How about #16? And you can pick whichever ship you want!
#16: things you said with no space between us.
ask meme here - still taking requests.
It's still unnerving, like an arrow aimed at his neck - having Milo's attention fully on him.
He breathes through a snarl that should be softer around its edges if not for the fact that it's him, and that Milo is bleeding, snow blue hair matching his own shade of red around Milo's temple - a careless tumble with gravity having been content to watching him fall. It would've been worse if not for Actagawa's quick thinking, but the fact that it's anything at all simmers Bisco's blood, this irascibility a burning underneath his collar. It's a minor enough wound that there's no stitches needed, only the antiseptic and bandages required buried under the curling of Bisco's fingers - just a "Sorry, can you get this, Bisco? We don't have a mirror so I can't see to do it myself" that Bisco had cut off with yanking the supplies to his own chest, silent only because Milo's answering smile - sheepish, pink around the cheeks with the blood that he hasn't lost - leaves him unable to say what he actually wants.
Instead, he has Milo in his lap, almost nose to nose, with the weight of his partner a match to the sudden lump lodged in his throat.
"Hold still," is all that comes out, gravel-rough, and Milo answers by disobeying him with an eager nod, pale fingers curling into the cuff of Bisco's sleeve, happily trailing along, happily attached, as Bisco dabs at the split skin. Milo doesn't wince; he's too strong for that, or perhaps Bisco is blind by being this close, even as he finds himself gentling the pressure when he imagines it's lingered for a second too long. Actagawa is scuttling about in the background, from the corner of his eye, watchful among the arid sands. The sun is setting. He wants this done before it's down.
"Bisco," Milo starts, saying it almost mindlessly (as if Bisco isn't aware of how mindful Milo is when it comes to him) and Bisco holds his breath as Milo's warms his cheek. He shifts back instinctively, finding Milo has already started to move in turn to find his eyes. There's a warmth there that looks out of place with the cockiness of Milo's grin. "Bisco."
His mouth twitches to match; he stomps it down, but finds it still slips out in his tone if the way the corners of Milo's eyes crinkle when he replies, "Am I supposed to know what you mean by just saying my damn name over and over?"
"You usually do."
At that, he does grin, his laugh a bite at Milo's bark.
"Moron," he states with certainty, curling the red-blue hair back behind Milo's ear from where it had slipped, fingertips brushing over the curve and trailing down to the lobe. "Duck your head back, I'm not done."
"Yes, sir," is all Milo ends with, voice a sing-song smoothness that Bisco wonders he used when he was treating patients back in Imihama. If - a big if, Bisco imagines - Pawoo ever got injured, beyond the rust, if Milo's voice served as a balm to her cracked pride.
The bandage isn't shoddy by his own standards but already, even without a precious mirror, Bisco watches with a barely contained frustration - a "really, doc?" ready on his lips - when they lean back from another and Milo instantly reaches up, not with the hand still curled in Bisco's sleeve, and pokes at the bandages. But then Milo's smiling, sparing no restraint in how often he's gracing Bisco with the sight, his hair catching on the setting sun as he tips his head back with a proud laugh, a short and quiet thing in the space between them, with all of who Milo is in this moment lighting every single one of Bisco's nerves on fire.
"Not bad, Bisco," he says and it sounds like he means it, and the two bloody rags draped over Bisco's knees makes Bisco wonder how tired Milo is now, finally dropping down from the adrenaline. There's a coolness quickly spreading over the desert, as the moon in his periphery begins to rise, so Bisco thinks nothing of it as his fingers drop down from curling Milo's hair back behind his ear - again - a slow glide of callouses against pale skin, fingertips resting at his neck, and Milo shivers.
He thinks nothing of himself when, for a moment, he pulls Milo forward, pressing his forehead to his partner's. His goggles push up into his hairline, crooked and threatening to fall back behind him into the sand, but Milo's hand is leaving his sleeve to curl around his fingers, a smooth warmth against the chill Bisco didn't realize he was carrying. He lets out a breath in a sigh and does everything in his power - and failing miserably - not to smile when Milo copies him.
