbelief, his disgust, his absolute, unwavering dread.

“You’ll be fine, Qrow,” James adds, his expression softening. “Besides, I need two of my top soldiers, and you know that there are few people on Remnant I trust more than you two.”

That line is a stab straight into his gut. What in the world is Qrow supposed to say to that? “Thanks for the support, also Ruby and I and the rest of the kiddos have lied to you about this pointless battle”?

He cannot. Still, even he knows when to concede, and based on the resolve in James’ eyes, it is clear that he will accept no substitutes for this upcoming mission. All that remains is to gather his own supplies, find Clover, and head out.

He prays it shall be alright. He crosses his fingers and sends a silent prayer up to the Brothers, fully aware that they are certainly not listening; he has to, though. If he is to be alone with Clover, then how will his Semblance react?

Or, more importantly… who’s Semblance would be stronger after days on end of exposure?

If he looks at it in a perfect world, he knows that it would be Clover who would prevail. Clover is well-rested, not suffering from withdrawal and fatigue and self-doubt every waking moment of the day. Clover is not plagued by nightmares filled with demons and inadequacy and the burden of the truth. Clover knows exactly where he fits into society, having found his perfect little niche in which he can flourish and inspire. Qrow hasn’t felt at home since his family had shattered- since his sister had left- since his best friend had left for a mission and never come home.

In a perfect world, Clover’s Semblance would win. Maybe it’ll work out that way, Qrow thinks longingly.

What they see upon the battlefield after setting out that evening, however, is anything but a perfect world. Time and time again, Qrow’s misfortune comes to play tricks on them; anytime they try to use stealth, the Grimm end up accidentally finding them- when the odds look even on whether or not an injury will be sustained, it always get worse and then some-

Clover’s Aura is more plentiful, but Qrow’s original assessment is correct. He has always been the better Huntsman, and the potency of his Semblance is proof enough of that. Misfortune always falls upon those around Qrow eventually, good luck charms or not. Three days of tracking a herd of Grimm back to a teeming, writhing nest in the middle of the tundra is more than enough to trigger enough bad luck to last a lifetime for a regular person.

But neither man dies. For that, at least, Qrow is thankful.

Eventually, the required data has been acquired and sent back to Atlas, leaving the two men little to do but rest before their later departure back to Mantle’s wall, where they shall be picked up by Atlesian ships. They have half a day’s worth of travel to do, but over a day to arrive, leaving the two men little else to do but relax for a bit once they are an adequate distance from the teeming hordes.

Qrow does not speak once they find a small, rocky outcropping under which they can hide and take shelter from the frigid winds of Solitas. He merely sits upon the opposite end of the covering, staring out wearily into the distance, careful to keep his eyes roving across the horizon constantly in order to ensure his misfortune does not act up again. It is not out of necessity that he remains so vigilant, in all honesty.

He just cannot bear to look at the bandage covering Clover’s Aura-exhausted body anymore, the makeshift sling having rendered the man unable to fight properly after a nasty fall that morning.

Yet, he is not allowed to sit with his sorrow for too long. A warm, powerful body slides in next to him, close enough for the heat emanating off of his form to soak through Qrow’s clothes despite the distance separating the two. “I’m alright, Qrow,” Clover murmurs. “And the mission was a success. I’d call that a victory.”

Tight-lipped and ashen, the elder cannot reply. He had told James, after all. There is only one fate awaiting those who linger around Qrow Branwen for too long.

Realizing that Qrow is in no place to speak, Clover bites back the next words he wants to say. Qrow hears him open and close his mouth a few more times, searching for the best way to break the tension; he never dares to, however. For that, Qrow is grateful. He does not need false sympathy or feigned acceptance of who he is.

He works better alone. James should’ve listened.

And yet, Qrow finds that his bitterness about the whole affair fades nearly-instantly the day after their return to Atlas. His goal is to merely grab a few teabags from the stash Clover has somehow managed to build up within the Ace Ops’ office space; before he can enter the room, however, familiar voices greet him, engaged in lively discussion and thoughtful banter.

Marrow, Harriet and Clover are discussing their leader’s injuries, the broken arm still mending thanks to his greatly-weakened Aura. Harriet calls Qrow a liability. Marrow says that it is a good thing Qrow was there.

Clover says, without an ounce of hesitation, that he enjoys working with Qrow. He does not blame Qrow.

Qrow does not drink his tea that evening. There are very, very few people who have felt the impacts of his Semblance and still talk of Qrow with any kind of respect. The thought that one such ally is in Atlas is more than enough to keep his cravings and heartache and frustration at bay, if for but a night.

Chapter Text

The question is slight, innocuous. He does not mean to ask it of James, and yet, the words filter out before he can doubt himself, the curiosity which fills his heart spurring him onwards despite the increasingly-paranoid sense of dread which raises the hairs upon his nape at the mere mention of the Relics. After all, Mistral’s Relic still remains with Ruby and Oscar, and the secret behind Salem’s invincibility and Ozpin’s true mission still remains a secret from James and his men, so Qrow has been doing his best to steer clear of any conversations regarding the Relic at all.

Yet he cannot help but allow this question to bubble forth as they look over inventory of gravity-Dust, Qrow’s mind turning towards the Staff of Creation which helps hold the Academy aloft. “How in the world does the Staff create anything, though?” he wonders aloud, the words creeping under his breath before he has even understood them.

To his surprise, James thinks nothing of it, not an ounce of hesitation in his reply. “Oz told me briefly once,” the elder hums, eyes lifting from the spreadsheet before him to look glassy-eyed out of the window. “He wasn’t able to tell me much, but I did learn that as long as you have a detailed plan of how to build something, and as long as you’re not asking to resurrect lost life or to create new life, the Staff will grant you enough power to achieve your goal.”

For some reason, Qrow’s mind latches onto precisely one word in this simple, almost off-handed explanation: resurrection. There is a singular moment when he does not understand why, the significance of that concept falling upon deaf ears.

Then, he understands. Resurrection is the name of the demon that had begun all of this, after all. Qrow sighs, allowing his head to loll backwards, arm covering his eyes to block out the light, preventing his increasingly-more-noticeable headache from growing even stronger thanks to the piercing blue lights which illuminate the hall, casting their cold, unfeeling hue across the entire building. Resurrection is the root of all of this; Salem had wanted to bring Ozma back, had defied everything and everyone, had turned the world again her over and over again until she was all that was left.

In the end, she had been left with nothing.

His fists curl tightly, scarred knuckles growing white in frustration as his brain supplies him images he truly wishes he could forget; Ozpin sneaking Salem’s children out of their castle, Ozpin turning against Salem and inciting her wrath-

If anyone had tried to ever take Ruby or Yang away from him and Tai the way Ozpin had betrayed his wife…

Bile rises up into his throat, thick and nauseating and searing. He wants to retch. He cannot, however- cannot shake the fact that his heart goes out to the blonde, broken woman who Salem had once been. Now, she is a monster.

But he, too, knows what it is like to lose the most important people in one’s life. He has lived through it over and over again. Their memories still haunt him, their presence in his life lingering in his rings, in his blade, in his dreams-

In the silhouettes of his nieces.

When Clover taps him on the shoulder and asks him what is on his mind, Qrow merely chuckles and shakes his head, brushing off the concern in favour of redirecting the conversation towards the Ace Ops and their next mission. His heart, however, refuses to stop turning around the image of Salem’s plea to the gods again and again.

Salem had gone against the gods. Salem is now a monster, and even if he cannot stop her, he shall not give up until his nieces are safe. Understandable or not, he cannot support the demon which has taken away everyone, everything, everywhere, which he has ever loved. He has no sympathy for someone who brought the rest of the world down with them due to their own selfishness.