With his eyes closed, without looking, he knows Milo's focused on him, that the man has settled himself in to staying like this for as long as Bisco allows it. He never had to teach Milo what somehow comes to him so innately - not archery, or cooking out in the wild with only the elements providing for them, or for having the damn decency to say no for once, come on, Milo; no, not this - the way his partner has let himself be so captivated by whatever he sees in Bisco that his focus leaves Bisco feeling stripped raw, as if there's no space between them.
He sighs again, brushing noses with Milo as he pulls back, opening his eyes to find Milo's right there, open, trained on him like a well-nocked arrow.
Just for that, with a grin, he raps his knuckles once, twice, against Milo's bandages and lets Milo's hiss of pain, pittering out to soft laughter as he tries to push Bisco back into the sand - tries and fails, "you're on me, y'know, you idiot" - chase away anything he could think to say in this moment, locked down, deep in his chest.
He'll let it burn there for a little while longer.
Rules available here, from @kedreeva. Sending an ask with any of the filenames below will lovingly bully me into writing three sentences which I’ll share.
Current filenames of WIPS:
Lamplight [Sabikui Bisco]
a bar, a guitar, and god [Trigun Stampede]
hateno house made me emotional [Zelda: TotK]
sabbatical [Zelda: BotW]
Snippet:
The matron behind the bar doesn't give them a second courtesy glance as they filter in, and Roberto huffs a sign of relief behind the filter of his cigarette. Ahead of him, Vash walks, guided by Wolfwood and watched by Meryl, to a crooked table with some worn down chairs - close to the corner, away from prying eyes. Roberto watches as Wolfwood, cigarette pinched in the fingers held behind his back, weaves between the crowd and redirects the smoke away from a nearby table where a woman with tired eyes listens to a small girl wave about her cup excitedly.
“Did you ever do things like this? Silly, mundane things like this.”
“Dunno about that,” Bisco says simply, his voice far away and sleep-touched as it reaches Milo’s ears. “This kind of stuff feels important enough.”
Ao3 Link - Preview below.
Summer
The rain takes him by surprise.
It’s gentle, the clouds colored a soft cotton-gray. It plays tap tip taptaptip on the makeshift canopy overhead, joined by a flickering curtain by the entrance that Milo looks through, watching with a smile as Actagawa scuttles happily around the field. They could easily travel onward, towards Shikoku, and not be too encumbered, their hippo-skin tarps and well-worn cloaks thick enough to manage a little rainwater. It all depends on Bisco, what he wants to do and how quickly he feels like uprooting their little break.
Bisco, who just lost a war with himself. Bisco, now sound asleep on his side next to where Milo sits, his snores quiet against the backdrop of the rain.
Well, not anytime soon, then. Milo can’t help but smile to himself.
The space between Milo’s hip and where Bisco’s head is pillowed on his arm is present but scarce, the tent barely enough for two if they pretend to be one, a condition Milo almost hates that he’s growing more and more fond of – the closeness, the reality of his life now. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear Bisco’s heartbeat, the weight of his arm curled around Milo’s back, the gentle pressure of being pressed cloth to skin as the realization that Bisco was back, safe and alive. Loud, steady, a touch addictive.
If Milo closes his eyes now, perhaps he could fuse that sound with the rain, a gentle melody hopefully tempting enough for him to leave Actagawa on guard duty, just for a few moments, if only to join his partner in a quiet moment of sleep. If he closes his eyes, he wonders if his own heartbeat will settle to match it.
It's almost six in the morning. If he doesn't hurry, the bus will leave him behind.
He doesn't envy the driver their job, those tireless hours sitting, keeping watch, helpless to listen in to the three rows of seats behind them and whatever conversation floats into the air. The security, the routine, the quiet in the late hours - perhaps that's something more akin to what Keith wants, even though now, as he steps and makes his way down the cliff, away from the ocean, he's leaving his behind. If he didn't know better, he'd say he's surprised Shiro hasn't stopped him.
I'll be here, Keith.
It went on too long. It wasn't enough. Keith can't make up his mind but at least he knows where he can go to once he does. He knows the way the door to the loft requires jostling in order for the key to work, and where Shiro keeps hidden snacks underneath the bar for something to eat while he works. He knows where to lay his head and knows he doesn't need to keep his knife under his pillow when he does.
His smile wobbles as the salt begins to sting his throat. He's smiling, somehow.
Eventually the ocean dulls to a background hum. Gravel trades place for concrete and his steps are sluggish but sure as he makes his way to the bus stop, a short walk into town but not too far, not too tempting; he can't see the bar from where he is now. He tugs his jacket tighter, fingertips fiddling with the denim cuffs, and makes himself content with tracing shadows by his feet. The stars are gone, fading now - at least the sunrise is beautiful.
Three months. A little more. That was it. Yet that was it, that was enough.
In the distance, he hears a gentle motor. As he raises his head, huffing up a gust of air to chase his bangs away, he watches the bus steer towards the sidewalk and begin to slow.
The door opens two feet from where he sits, two feet in steps facing away from the town. Through the window, an older man smiles in welcome and Keith smiles back if only because he can see clearly, through the distance, through the glass, how tired the man looks.
Standing up, he shifts the bag on his back and climbs aboard. Few words are spared in his destination, which seems to be just another day for the driver, but Keith hopes that his tone had enough emotion, enough awareness, that he didn't sound like completely like a sleep-deprived asshole. Their eyes meet through the rear-view mirror as Keith takes a seat, four seats back and to the left, and the driver offers a smile that almost looks like Coran's, minus the mustache. He nods in reply and the bus lurches forward once, hisses, and begins to leave the parking lot.
It turns towards the cliffs and makes its way down the road. Slow and steady, a stray bump here and there; such a small town, despite the tourists, couldn't afford to fix every crack, every gap. Keith holds his breath and stares out the window, stares until the sun burns the glass with light.
He doesn't want to see. He doesn't want to know. He has to know.
Shiro's backlit by gold, brilliant, walking down the cliff's path with the grace of a man too used to being awake at the crack of dawn. Keith sees him look up as the bus approaches, a blurry figure that grows in size, in clarity, when the bus begins to take the curve that almost grazes the sidewalk.
He tilts his head. Keith pictures a smile as the empty sleeve of his jacket catches the morning breeze and waves him goodbye one last time, one more finality for now. Perfect, ridiculous, and he can't help the laughter catching behind his teeth at that thought. It's too much.
I'll be here, Keith.
He tastes salt again as he bows his head, tugging his backpack tight into his chest, close enough to hear the books and papers inside crinkle and squeak from the force. The driver goes steady and soon the road evens out to highway, based on the feel; he hasn't picked up his head, cushioning his cheek against the flattened out strap. It's too much, wonderfully, bitterly so.
“Everything okay?” Clover asks across from him, a simple question, one eyebrow quirked as that calm gaze scans for any movement, any twitch, any give. As if he’s wondering what Qrow was doing, why he was watching him. As if he already knew, self-assured and slumped against crates of cargo, but wanted to hear it anyway.
Qrow shrugs, an answer enough. After a moment, he sighs, kicking himself as he adds on, “Yeah, just–” He stops, mouth twisted. Something about it apparently makes Clover smile and Qrow wonders if he’s funny to the man or somehow suddenly see-through. It feels like both. “Was just watching the light reflect. Your pin there. That’s all.”
A hand casually tossed, waved as if it could tamper down what he just said, and Qrow’s looking away, anything to avoid seeing the way Clover smiles wider, eyes crinkling a bit at the edges. He’s not wrong, not completely; the pin would catch and sparkle in the dull light of the truck, a flicker here, a catch to the eye there. A soothing, pleasant sliver of a flash then gone, awaiting movement from an exhaled chest, a bump in the road, anything to bring it back.
But it’s not as bright as the man’s eyes in these moments, now and passed in this silence, the light a steady supply to the glimmer that catches on any trace of amusement that Qrow somehow causes, and Qrow hates and love how it steals his attention. Hates how he’s weak in these moments of quiet, with no cards between them and no words to keep Qrow’s eyes from matching his wandering thoughts. Hates that he wants to pluck that charm off Clover’s chest and toss it between his fingers, something for his hands, his senses, but Clover’s still smiling.
“Way to really seem like a bird. I’m impressed.”
He’s laughing at him, a little bit, but it’s not rude. It’s in his tone, calm and warm, and the metal of the crate Qrow had been leaning against all this time feels a little less cold than it did a moment ago. Qrow has it in him to laugh himself, a noise teetering just a bit on the edge of tired, and Clover almost looks proud despite the roughness of the sound.