…am I any different, though? My Semblance-

-was not his choice. He knows this. Everyone who has suffered at his hands thanks to his powers was merely a casualty of coincidence, he tells himself.

Qrow is lonely. He wishes he wasn’t all alone in looking out for them. Ruby and Yang are taking on the darkness itself, and legendary Huntsman or no, Qrow doubts he will be able to keep them safe any longer. They are in it too deep now, and although Clover smiles at him with more camaraderie and affection than he could’ve ever expected from an Atlesian soldier, and although James’ eyes are trusting and kind as he dismisses them for the evening, Qrow knows that there is no one who will stand by his side should things fall apart. They have different goals, after all; they serve the world, alongside the image of Ozpin that lingers in James’ memory.

Qrow just wants his nieces to be happy. He wants his family to be whole again, but to do so, the world as they know it is going to have to give, and Qrow is far too broken to handle this on his own.

Chapter Text

He does not want this man to touch them.

At first, it is all well and good that Clover Ebi offers to help the children train. In fact, Qrow relishes in it; after so many months on the road, forced to be the only adult to monitor the hare-brained schemes of his nieces and their equally-fearless friends (although who really has been babysitting who over these past few weeks is certainly up for debate, much to his chagrin), it is no small statement to say that he is well and truly relieved to finally have some backup to help him take care of the former Beacon students. The other Ace Ops have been already working with the new Huntsmen and Huntresses spawned from their motley crew, so to have some support from their leader could only add more insight to their developing techniques.

So, when the offer is made, innocuous and innocent, a jovial, friendly grin creating an aura of stability, Qrow takes it. “Just don’t mess up all the work I’ve done,” Qrow teases, elbowing Clover lightly as the other man finishes up his work for the day. He knows that the kids are already waiting in the training rooms; Yang and Ruby had sent him pictures of themselves posing with their newly-upgraded weapons, still giddy at the fact that they have been gifted these improvements at all.

“Do you want to come watch? Two sets of eyes are always better than one,” Clover asks with a wink, a playful edge to his voice. “It’ll be fun. C’mon.”

He does not want to join, in all honesty. He is tired; after two patrol rounds that day, plus a mountain of paperwork (only growing more complex after realizing that he had made consistent errors in the first half, forcing him to redo it all) had left him empty of any kind of patience. He simply wants to lay down and rest, perhaps even going for a flight should the weather allow it.

Yet, as Clover’s warm hand lands upon his shoulder from behind, squeezing ever-so gently in a silent plea for companionship, Qrow finds he cannot say no, either. He can never seem to say not to Clover. The other man’s smile, his Semblance and his easygoing energy, soothe some of the ache in Qrow’s heart, always. So, as he cranes his neck only to see jade eyes creased into a gentle smile his way, Qrow can only sigh and agree, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching the whole way to the training room, words of discontent lacking any real force thanks to the wry smile upon his lips.

That anger quickly grows real, however. He has been the only one to harp on the children’s fighting styles for months-

Well, other than Ozpin.

His heart aches, but he pushes that aside, focusing solely upon watching in strained horror as Clover begins to pick apart the kids’ techniques. His words are harsh, militaristic; as the young ones falter under the strain of his tonal shift, his commands quickly turning from advice to orders, Qrow finds irritation pulsing his brow. Qrow had spent careful time and consideration observing each of them upon the road, providing assistance and insight that had been tailor-made to each child. Team RWBY and Team JNOR fight so differently, after all; only after taking his time in getting to know them had he even begun to offer advice.

Except for his nieces, of course. But in that case, he had been the one to teach Ruby to fight, and he had been Yang’s favourite punching bag whilst Taiyang coached her in hand-to-hand combat since she could stand upright. He had done his very best all their lives to play the role of Summer, the best instructor he had ever seen in his life. In her stead, Qrow knows their techniques better than he knows his own; after all, his skills are more instinct than not, favouring unpredictability in the face of a Semblance constantly trying to destroy its wielder.

But as he watches Clover’s orders encompass them all in sweeping statements, the training regime of Atlas Academy slipping through any ounce of individualism the Ace Ops carried, he eventually finds himself reaching a snapping point. His words are sharp, brusque; pushing off the sidelines, he tells the young ones to take a break, stalking over to a bewildered Clover.

The other man clearly does not expect the blade which Qrow holds up to his neck. “Qrow, what-?”

“We’re not your little soldiers, Clover,” he finds himself growling. “Do these kids look like James’ automatons?”

Green narrows suspiciously despite the neutral smile affixed to thin, wide lips. “Are you saying that the Ace Ops are ‘automatons’ as well?”

Immediately, Qrow regrets his words. Groaning, he drops his blade, folding Harbinger up and tucking the weapon back into its holster upon is back. Humiliation burns his ears, his heart pounding in frustration within his chest. Why is he so up in arms? Nothing Clover is saying is wrong, per se; it simply is not as tailored to each individual as Qrow would have liked. Nora and Ren are clearly interpreting his instructions differently, and Jaune has already grown so lost on the lingo that one could probably swear that he was still just a trainee. Ruby and Yang are both kinesthetic learners, so the two are completely lost at Clover’s verbal commands; only Blake and Weiss seem to have gotten their feet under them amidst Clover’s instructions. Perhaps that is why this bitterness coats his tongue like so.

Or, perhaps the real reason behind it all is that all of Clover’s blanket statements, his sweeping generalizations and harsh, unfeeling orders… they all are correct. He understands where the other man is coming from. Qrow can still remember watching the Vytal Festival, seeing just how sloppy their technique had been. Pyrrha Nikos had been the only one whose technique and strength had rivalled a professional Huntress; the rest of their abilities had promised growth, but had carried far too many excess movements to be considered ‘proper’.

There’s a reason I quit teaching.

Defeated, Qrow steps back. He runs his fingers through his hair, letting out a long, wearying sigh. “I- just forget it. I’m tired, so I think I’ll head to bed.”

A peculiar look crosses Clover’s face, the younger stepping forward, closing the distance between them. “Qrow, you know that I’m only doing what they asked, right?” Clover murmurs dryly, his mouth quirking up into a smile. “They asked for help with the basics, so I came.”

“Yeah.” The elder wipes a hand down his face, exhaustion crashing into him in a wave. “Yeah, I- thanks.”

To his surprise, Clover reaches out, grabbing onto his bicep. “No, Qrow, you don’t get it,” the other man says, amused. “I’m not an instructor. I can repeat what was drilled into me regarding the basics, but I can’t make what makes them Huntsmen better.”

Qrow pauses, looks up, and gawps. Clover’s cheeks are tinged red, a stark contrast from his usually-calm demeanor; the man looks away, an embarrassed, lopsided grin pulling his lips. Confused, Qrow murmurs, “You need something?”

Sighing, Clover finally says, “Stick around. I’d feel better having an actual instructor here.”

To that, Qrow can only take a step back, eyes wide in shock. “Who told you?”

“James,” the other replies easily, “but honestly? Anyone could tell; all of the kids fight, in some way, shape or form, like you.” His grin only widens. “They respect you a lot, you know.”

Qrow’s heart melts, his bitterness falling away. Taking a moment to tamp down on this strange, giddy joy which wells up in his heart, he clears his throat and says pointedly, “Well, in that case, you should be giving instructions like this.”

Halfway through his quick explanation, Clover pauses him, asking a very valid question. “I’ve never seen it be so broken-down like this for Huntsmen, so why-?”

“They’re stupid. I love them, but they’re stupid.”