“Very funny,” Qrow says, all that he can give, and thanks whatever rests above that the man across from him wasn’t privy to the irony of his namesake. He looks down to where their legs almost overlap, black and white washed-out in the light. He kicks his boot against Clover’s and coughs, watches as Clover returns the touch with a smidge more force. “You… got any cards on you?”
“What, tired of the free show?” Clover laughs, already digging through hidden pockets for the pack. Qrow takes the chance to look at his pin, the top leaf of the four-leaf clover gleaming for a second, and then Clover’s looking up, grinning and tossing the pack into Qrow’s quickly reaching hands.
The request unspoken, Qrow slips the cards free and starts shuffling while Clover moves a crate around for a make-shift table. “Eh, seen it, it’s just a rerun,” he mutters, almost offhandedly, and fights an outright bark of a laugh when Clover’s face shifts from surprised, offended, amused, and then mischievous. Eyes alight as he leans over the table and holds his hand out, palm up waiting for his cards, Clover’s smile is a slow and easy trap.
“I’m honored you’d watch it more than once,” is the easy reply, carried on careful confidence, and now it’s Qrow’s turn to lose face, a flicker of heat creeping up the back of his neck as he drops Clover’s cards into his hand none too gently. It’s a victory when he sees a touch of red gracing the tips of Clover’s ears, even if it’s bittersweet when he looks back at that cocky grin.
The game starts, Qrow fanning his cards and scanning. A subpar hand - of course - but he’s got the poker-face to hide it.
“Nothing better on,” he says, mostly to himself. He wonders what he even means, eyes drifting to the pin, to teal eyes, finding himself blinking when Clover’s smile twitches at the end, an almost undignified snort leaving the other man as he lays down the first card of the game. Qrow feels the poker face slip a crack, a minuscule chip in the paint, and rolls his eyes when Clover leans back against his crate, politely smug and satisfied. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Hey, it’s not always luck,” Clover quips, but Qrow catches his thump near his hip, bumping against the rabbit’s foot.
“Jerk.” Qrow huffs out a laugh. He wonders when he lost his breath as he watches himself deal a card in turn. Clover’s eyes flash as he looks over Qrow’s choice. Qrow watches the light soothe the shaded teal to a warm green, the hints of blue reminiscent of a clear sky, and wonders how they’ll change if he keeps his gaze steady, if he lets Clover catch him completely in the act. If he lets his judgement lapse and keeps looking, ready to blame it on boredom, the irony of his name. On a sense of proximity that’s simultaneously getting easier and scarier to deal with as each day passes.
He wonders what would overcome him more at that moment: the way that teal color would shift, brilliant and brightening in amusement, or how those eyes would then search his own, a gently prodding, complimentary clash, asking for any of that very same warmth in return.
There's a pond in the woods nearby where everyone is staying in Patch, a place Clover gravitates to while they all recover from everything that happened in Atlas. As the days pass by, as his wound heals, as he keeps fishing with no luck, Clover soon realizes he has another choice to make.
Chapter 1/? - Everyone’s resting, Clover’s fishing, and there’s pancakes.
Ao3 Link.
“You’re one of a kind, my boy.” His father said once. “I bet you could fish in sewage and reel back gold.”
Clover never tested it.
It would’ve been a waste of bait and a lure, for one, and they never had the money growing up to spend on frivolous matters. That and his father’s confidence in his skill, in the proud jut of his chin when they would walk the boardwalk with a day’s well-earned haul, was never something he wanted to risk slipping on too big a risk with a child’s ease. His father probably would’ve laughed at him, lines crinkling around his eyes with that well-worn smile on his face, if he had ever tried, not to mention the plenty of dumb things he did growing up that didn’t involve a pole or some fishing twine.
It’s funny now, he thinks as he casts out a line, how he’s been here for almost two hours and hasn’t caught a thing.
How his luck has changed.
The morning’s overcast has shifted into gentle sunlight, the beams shimmering against the canopy of early autumn leaves. It’s no longer as cold as earlier, and he’s willing to bet the same goes for the water. Warm water means the fish are deeper down and away from the surface, safe and happy where it’s cool. He can’t blame them even if it stings a bit that he’s probably lost his chance, but at least the weather is nice.