The children walk back in to find Qrow and Clover laughing amicably away. No one comments, but that night, as Ruby and Yang leave the training room absolutely exhausted, they both make sure to look between Clover and Qrow meaningfully before sending a wink towards their uncle. Why, Qrow doesn’t know; it does not stop the warmth which floods his face, however.

One quick look at Clover tells him that he is feeling the same flustered embarrassment, too. For some reason, that thought makes Qrow’s smile grow just a little wider.

Chapter Text

It is hard to believe just how pleasant life could be, but after weeks of finding his own niche within the routine, militaristic way of life in Atlas Academy, even Qrow must admit that he feels happier than he has in years. He still does not like life in Atlas- it is too cold, too guarded, too rigid for his tastes, and the wind is far too cold to allow him the flight he so dearly needs in order to let his mind rest- but the fact that he finds himself looking forward to each day is… novel.

His nieces thrive in their work as Huntresses, their friends providing the perfect allies for any mission which Ruby and Yang decide to undertake. Ruby has taken it upon herself to utilize the resources available to them as much as possible, training with a fervour that Qrow recognizes from her father. She trains and trains, her hand-to-hand combat growing far more polished than he honestly ever could have hoped for. Yang, on the other hand, seems far too smitten with her teammate, and with Blake’s increasing shyness around his niece, he knows it must be mutual; when Yang first asks him for his thoughts on their relationship, he merely shrugs, murmuring, “We turn into birds, but my sister always hated Faunus. Too much Mistral in that girl.”

Yang’s smile cannot grow any wider, and that is that.

Work no longer feels as pointless, either. For the first time since the Fall, it feels like there is some actual progress occurring on restoring the world, thanks to James’ plan slowly coming into fruition. Although he still does not agree with all of James’ policies- using supplies they could be using to protect the citizens in favour of having just a few days extra advancement on Amity seems almost cruel, and he refuses to budge on that front- but as the weeks pass, the Ace Ops are far less guarded around them than they originally were, too, making him almost feel like he belongs.

This is where he works now. His nieces are safe and happy. Their friends are flourishing in their own right.

No one is leaving Qrow behind anymore.

His headaches come far less often, too. Their intensity has softened. At times, especially during duress or after long nights spent on patrols or finishing up reports, Qrow finds himself instinctively reaching for his old, trusty flask; after these moments, the shame which strikes him is so visceral he almost collapses. Yet, he does not feel upset in the slightest when the urges hit.

Instead, he merely goes to find Clover.

At first, this action is unintentional, almost accidental; he barely registers the movement until he is standing in front of Clover’s quarters, hand poised to knock, the other man staring at him wide-eyed and confused from the other side of the opened door. The explanations come quick, and soon enough, the two of them reason that his body is likely unused to not having liquor to dampen the impacts of his Semblance, so instead, his Aura instinctively searches for something to numb his misfortune. He mumbles these words out alongside apologies and clumsy self-rejections, hastily stepping back from that open door the moment his senses are back with him, because not even Taiyang has ever been safe around his Semblance-

But Clover grabs his hand. Brings him inside. Tosses him a bottle of soda, winks, and murmurs, “Don’t tell Harriet, it’s my cheat day. She judges me a lot,” before beckoning him over to sit upon Clover’s couch so they may watch whatever inane situational comedy the soldier is rewatching for the nth time.

Qrow feels safe around Clover. Clover is safe from Qrow, after all, and it is so, so wonderful.

Even as things begin to go awry- Jacques Schnee winning the election, James’ temper growing more and more short, Winter Schnee becoming almost reclusive, a strange tension lingering around the children in the wake of Robyn Hill’s election party gone wrong- he still feels alright. These things will pass, he tells himself.

Clover asks him on his opinion, and Qrow is honest. It is the least he can be for Clover’s unending patience and welcome. “Something’s going wrong, and if Ruby says that Tyrian Callows is in Mantle, then I believe her. Salem’s behind all of this,” he says with the utmost conviction.

And Clover smiles- grim, yes, but a smile nonetheless- and nods, his gaze softening as he looks at Qrow’s resolve. “Then we’ll hunt him down,” he replies simply. “We make a good team, after all. I’m sure we’ll catch him in no time.”

He means every word, so open and honest, his heart worn upon his lapel for Qrow to see and cherish to the depths of his soul. It has been a long, long time since he has felt this comfortable around someone else, he finds.

Life in Atlas is good. He quite likes it. In Atlas- with his girls safe and a goal to work towards and Clover by his side, he almost feels like he isn’t so unlucky. It’s not an ideal situation by any means, and he knows without a doubt that Summer would’ve been a better fit in this role as the girls’ guardian, but he finds as days pass, he is believing in Clover’s words more and more.

“Your girls are lucky to have you,” the soldier murmurs, gaze gentle, smile wry. So am I, partner, his eyes whisper.

And Qrow is happy.

Chapter Text

His hands shake, even though they are bound behind his back so tightly he can barely move an inch. They shake within their bindings, each finger trembling, curled permanently into a vacant claw which had, only moments before, held the hilt of Harbinger. The scythe has long-since been Qrow’s constant companion, its comforting weight having become so synonymous with his own that to sit without it upon this cold, hard bench within this airship feels utterly uncomfortable, utterly foreign. He feels lopsided, tilted; his body leans over, unsure of where to go, how to orient itself.

He wonders whether he would even be able to wield that blade, to hang it upon his hip once again, though. Its silver, ornately engraved blade had been designed by Summer a long, long time ago; she had carved those marking into the weapon with a giddiness that had eased any kind of concern he could have felt over someone so small wielding power tools half her size. However, she had gotten it done, helping him design the weapon he had always dreamed of building. “Even the Grimm Reaper would be impressed with this,” she used to say with such pride as he spun around his newly-fashioned scythe, the motion natural and effortless despite its newness in his hands.

“But ‘Harbinger’?” he had protested all those moons ago. “I… I know I’m unlucky, but that just feels-“

“Like you’re a force to be reckoned with,” she had stated firmly, silvery eyes glinting with mirth. “The Grimm have no chance. You’ll put an end to them with this. Cool, huh?”

He had replied the same way he always had: a simple, “You’re such a brat, you know that?” and she had smiled, and they had stood together, comrades-in-arms, best friends, partners. She had always been his leader, his guide. Hearing her words of support had always been enough to keep wielding his blade.

When she had been so pleased with Harbinger’s final design, he had smiled. He had been proud of the man she had been proud of, too.

But now, how could he ever wield Harbinger again?

It is a question which he barely gets to ask himself before an exoskeleton-aided fist crashes into his cheek. He barely processes the impact; all he knows is that Harriet Bree screams in front of him, the short woman seething, covered in bruises and bandages of her own. The faintest sparks of Aura flit across her skin, attempted to heal her wounds, but the brightest light comes from the fire burning in her eyes as anger fuels another blow, and then, another.

In another life, he would have made a comment. Perhaps he would have pointed out how this is police brutality; or, perhaps he would have simply stated that they already had him in custody, so any attacks now were more a reflection of them, rather than he himself. Perhaps he would have even managed to say the words with a smile, laughing off the younger woman’s anger. It is not the first time he has felt wrath from someone he had called a comrade, after all.

He does not say a word to her, though. He asks Marrow Amin whether Ruby and Yang are in custody. After a moment’s hesitation, Marrow whispers, “They’re still fugitives.”

They are safe. Qrow goes boneless. That is all he needed. They could do with Qrow as they saw fit, as long as they did not harm his nieces.

Then, Marrow bites his lip, takes a moment to center himself, then breathes, “Did… did you really do it, Qrow?”