Deciding to take a break, he reels his line in and sets his equipment to the side. The fishing pole rests with a gentle thud against the worn wood of the pier, the echo faint yet sudden enough to be sharp. Reclining back on his hands, he scans the trees across the pond and watches how the wind plays the with leaves. It’s calm enough to fall asleep to, the sunlight a perfect blanket.
“Oh, there you are,” comes from behind him, footsteps solid against the pier. “Figured you’d be here!”
The voice is calm and quiet. Respectful of the serenity of the early morning yet holding an undercurrent of amusement. Since they’ve arrived, there hasn’t been anywhere else he’s gravitated as frequently to except for here (or the slightly sunken-down corner of the couch in the living room, but that spot is easier to check off first.) Still, he figures the humor is justified. Far be it from him to chase away any semblance of joy these kids can make for themselves during a time like this.
Clover looks over his shoulder and sends a smile to Ruby. “Lucky guess. Care to join me?”
She smiles back and is quick to settle next to him, mindful of the equipment as she tucks her knees to the side and looks out at the water. She looks intent on something, silver eyes scanning the trees before her lips twitch in a smile, and then those eyes are on him, bright and content with the moment before them. Clover doesn’t ask and makes sure she’s comfortable and focused before speaking, sitting up properly to give her his attention.
“It’s not like you to be up this early,” he starts, wondering to himself why he suddenly feels a bit nervous about making conversation. It’s not like this is their first one (and given how that one went, this should be nothing in comparison.) “Something up?”
Ruby’s quick to shake her head and adds on a shrug for good measure, hands resting lazily in her lap. “Nah, not really. Dad was a bit louder than usual getting ready for work but other than that, I’m… just up! I’m awake.” Her voice tapers off into something small, and he spares a glance to her hands and watches how her fingers curl in the loose fabric of her sweater. “Just awake.”
Clover hums, committed to her words as he thinks of his own. He knows she (and by default, the other kids) have every reason to feel as weary as they do despite their current respite in Patch. Thankfully it seems they’ve started to settle and heal, at least a little bit. He wonders how long it’s been since any of them truly felt at peace somewhere.
He wonders the same for himself, sometimes.
“Your father definitely isn’t the quietest in the morning, although I think Miss Valkyrie has him beat once she’s up,” he offers after a moment, earning a small laugh. “How come you came looking for me, by the way?”
“Oh! No one else was up ‘cept for you and Uncle Qrow, and I wanted to see if we could make breakfast together for everyone.”
Despite his stomach softly rumbling at the mention of food, something he skipped out on to settle by the water, he finds himself mentally tumbling over all of that to ask aloud: “Qrow’s awake?” It’s half out of amusement because that man, despite being the lightest sleeper Clover’s ever known, seemed partial to staying in a sun-warmed bed until noon if given a choice. The other half is genuine surprise because he usually joined Clover at the pier if he woke up before all the kids, or if it wasn’t too chilly outside.
He must either look or sound ridiculous because she’s giggling, wearing sunbeams in her hair as the leaves shift above them. “You haven’t noticed yet?”
“Noticed what, Miss— Ruby?” He asks, remembering to bite back on that ingrained habit of titles, formalities. She doesn’t seem to mind and instead keeps her smile like a secret, keeping his question suspended with a glance back at the trees, the leaves rustling louder against a sudden breeze. Her smile grows and, shortly after, there’s footsteps behind them, soft and comfortably familiar to Clover’s ears.
“Stop harassing the elderly before noon, kiddo.”
Qrow walks towards them with a steady gait, looking entirely comfortable yet unusual in cargo pants and some red pullover that looks like it’s been through the wash one too many times. He shoots Clover a small smile that grows when he faces Ruby, reaching down to ruffle her hair with nothing short of fondness, and they both laugh when she squawks at the treatment.
“Aren’t you two almost the same age, Uncle Qrow?”
Qrow nods. “Exactly, so don’t harass me, either.”