Qrow does not answer. No, he thinks- he had not done it himself, per se. Harbinger had not been in his hands when the action had come to pass. The intent to kill had never crossed his mind. All that he had been able to think of during that battle had been how to escape as quickly as possible; the sharp, gusting winds above Solitas made it impossible for him to fly far distances in his corvid form, meaning he had needed to find an alternate escape route in his human form.

All he had been able to think of was the inescapable betrayal of watching his comrades turn on him. Calling Qrow a criminal had been fine; it had stung, yes, but he could get past that.

Calling Ruby and Yang and their friends fugitives, though? Mobilizing the Ace Ops to capture and pin down his nieces? Putting his little girls in harm’s way?

There is no way he could have ever allowed that. So, he had fought.

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have. He should have stayed firm and talked it out; he should have kept a level head and ensured that they had gotten Tyrian Callows locked up before their own arguments could have come into play. Everyone else in that airship had been reasonable people, he had always believed. They could have talked it out.

He cries when Elm drags him by the hair and tosses him into a cold cell. It’s his temporary quarters, she says, stone-faced despite eyes glassy with tears. The pain is not what gets him, nor is it the mistreatment of his comrades; it is the sight, flashing into his vision for just a brief moment in time, of another Atlesian soldier holding Harbinger, the blade covered in blood which is not his own.

“Are you happy now, you bastard?” Harriet spits at him through bars.

He shrugs. He is empty. “I told him that I was unlucky,” he breathes through bloody, swollen lips. “He always believed… his luck would keep him safe.”

Harriet screams. Vine drags her away. Elm storms off, and Marrow’s tail no longer wags when looking at Qrow.

Qrow does not blame them. He does not know who to blame; all he knows is that the pin which used to sit upon Clover’s lapel is stained crimson, and even if he tries to wash it, Qrow doubts that pin, his hands, his heart, will ever be clean again.

Tyrian Callows has escaped after stabbing Clover with Harbinger in a moment when Qrow had been disarmed.

Clover Ebi is dead by Qrow’s own blade, and there is nothing he can do to change that fact.

He should’ve known that this is how it always goes. His hands have always been too red to ever live comfortably in the white snows of Solitas. No good fortune could ever outweigh the sins of his existence. Clover is just another onto the pile.

He laughs. He had promised Summer there wouldn’t be any others, back when she had been declared killed in action. Sorry, Summer.

He does not apologize to Clover. This is intentional. Nothing will change what has happened, and at the very least, Qrow wants the other man’s spirit to be free of Qrow’s thoughts, presence, misfortune, in the afterlife. Nothing good comes of being with a bad luck charm all the time, after all.

Chapter Text

The pin is clean now. They have granted him some dignity of being allowed to wash up, to groom himself- to stand in front of the mirror and acknowledge the crimes which he has committed in his stupidity, in his numbness, in his cursed fate. With this, he has taken the time needed to scrub off every spot of red upon Clover’s pin, washing and polishing and wiping, his fingernails growing cracked and chipped as he attempts to dig dried flecks out of the grooves with naught but his hands.

His skin has been rubbed raw. The redness still feels too much like blood. He truly shall never be clean, he supposes.

But as this pin, this last vestige of the man who had once been by his side spins round and round betwixt his fingers, his ears are focused on a very different sound. The new cell in which he has been confined is a baffling one, although he does not feel an ounce of surprise in its existence. He understands exactly why James Ironwood, in his sudden shift into dictatorial insanity, has demanded that he, alongside Arthur Watts, Jacques Schnee, and Robyn Hill, were put into clear holding cells of hard light-Dust rather than the regular prison sector. He understands exactly why he is forced to sit here with not a modicum of privacy or quietude, listening to Arthur attempt to gaslight Robyn, Robyn harassing Jacques, and Jacques continually blaming everyone but himself for the sins committed so harshly, so unjustly, against the civilians of Mantle.

These four are James’ prizes. This is his trophy room. He needs his rewards upon display, a quiet show of power no one can take away from him.

Once upon a time, Qrow would have retaliated. He would have fought back, hurling insults and threats and attacks at James whenever the man or his men entered the room, for Qrow Branwen was never meant to be caged. Yet, as he sits now, he has no willpower to do anything of the sort.

If I do not speak, he thinks, maybe my misfortune won’t affect anyone else. If I don’t breathe, maybe it won’t affect anyone else. If I don’t think, don’t act, don’t be-

He is tired of being. He has always been too much. Death is the price to pay for having been, and he is tired of paying it with lives that are not his to spend.

And yet, whenever the Ace Operatives enter the room to toss in an insult or jab of their own, or to blame him and his nieces for the wrath Salem has wrought upon the people of Solitas, Qrow finds that his heart cannot ache in the same way as theirs do. Elm and Vine spit acid at him, but it is Harriet whose eyes shine with a fury which he recognizes so dearly, yet cannot relate to; she raises her fists and openly laments these walls and her duty which prevents her from murdering her leader, as if it had been his hand who had thrust Harbinger through Clover’s spine, lungs, heart. She looks at him as if he is vile, putrid.

He does not respond. He recognizes her grief. She is allowed to be angry. There is no point asking her to understand that when the line in the sand had to be drawn, Clover chose his duty over sense, and Qrow chose his nieces, as he always has.

Qrow had always been the stronger Huntsman. His Aura had always been the stronger one, too. Without alcohol numbing it, there had been nothing Clover could have done. And, even if it had been different, the blood spilt upon the tundra shall forever be stained red with Clover’s blood and the morning sunrise, and there is nothing either one of them can do to change that.

The only time Qrow ever truly reacts to the Ace Operatives coming in and out of their holding room is when Marrow Amin approaches. The conversation is silent, but whenever he sees a tail stop wagging as blue eyes land upon his disheveled form, he cannot help but mouth the same question over and over again until guilt-ridden lips, drawn tight and thin after days without rest, give him the non-answer he desperately needs to slip back into oblivion.

Where are Ruby and Yang? Qrow mouths.

We don’t know, Marrow always responds before leaving.

Qrow smiles at him, each and every time. It is painful for them both; the gesture feels foreign after what seems like a lifetime of lips curved downwards in grief, horror, anger.

He knows that Marrow does not need his smile. Marrow is too soft for James’ wrathful leadership, too soft for the insurmountable loss of an irreplaceable leader, and too soft for the crimes he is being asked to commit in the name of a future no one can picture amidst this unwavering assault from the enemy. Still, Qrow smiles, for there is something so broken in Marrow’s eyes, and unlike Harriet’s gaze, Qrow is far better equipped at dealing with the heartache and confusion which radiates within pale blue irises.

He had seen Ruby and Yang lose their mother, after all. He has seen Taiyang lose his loves. He has seen countless children lose their friends. He knows just how deep loss can be. It isn’t his duty, nor his right, but if he cannot help himself deal with it, the least Qrow can do is try and make this one naïve kid feel a little less alone, even if he is trapped in a cell surrounded by naught but malice.

…his fingers ache holding the pin. His skin is still too raw, Aura not recovered enough to heal even such a slight wound. He does not let it go, though. It is his anchor- an anchor to days spent like a dream, the first oasis in what had felt like a millennium. He does not want to let it go.

Chapter Text

The world is ending, he thinks. Oddly enough, he does not care.

It is Robyn who drags him out of that crumbling holding room when the entire section of the building seems to collapse. He does not resist; there is little to care about, and he has long-since given up on keeping track of days, hours, minutes in which he has been kept in this cell. So, when the walls of hard light-Dust collapse, the mechanisms broken amidst the impact from some unknown conflict outside, he does not pull away from Robyn, the woman grabbing his arm and dragging him out, leaving behind a terrified Jacques Schnee to meet whatever fate he may. 

As they walk through the halls of the compound, however, one cold, unmistakeable truth grows firmly lodged in his skull. It is perhaps the inevitable conclusion, in all honesty; he should have known it would come to this. Yet, the idea never truly solidifies until he sees soldiers scrambling, shouting orders that can no longer be held under plausible deniability.

They are going to kill Ruby and Yang, and all the other ‘fugitives’ still free. They are going to destroy Mantle. Salem- the ghostly apparition which he has hunted, which has haunted his every footstep for so, so long, is finally at their doorstep and attacking in full force, and yet James’ eyes and orders are so clouded by his pride and malice that it does not seem as if he has truly understood the fact that Qrow’s nieces want to be on his side.

With that, the decision is made. Qrow plays along with Robyn until the point where they locate their weapons; he does not know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of Harbinger being haphazardly tucked into an open locker of all things. “It’s just as sloppy as James’ goddamn security systems,” he mutters, eliciting a laugh and a wry remark from Robyn. He does not engage further, though.

It is a trick of the light. He knows this, but the blade still appears red in his eyes, and that redness is enough to make him want to vomit. He allows himself a moment to stare along its length, remembering crimson splashes and droplets staining the ice and snow dripping off the edge; he remembers the engraving stained a dark burgundy, almost warm, almost comforting in tone when bathed in the light of the rising sun, so falsely secure that he wants to weep at the thought.

It is clean now. They had washed off the blood. The red does not fade in his vision, but that fact only cements his decision all the more, giving his goal more credence than he ever thought possible. He murmurs the words to Robyn, just once; she reacts viscerally, turning down his idea, though.

It’s fine. I’ll do it myself. We both know who’s always been the better Huntsmen…

And it is time for what remains of James Ironwood’s human blood, that which has not yet been turned completely machine and alien and heartless, to wash off the remnants of Clover’s upon Harbinger’s blade.

It takes barely a few minutes to lose Robyn in the Academy. Unfortunately, finding James is a much, much harder task. He runs down this hallway and that, turning into a corvid to hide from soldiers whenever possible, his red eyes and dark figure blending into the murderous crimson glow cast by the emergency power supply light emanating through the halls in this state of emergency. The distant sound of screams and explosions and conflict running underneath the panic thrumming in the air proves that Salem has brought her forces, has brought her war, to Atlas’ doorstep, but he finds that he cannot care about it; James is a military man, and a commander always stays off the frontlines in order to keep control of his troops. He shall find James somewhere in this Academy, he just knows it.

He turns on his Scroll and radio communications. He receives no signal upon the frequency which he had used with his nieces. He does not turn it off, just in case.

When he chances upon open doors and destroyed locks leading further down into Atlas, Qrow finally understands. James has gone to the vault; where else would he go? The Staff of Creation is all that Salem desires of this place, and so he has gone to skulk about it, to hide away from the demon which Qrow has been fighting on the battlefield for so long. So, Qrow follows this trail of murdered soldiers and broken passages, trailing down, down, down…

Then, he hears it. He hears them- Ruby and Yang. Their friends. They are somewhere nearby, and their words stick to his skull; as he runs down the steps leading from the entrance of this vast, untouchable place, he can hear an explanation, a discussion… and hope.

They have the Staff of Creation. They have the Winter Maiden. They know how to use it- they made this door- they have a plan to save everyone-

It is astounding, just how clear Ruby can be when she has her mind set on a goal. Her words are simple, precise; she goes over some plan to rebuild Penny, the new Winter Maiden, into a real, breathing young woman. Despite his awful connection and the static cutting out every few words, she explains it with such clarity and force that Qrow’s breath almost halts entirely in his chest, his anger replaced by pure pride as he listens to his little niece speak so authoritatively, just as his own leader would have done in days of missions past. Summer would have been just as clear, just as precise; soon enough, Qrow finds himself understanding exactly how the Relic works. How the girls know is beyond him, for that matter, but due to that weak connection he still cannot speak, cannot reach out, cannot assure the girls that they shall be alone no longer.

They are safe, though. That allows his mind to focus back upon his goal: James.

When he arrives at the vault, his feet halt before his mind has even caught up. It is… not what he had expected. Different from Beacon’s vault, this place stands in a vast, empty cavern of pitch-black, Atlesian technology halting abruptly at the end of the platform in favour of steps leading up to a large, golden-wrought door. No, that is not right; there are two doors, the silhouette of another hidden behind this first, containing a glowing portal which seems far too uncanny to exist within the realm of Remnant.

But his words are interrupted by a crash, and before he knows it, a giant, hulking Grimm stares up at him with an anger and a fervour which can only seem curious, and Qrow has no more time to think. Harbinger is in his hands, his trustworthy companion still feeling foreign and frightening after the destruction it has wrought; still, Qrow fights this beast. He fights as claws reach out and slash at him, he fights as it screams in pain at his blows, he fights as wings sprout from its back and its bones shift to allow teeth to elongate, arms to bulk up, eyes to widen-

Mouth to open. Breath to enter, exit, swirling black smoke curling out through a mask of white bone, the scent of acrid, rotten corpses and sulfur and death filling the air. Then, the sound penetrates his eardrums, and he almost vomits.

“Branwen,” the beast hisses before striking again.

Grimm do not speak.

He does not know what happens next. His sword unfurls to his scythe, and he becomes the reaper he has known to be. He slashes and sweeps and slices until there is naught but ribbons of black flesh oozing upon cold tile, a barely-breathing torso missing its limbs, his own mind running a thousand miles a minute in fear and horror.

He slices the mask apart. The creature does not die; instead, the black flesh of this Grimm melts away, and all Qrow sees staring back at him is a screaming, terrified mouth filled with black tar in a ghostly-white, very human face, accompanied by two bright eyes watching him.

His breath catches. For just a moment, he perceives those eyes to be green, accompanied by dun-brown hair and anger and distrust. This face does not belong to Clover Ebi, however, and those eyes are decidedly silver.

Then, the creature is dead. The body vanishes, like an apparition in the night. But Qrow has seen, and as bile spills from his lips over the edge of the platform, Qrow understands at last why Salem wants those with silver eyes- why she wants his little niece-

He fears whether one day, if he’s not strong enough to protect her, whether one day he’ll have to kill his Ruby like this nameless, mutilated soul.

For a moment, he wonders whether that is why his best friend was taken from him, too. Then, he hears the communication line flare to life, and then, it dies. The glowing door flashes white, ripples of light emanating from the center like droplets in a pond.

I’m coming, firecracker, kiddo. I’ll be there soon. Don’t you worry.

There is nothing left of the Grimm now. For that, he is grateful.

Chapter Text

When the ashes have completely dissipated, Qrow finally approaches the grand portal shimmering with white light. There is no sound audible from within; yet, his heart tells him that without a doubt, he shall find his nieces inside.

So, he goes. He does not know where to find James, after all, but since Ruby and Yang have gotten their hands on the Staff of Knowledge, there is only one place James will go next. And when he gets there, he shall find Qrow, waiting, scythe at the ready.

He is a comrade no longer. Qrow should’ve known that this would be their end.

So, there is nothing else to wait for. If more of those shapeshifting, human-hosted Grimm appear, Salem will most definitely send them after his nieces in order to get more fodder for her army, and he shall never let that happen. With this thought in mind, he extends his hand, takes a deep breath, and walks into the whiteness.