Clover snorts at that and turns a bit more to face Qrow. He fights back a laugh watching Ruby swat at her uncle, ducking out from underneath his teasing, and feels himself smile a touch wider at the soft look in Qrow’s eyes. “We were just discussing breakfast. Have you eaten?”
“If you count whatever coffee Tai left in the pot, sure.”
“That’s a no, then.” He sighs, amused, aware of his own hypocrisy. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ruby nodding in firm agreement.
“You need to eat, c’mon, Uncle Qrow,” she pouts, and Clover watches as Qrow’s expression falters. It’s lightning-quick, the drop of his smile and how his brows furrow slightly in the center. It’s not the first time he’s witnessed Qrow’s careful mask crack, but it still surprises him how easily it happens when Ruby is the cause. He wishes it didn’t worry him, but there’s no time to worry now - Qrow is ruffling her hair again and laughing to himself. Clover strains to hear it over the gentle wind, watching without hearing Qrow’s reply, too caught up in the way he looks with the sun resting in his hair.
“She’s right, you know.” He catches himself interjecting, wondering if he sounds as absent as he suddenly feels. Ruby’s beaming at his side. Qrow quirks an eyebrow at him but says nothing in reply. Switching tactics, Clover turns to the girl. “What were you thinking of making for everyone, Ruby?”
“I know Oscar and Nora were mentioning wanting pancakes the other day,” Ruby mentions, talking almost to herself while Qrow shares a look with Clover before watching as Ruby bolts up, skirt swishing at her knees. “Think we could do that?”
Clover nods as Qrow raises his hands nonchalantly. “It’s all you, kid.”
With a beaming smile, she’s gone in a flurry of red through the woods, her voice calling for them to join her fading into echos. Before Clover to get himself up to follow, Qrow’s stepping forward and plopping himself down where his niece once sat, chuckling all the while he settles himself, one knee up with his arm tossed over. Comfortable, casual, like he just rolled out of bed and decided to make his way to Clover’s side before doing anything else with his day. Of course he didn’t and of course he wouldn’t, but Clover’s mind is an unhelpful supplier of fantasies, and Qrow’s ease being born from being at his side is a one too wonderfully guilty to give up at the moment.
Laughing at himself and his wishful thinking, Clover asks, “Aren’t we going to go help her?”
“Eventually.” The sun flits behind a cloud and the beams fade from black hair. There’s a few red petals stuck at the crown in its place. Clover wonders what would happen if he reached over and plucked them free. “Just wanna keep enjoying the quiet here before going back in.”
Clover hums in agreement even though he wants to go help Ruby tackle a task meant for a team. He stays and listens to the way he and Qrow breathe in sync, a happy accident as he scans the water, watching red petals drift along the pond’s surface in a race to the center.
Then Qrow’s laughing, a quiet sound, and red eyes are on his own. The petals in his hair don’t fall out.
“You really didn’t notice?” He asks, an echo of his niece earlier. Amusement lightens the lines around his eyes, tugs at the corner of a barely-there smile, and Clover’s torn between wondering what he missed out on and staying clueless if it’ll mean the man can keep wearing that expression. Before he can reply, his scroll buzzes in his pocket. He barely has it out of his pocket to see Ruby’s name flashing across the screen when Qrow starts laughing again to himself, another quiet bundle of sound that has Clover hesitating on replying to the girl’s panicked message.
Sighing as he stands, Clover tucks his fishing pole under his arm and grabs the rest of his equipment, stretching out his legs that pop with the motion. Qrow hasn’t moved, eyes trained in the distance – almost vacant despite the tired enjoyment that slips into his tone as he gets ready to stand himself. “Duty calls. C’mon, let’s head ba–”
Clover reaches forward, carding his hand gently through Qrow’s hair. The petals slip between his ring and pinky finger.
“–ck?” Qrow finishes, voice pitched a fraction higher. He’s halfway between sitting and standing, staring at Clover with an expression he doesn’t dare to define. In an effort to save face, he flashes the petals before Qrow’s eyes as his unspoken excuse and starts walking towards the front of the pier.
As he hears Qrow’s following footsteps a pace behind his own, he wonders what’s warmer: the light flush on his cheeks or how his fingers felt going through the sun-warmed strands.
Ruby’s “distress signal” held true. Kind of.