The world seems to give way, disintegrating into ash and shattered glass for just a moment before it reassembles itself, leaving his staggered steps to echo upon smooth asphalt. Gritting his teeth, he has to cover his ears as the entire platform upon which he has arrived begins to sway before he can even adjust himself to the surroundings, his ears finally registered the cacophony of screams and cries as pleas for help as explosions and gunfire ring through the air.

He glances up. The void is a vast one which surrounds him, the only path forward belonging to a web of bridges bouncing from platforms housing the same golden-white portal which shimmer behind him. Every single level connects back down to a grander staircase, all of which leads up to a giant, unmistakeable final destination for those passing through; the white light within this glimmering gold portal is constantly rippling as body after body tears forward into the brightness, people whom he can only assume to be citizens of Mantle and Atlas fleeing from their own entry points towards the grander portal.

The reason for their fear becomes clear in moments. Although the silhouette is far away, the incandescent lights of portals aplenty provides him all he needs to make out the wielder of brilliant jets of crimson-orange flame arcing high above. Cinder Fall, one of those responsible for Beacon, Haven, everything- her Fall Maiden powers illuminate the sky, each blow of her magic in sharp contrast to a familiar green-eyed silhouette, ruddy hair mussed and singed. Every nerve in his body fires off in horror as he realizes the brilliance of the flame around her eyes, the verity of Ruby and Yang’s garbled exchange over the radio becoming clear in an instant.

Her feet are real, human feet. His nieces had been successful. Penny Polendina fights Cinder Fall, and her feet are bare and tender, and she is a real girl and not an automaton, and her eyes glow and her body moves with the magic of the Winter Maiden.

The proof of this only grows stronger as he watches her body curl up, a flurry of winds blocking Cinder’s assault as she attempts to protect the golden staff within her hands. The Staff of Creation, Qrow thinks. They really brought her to life. They really managed to get this done. Kids-

Suddenly, the battle rushes back into sharp relief, and his entire body jolts. Frantically, he glances around, desperate to fight a blur of red, a blur of gold; just as quickly, he collapses to his knees, spotting Team RWBY rushing civilians into the portals and protecting Penny whenever needed.

His girls are truly alright.

He sucks in a deep breath, staggers to his feet, and pulls out his scythe, eyes locking onto Cinder and Penny. And you, Cinder Fall, owe me. Big time.

She had destroyed Beacon for his nieces- for himself- after all. They would never get back the idyllic days from their youth. She needed to pay for that.

So, he joins the fray. Penny’s face lights in with such relief and shock and gratitude that he almost grabs the girl and holds her close to shield her, if it is not for the fact that her magic protects him more than he could ever hope to achieve with his broken body; she simply carries so much innocence in her that he finds himself slotting Ruby’s eyes into her face.

They’re just children, at the end of the day. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you from this.

The battle wears on, though. In his exhaustion, he barely focuses on the sneers and jabs sent his way by Cinder, focused solely upon her attacks, desperately trying to compensate for pure magic with the misfortune that Summer had helped him truly harness once upon a time. Soon enough, a smile almost alights upon his face as he watches Cinder crash into an empty platform, growling in anger.

Perhaps they had a chance, he thinks.

Then, her left arm, composed of the Grimm and whatever dark, arcane magic Salem had infused into her broken form, shoots out and latches onto Penny’s chest.

The Staff of Creation falls.

Cinder sees it.

Qrow does, too.

He does not think about it, his body moving automatically as he spots a blur of black and white- Blake and Weiss, no doubt- moving to protect Penny. So, he transforms into a corvid, racing forward before Cinder can even push herself off the platform properly, his claws grabbing hold of the handle and dragging it just out of her reach. She is not far behind, however; the moment he transforms into a human once again to form a better grip upon the shaft, he catches sparks of golden-red flame licking at his heels, ready to consume him whole.

His heart stops in his chest. He had heard what needed to be said to awaken the spirit within this grand, double-ended staff; so, before he can doubt himself, he grabs on tight and mutters, “Wake up, Ambrosius!”

And then… silence.

He lands back onto the ground. Cinder does not, he realizes as blue smoke begins to spill from the crystals which tip the ends of the staff; she floats, locked in midair, her mouth fixated into a ghastly screech, fury lacing every pore. She does not move, though. No one does.

He remembers this effect. The same thing had happened when they had used Jinn, the spirit of the Lamp of Knowledge. Bile rises up into his throat at the memory, but he swallows it down.

Once his feet finally find purchase upon the platform behind him, a giant, muscular blue figure begins to solidify amidst the fog. “You are asking for my help again so soon?” the figure cries, waving its arms in disbelieving gestures, the golden chains and shackles tinkling as they clattered against one another, shining viscerally when contrasted with pure blue skin. “You are a needy bunch, huh-“ Then, the figure pauses, glancing down to look at the baffled Huntsman holding the staff. Raising a brow, Ambrosius, the spirit of the Staff of Creation, mutters, “Well. You’re not little Ruby and her neat robot friend.”

It takes a moment to click, but finally Qrow manages to rasp out a dry chuckle despite his exhaustion. “You caught me. Ruby’s, uh… Ruby’s my niece.”

“Oh!” Grinning wide, the spirit rolls over, appearing to lay on his stomach midair, propping his chin up with his hands. “That’s fun, she was fun! Did you have another project for me, hm? It better be worth my while, that Penny girl was so interesting-“

“I-“ Qrow’s words fail him. What was he to say? That he had taken a page from Ruby’s book and summoned a spirit of a Relic in order to stall for time, rather than to use its powers? According to his niece, Jinn had been forgiving; he had no idea whether Ambrosius would be so kind.

A quirked eyebrow sends a torrent of panic over Qrow’s body. What could he say? He had heard the girls explaining how the Staff worked over the radio, but he had no schematics to offer, no ideas to present! He had no idea what would be useful, nor did he know what he wanted-

His heart leaps into his chest. He almost vomits. His breath grows ragged and weak, his mind latching onto an idea that a few weeks, days, hours, minutes ago may have been utter folly.

But Penny is here now. She is real.

His fingers trace the pin fastened crookedly into his lapel. Maybe… maybe he can pull this off. Maybe this could happen.

If he’s lucky, it’ll work.

I’m going to fail.

There is nothing to lose. He opens his mouth, and begins to speak.

Chapter Text

He had never thought he would ever see a spirit look like this, but Ambrosius genuinely looks… defeated. “I… I don’t know if I can help you,” he says softly, gaze dropping downwards, a sense of defeat ringing through the air. “What you’re asking is entirely against the rules. You know that.”

“You can create anything, can’t you?” Qrow insists, gripping the staff tighter within his hands. “I know you need specifics, but-“

“There’s no ‘buts’ about it, buddy,” the spirit groans, crossing his arms and legs to sit in the air angrily. “If I don’t have schematics, I don’t know what you want.”

His fingers clutch gold and steel so forcefully that his veins show starkly through white, scarred knuckles, every fiber of his being thrumming with energy and bitterness as he locks eyes with the frustrated spirit. A growl forces its way out of his throat as he spits, “Oh, what, is some deity too scared of a challenge? Too scared you can’t get it done after your nap?”

Those are the wrong words, it seems. The smile falls off Ambrosius’ face in an instant, the spirit suddenly an inch from Qrow’s nose, lips curling into a sneer so far-removed from his original jovial countenance that he almost gets whiplash. “Watch what you say, human,” Ambrosius whispers. “You have no idea what I could do-“

“I do. I do.” Taking a step back once his body is back in his own control, no longer spellbound by fear and the presence of a spirit, Qrow holds his hands up, forcing himself to relax his grip around the shaft of the staff. There is no reason to be angry. He knows this- there was no way that his crazy idea would have worked. “No matter how much you try, I don’t think you could give me what I actually want.”

This seems to pique Ambrosius’ attention, much to Qrow’s surprise. “Hm?” Blue lips quirk, dark sclerae sparkling with barely concealed curiosity.

Wearily, Qrow pushes his hair back out of his eyes, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What?”

Then, Ambrosius truly, honestly surprises him.

He sits down. On the platform.

Gesturing towards the space in front of him, the spirit nods. “I’m listening.”

For a long, drawn-out breath, Qrow is still. Then, seeing a spark of impatience in the frenetic creator’s eyes, he nods, taking a seat where indicated and laying the staff across his lap, allowing his fingers to explore ornate engravings whilst he struggles to find the words to say.

However, as they sit there amidst their little wrinkle in time, the rest of the universe utterly stilled around them, Qrow manages to get his story out. He explains his heartache, his traumas, his fears; he explains the impact it would have should his wish be granted, and the joy it would bring, and the way that the world would likely have a greater chance at actually reuniting with the leadership and confidence and humanity this action would bring back on their side. He explains what he knows of Salem- her sins, her sacrifices, her errors, her hubris. He explains and explains, providing narrative in place of schematics, providing speculation in place of fact. He does the best he can.

He is no Atlesian scientist, though. He knows not of what else he could possibly give this creature; in that regard, James Ironwood will always be superior.

When he is done, Ambrosius can only whisper, “You’re playing a dangerous game here.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“I can’t resurrect anyone-“

“I know!” Groaning, Qrow digs the heel of his palm into his eyes, fatigue begging him to simply lay down and rest rather than continue this pointless conversation.

“Then why bother?”

“Brothers, I just- I just want there to be a chance.” Sighing heavily, he murmurs, stumbling to his feet, “I’m not going to ask you to do it. It would’ve been way too lucky if you actually could- if- if- I don’t know, if the spirit lingered, or if-“

As the words die in his mouth, the world shatters once again into a million pieces of sand and glass falling away into nothing, just as they had when he had stepped into the portal. This time, however, the pieces do not reconnect themselves. Time does not continue, space does not fill out, and soon enough, the final shards of being which had existed within the platform-filled void are gone, leaving him suspended in a white plane, soaking in shimmering light coming from all around. Shuddering, Qrow’s hand falls upon Harbinger’s grip, located at his hip, all senses rising to high alert. “Ambrosius?” he calls in trepidation, fear barely hidden in his hoarse, breaking voice. “Where am I?”

Suddenly, the world before him seems to split. Qrow’s mouth goes dry, his heart pounding in his ribcage, the rhythm echoing in his ears almost painfully as golden light spills forth from this rift in space. Slowly but surely, the figure whom he had seen in Ozpin’s memories- the one, true God of Light- forms before him, his golden radiance nearly blinding.

In a whisper, Qrow breathes, “I… thought you abandoned Remnant.”

“Do you know what you are asking?” the god booms, completely bypassing anything Qrow could want to know. “Humans truly have not-“

“I’m not asking for it!” Qrow cries out immediately. “Look, I’m not! I just-“ Deflating, he hangs his head below his shoulders, defeat creeping up, a serpent coiling around his spine. Softer, he concedes, “I don’t want it. I know it isn’t possible.”

The god tilts his head to the side, processing these words. “You… are not going to beg?”

With a snort, Qrow shakes his head. “I’ve seen how you treat those who ask to bring back the dead. I know what happens.” Humourlessly, he adds, “Isn’t that why humanity is still suffering like this down here?”

Although this ghostly golden silhouette has no eyes, he can still sense a strange semblance of vision boring holes into his skull, into his Aura, into his heart. Shuddering under the scrutiny, Qrow attempts to shy away, but the deity’s voice booms through the air, halting him in his tracks. “Say it!”

“I don’t-“

“Say what you wish for.” It is not an order, but a command.

Qrow winces, recoiling; however, the weight of the god’s presence refuses to grant him reprieve, the deity’s light blinding, rendering Qrow nauseated and dizzy and frightened all at once. What choice does he have?

He swallows dryly. His mouth tastes sour. His eyes sting. His hands shake, clutching desperately onto the Staff and to Harbinger for support and security that cannot exist whilst in this creature’s presence. Then, he shudders, sighs, and obeys at last, repeating in truncated form what he had told Ambrosius.

There is an unnerving silence following his final word. Then, the god comments, “You… your intentions are different than those of Salem’s.”

He shrugs. “I never believed that that wish would get granted. I told you, I know what happened to Salem. I’m not a fool.”

It is strange, just how much of a difference tone can make without a facial expression to correspond; Qrow’s eyes widen in disbelief as he senses the creeping tinge of amusement, of curiosity, entering the god’s words as he replies, “Your desires are not wholly selfish. You wish for balance to be restored.”

“It’s my fault. My bad luck.”

“You merely want what was broken to be made whole.”

He nods. “…yeah.”

“Partnerships.”

He nods.

“Faith.”

His fists tighten their grip, knuckles turning white, palms aching. He nods.

“Love.”

His eyes water. He nods.

“Trust.”

His lips tremble. He nods.

The god sounds almost to be in disbelief as he says at last, “This… is not only for yourself.”

Sighing, Qrow finally braves looking back up at the god once more. Imploring, he gasps, “It’s never been about me. You cursed me, remember? With my Semblance? I can’t have that kind of happiness…” The smile on his lips is ironic, bitter, broken-hearted. “…but they might.”

The thoughtful lilt to the deity’s voice is almost as frightful as its aggression. “You are different.” When Qrow merely shrugs- he’s good at what he does, but he’s firmly human at the end of the day, and he’s never pretended to be anything but a mortal in a fight far beyond his scope- the god says, “Perhaps… humanity has a chance yet.”

Suddenly, the fragments return, filling the world with colour and life once again. Qrow gasps, every molecule of air in his lungs vibrating painfully as the world stitches itself back together, floating bodies and horrified caricatures captured in frozen time reappearing before his eyes. The God of Light is gone, he realizes; in his place sits Ambrosius, the god’s dark eyes wide and lifted towards the hidden ceiling, as if receiving orders from above.

Ambrosius reappears before his eyes suddenly, startling the man. “Wait, you gotta tell me-“

“Tell you what?!” Qrow cries, leaping back in wary trepidation.

At first, the words are incoherent; then, Ambrosius points to the skies. “You… okay, Mr. Ruby’s Uncle,” he breathes. “Are the pieces still existing?”

Air halts in his lungs. Frankly, he does not know for certain- all of this has been built on naught but a hunch, but clearly he has survived his strange, sudden encounter without missing any body parts so he is assuming he is correct. “…yes.”

Incredulous, the spirit gawps, “You- you don’t even know.”

Slowly, Qrow shakes his head. “…no. But I don’t have much choice but to hope.”

Ambrosius searches his gaze for a long, long time. Then, after what feels like a millennia, much to Qrow’s surprise… he nods, his lips spreading into a wide, unabashed smile. “They gave me permission, and I’m not breaking any rules, so… I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees, though. I can only build.” Letting out a long, controlled breath, Ambrosius commands, “Alright. Tell me about them.”

There is no lie in his words.

His fingers shake as he puts down the Staff of Creation, as he releases Harbinger. In their stead, Qrow holds up their memento. He speaks, memories and comparisons and hopes and dreams falling from his tongue in a waterfall that has been repressed for far too long. Ambrosius listens silently, nodding his head, taking notes, until his face twists into a focused grimace and he steps back, ready to begin his work.

Then, Qrow’s eyes close, his body crumbles to the floor, and the world begins to breathe anew.