Clover can’t help the fondness that bubbles in his chest when he sees globs of pancake batter stuck in her hair, much less over half the countertop and the stand mixer in the corner. Qrow’s rolling his eyes and fooling no one as he goes to dump half the batter from the mixing bowl into another, muttering offhandedly about kids and having too much energy for ass o’clock in the morning. Clover wants to tell him it’s actually half past that but settles for getting a damp kitchen towel for Ruby to clean herself with.
“I think,” she starts, the towel limp in her hands. “I mixed too much at once.”
She’s smiling despite her mistake, despite the flush to her cheeks, and considering it had nothing to do with an open flame or broken glass as he thought and that she’s actually okay, Clover figures they can settle for a little bit of teasing.
“Think you did, too,” he grins. “Was that the whole box?”
When she holds up two fingers in a silent reply, head tucked down, Qrow laughs from the corner of the kitchen. Clover shakes his head to hide his smile, reminded a bit of Marrow and a similar incident back in Atlas with the man covered in tomato sauce and tail tucked between his legs, his team and the kids crowded around the mess while Vine tried to save the overcooked lasagna noodles near the stove.
“Coulda been worse,” Qrow mentions, and Clover’s done daydreaming, settling for a new sight as Qrow plucks one of the aprons nearby from off the hook. Thankfully there’s nothing corny written on it (although he doesn’t doubt Qrow would find some way to pull it off.) “C’mon, let’s clean up the mess so we can start over or else Tai won’t have a kitchen left once everyone else wakes up.”
Ruby smiles, sheepish, as she nods at her uncle and tucks herself by his side, listening to his directions while they clean. Clover hears something about a sheet pan and toppings before he quietly excuses himself from the kitchen, meeting Qrow’s gaze with a wink when the man looks over Ruby’s head to watch him go.
The living room is quiet, Zwei asleep in his bed near the couch, the holographic projection off. There’s a coffee mug on the table, probably Qrow’s from earlier. Clover finds the closet near the kitchen doorway and opens it up, mindful of the squeaky hinge as the dog’s gentle snores fill the room.
His fishing equipment is Taiyang’s, actually - a set he offered to Clover almost immediately upon hearing about the man’s hobby when they first arrived. He claimed he couldn’t catch anything if he fished in a puddle, so why not let someone who knew what they were doing use it instead, arms waving all the while casually. Qrow had nodded behind Taiyang’s back with a cheeky grin, one the blonde smacked off when Clover insisted Taiyang was probably fine and Qrow had dared to laugh out loud.
It’s clean now with the pole wiped down, the lures neatly placed back in the tackle box, and Clover hunts in the dimly lit space for the hook where it goes. On the floor, there’s a small stack of board games covered in dust and a vacuum cleaner with the cord haphazardly wrapped around the handle. A pair of unused garden boots are placed in the back corner. A half-empty bag of birdseed with the open end rolled down and clipped closed.
He hasn’t spoken to the man much, what with Taiyang’s job keeping him and Clover wanting the kids and Qrow to get Taiyang’s full attention, but he knows the look he sees in the man’s eyes sometimes. Recognizes it, and wonders how someone ever gets used to coming back to an empty home once they have had it full of life.
As he closes the door and straightens his back, a pop following a faint jolt of pain, he sees Ren walking down the stairs, the boy fully dressed despite the sleepy blur to his gaze. When he notices Clover, he stands a little straighter and nods.
“Good morning, Ren,” Clover says, and prides himself on speaking casually.
Ren nods again, offering a small smile. His eyes seem to be looking behind him towards the kitchen, the sounds of Ruby’s delight echoing towards the hall. Qrow sounds happy, too, the rasp in his tone easing out to something softer.
“They’re making breakfast for everyone,” he explains. “Bet they could use a hand.”
It’s a sort of gamble, more than anything. While the kids have settled themselves as comfortably as they can in Patch, it came at varying levels. He knows Ren’s hesitance to cook as often as Clover assumes he did beforehand is simply to give Ruby and Yang time to feel at home with their father, to not intrude as much out of some self-imposed expectation. He’s seen it in Jaune and Oscar, and a bit from Penny even if her reasons came from unfamiliarity versus a sense of formality. Even after Taiyang had assured them that his kid’s friends were family, even after Qrow’s nudged them to relax, repeating that they can handle a break, that they need and deserve a break.