Chapter Text

He shifts. He aches. His eyelids are cemented shut, and every fiber of his being wants him, begs him, to remain lying there peacefully, shut away from the cold, harsh reality which he had been drowning in without a life jacket.

He wants peace. That’s all he could ask for; some silence, some tranquility. Perhaps a pillow under his head. Some good food in his stomach.

And the girls- let them be okay.

As his languid, weary thoughts shift over to his nieces, that illusion of peaceful quietude snaps apart, brittle and chalky as his ears pick up what his brain had previously been ignoring. Somewhere off to the side, he can hear a keening, sobbing cry. It is weak; it is frail. The voice whimpers and cracks, great heaving cries bursting through muffled lips every time the dam’s pressure grows too heavy.

That voice belongs to Yang. And, underneath her sobs, he can hear Ruby’s high-pitching, keening cry, the girl’s heartbroken, shocked sobs so painfully familiar that every nerve in his body misfires, world growing wide behind his eyelids, the desire to attack whatever has come to harm his girls overtaking everything else.

He shudders, starts, sits up, fails. The ground is unforgivingly hard under his back as he falls back down, unable to support his own weight. A searing pain burns his hands, his bones aching, heart begging for some clarity as suddenly, his brain begins to race, leaving his body well and truly behind-

What of his request?

Finally, his eyelids crack open. The movements are slow and sluggish, but after a few moments, the world starts to blur back into view. The scent of Dust and fire and ozone lingers in the air, unnatural and unnerving, irritating his nose; his mouth is dry, a chalky film coating his teeth and tongue, almost enough to make him gag.

And to his right, he can hear his nieces cry.

It does not make any sense, however. His blurry vision focuses above him, locking onto a face which hovers over his own, vague features slowly drifting into sharp precision as his senses awaken.

Ruby’s eyes have always been the widest in her fear, in her worry. He’s always hated that about her heartache; it is always so easy to see the pain which lingers in her heart, every emotion laid bare within silvery depths for him to see.

His lips wobble. He never wanted to let her down again, but she looks so close to breaking down, he just-

Then, he allows his head to loll over to the right. His breath hitches in his chest, his body flooding with fear and confusion and, underneath it all… hope.

Ruby is held in Yang’s arms. They both weep. They both smile.

A hand that is far too callused, far too soft, to belong to Ruby, cups his cheek, turning his head back to look up at the worried face examining his fumbling return to consciousness. His eyes widen, heart nearly hammering through his chest as his gaze finally falls upon details his foggy vision had failed to pick up- wrinkles lining the corners of those large eyes faintly, laugh lines engrained around a thin, smiling mouth, and dark, pure brown hair, so unlike the red-tinged locks of the girl sobbing a few feet away in the arms of her older sister. These brown strands are far longer, almost hitting Qrow’s face; pulling away for a moment, the woman gathers her hair up and twists it deftly into a half-bun, exposing her face properly at last.

He remembers those movements. It has been thirteen years, but he remembers them. He has never forgotten.

His fingers are tentative, but the face does not pull away as he reaches up, cupping that familiar, soft cheek in return. “…Summer?” he breathes.

Summer Rose helps him sit up, brushing off his shoulders and smoothing his hair away from his face. “I- Qrow, I-“ she whispers, failing to find the words she needs.

He does not care. Silently, he shifts to scan the area. Now that he is alert, he can see that this place is naught but the same dark, surreal world where he had found the fallen Staff of Creation. Unlike before, however, there are no more citizens fleeing from the smaller portals to the central door; now, it is naught but blood and shattered stone, remnants of a battle he had clearly disappeared too long to participate in.

“The staff?” he grunts, glancing around.

Ruby lifts her face tearfully and shakes her head, her lips mouthing one simple explanation. Cinder.

Strangely enough, however, Qrow does not care. It does not matter that Cinder and Salem had made off with the Relic; there are ways to retrieve an item, after all. There always are.

But Summer’s cheek is warm in his hand. He can feel her breath upon his palm, her pulse faint under the light contact of his fingertips brushing her neck. She is here, and she is real, and she-

The gods listened to me. She hadn’t died. Her soul had still been here.

He… does not want to think about that, though.

Wordlessly he looks back at Summer. The woman is somehow so much more pained, yet so much brighter, more vivid, than the face he remembers. He almost gags, however, as he realizes just what it means- that the face in the photograph had replaced the face in his memories of her long, long ago.

But Summer is here. She is real. Her touch is warm, and he had been right about her status for better or for worse; for a moment, he allows his gaze to look at her neck, an exposed collarbone showing scars that remind him far too much of wounds he has seen worn on the former Fall Maiden’s unconscious form. Those scars come from Grimm.

She had been a host for a monster, hadn’t she?

Yet, it does not matter. She is here. He does not fight it when the tears spill forth from his eyes. He does not wipe them away. Instead, he merely beckons Ruby and Yang over, whispering to Summer, “They’re your little girls, Sunshine. I kept them safe.”

Summer’s face breaks. For a moment, Qrow spots Raven in those eyes- the same terror, the same heartache and guilt and longing- but just as quickly, Summer tamps down on those emotions, turning to look at her grown-up daughters again. Her arms tremble as she holds them out, pulling away from Qrow in favour of gesturing for the girls to come closer. “Hi, babies,” she whispers.

Qrow does not even see them move. A part of him wonders whether it is due to the fact that Ruby had maybe used her Semblance, or perhaps it is the fact that he is still dizzy and disoriented; either way, the sight of Summer Rose wrapping her arms around the wailing, trembling shoulders of her daughters for the first time in thirteen years. Sobs are muffled in her dark blouse, her cape quivering as she takes on the shuddering and the longing cries of the two young women burying themselves against her shoulders. Summer doesn’t hesitate; her movements are clumsy and stilted, but her hands fly up to stroke their hair, softly whispering words of comfort and praise and love.

Qrow cannot say a word. This sight- Summer, here, with his girls- the thought of Taiyang’s face as he sees his love back after so many years of suffering alone- the fact that Qrow has finally done something right-

All he’s ever wanted is to have his family be whole again. To have his nieces smile.

And… now, it is done.

He cannot speak. He cannot move, cannot think, can scarcely breathe. As it is, he shifts, easing up the ache in his back from where Harbinger had pressed an imprint of itself against his spine; while he moves, however, something sharp pricks him from within his pocket. Confused, Qrow scrabbles for it, removing the offending object whilst his eyes remain glued upon the scene before him. His thumb idly strokes the surface of it; it is smooth metal, with familiar bumps and ridges, a lacquer filling certain segments.

He looks down. His chest aches. It is Clover’s pin.

…thanks, boy scout. For the luck. It might not have worked without you.

The tears flow freely. He is not sorrowful- merely lonely, the guilt and frustration which had suffocated him for the past week having tempered into naught but a soft emptiness in the wake of Clover’s absence. Qrow hadn’t saved Clover. Qrow had let Clover die, and Qrow has known the rule from the start: the dead stay dead.

But the lost can always find their way back.

Wordlessly, Qrow smooths out his lapel and undoes the clasp with shaking fingers. He does not know whether the good luck which Clover had poured into this pin will last, but he shall never let it go, even after he has wrung it of every drop.

He had managed to bring back Summer. Clover’s luck had undoubtedly led him here, and Qrow refuses to let that sacrifice go to waste. And, as Summer releases her girls for a moment, only to grab onto Qrow’s hand and pull him into her embrace as well, Qrow knows that this pin upon his breast shall ensure that he sees that promise through. If nothing else, it’ll be a little good luck charm for his heart; with Summer here once more, that charm in itself is more than enough.

-fin-