Clover can’t say he doesn’t understand or sympathize, even if he’s lost on some details. He knows, at the very least, from when he helped set the kids up to get their huntsman and huntress licenses, that it’s been a while since any of these kids have belonged to anything resembling a home. Some longer than most.
With these kids risking their lives, their sanity, stepping into roles most seasoned huntsmen wouldn't even dare to take on, he wants them to feel at home, even if this isn’t his home - or his place - to offer.
Ren smiles and Clover breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mr. Ebi.”
“Clover, please. No need for titles.”
He’s glad to see others struggle with it, too.
“Thank you, Clover.”
And then he’s gone, braid fluttering behind him as he walks towards the kitchen. Ruby’s voice echoes out again, Ren’s softer tones muffled, and Clover lets the sounds follow him up the stairs.
The kids took Ruby and Yang’s old room. He hears a symphony of hushed whispers and snores from behind the door as he passes by. He doesn’t know how they’ve all crammed themselves in there, especially since the spare bedroom he and Qrow were currently using had room for the boys at the very least, but they seemed to be enjoying it. An impromptu long-term slumber party, he guesses - youthful, exciting, a sense of security, even if Ruby and Yang had slept in their father’s room the first night they arrived.
Neither he nor Qrow had mentioned Taiyang calling out of work that following morning, or the relief in red-rimmed eyes at breakfast before the kids woke up. Qrow had knocked his knuckles fondly against the crown of Taiyang’s head and handed him coffee, tension an undercurrent behind the relief while Clover stayed to himself, turning bacon over in a pan.
Clover’s not a father, but he thinks he understands. The uncertainty when you’re the one left behind, the worry to the point of panic. The relief when they come home safe, the love to the point of tears.
He’s seen it enough in Qrow’s eyes, how much these kids are loved. Taiyang doesn’t seem to be any different.
(Although the pillow fight that happened once the girls joined their friends the following evening probably didn’t help how much coffee the man chugged when he finally went back to work the next morning.)
When the door to his room closes behind him, he soon hears footsteps come from the girls’ room: soft and careful, practiced stealth against the hardwood floors. Soon there’s a knock at the door, almost hesitant in the beats between the two raps, and Clover doesn’t have to blame his semblance for guessing right. He wonders how he’s come to learn everyone’s quirks so quickly.
Shaking the thought as Blake looks up at him, a small smile greeting him matched with relaxed ears, he opens the door wider and allows her to step in as he turns towards the closet.
“Everything okay?”
She’s quick to nod. “Yes, nothing’s wrong, I just-- I finished reading that book and was going to drop it off for you.”
Clover smiles, amused. It had been an offhand comment based on the back cover, not to mention he really hasn’t had the time to read a novel longer than he can remember. But she had looked so engrossed in the words, settled comfortably against Yang’s arm as they sat around the living room last night, that he asked her when Yang had started tugging her off towards the stairs. The look on her face had been one of pleasant surprise, coupled with the joy in Yang’s eyes at seeing her partner light up.
He takes it with a grateful nod and runs his fingers carefully over the simple cover. “Thanks. I’ll get started tonight; maybe we can discuss it when I’m done?”
He bites back a laugh at the excitement on her face, open yet composed. “I’d like that. Thank you, Clover.”
“Sure. Now go grab some food downstairs, I bet you’re all hungry.”
She nods and starts down the hall, but a few seconds pass before her head pops back into the door frame.
“Are you coming down, or should we send something up?”
Her thoughtfulness isn’t a surprise at this point, even if the thought of how touching it is hasn’t lessened. Between her and Oscar, he’s found himself at the end of inquiries and spoken worries, being taken care of as much as he’s been trying to help Qrow and Taiyang take care of the kids. Not to mention Taiyang himself trying to settle Clover into a guest role, claiming he needed rest, that he was injured, with Qrow not helping by only offering a sympathetic pat to the shoulder and an “I told you so,” a shadow over his eyes as he followed Taiyang alone into the kitchen to help with dinner.
He hasn’t been able to step outside of a leader role, isn't sure how. (Especially now, since it’s for more than just a team that wasn’t even allowed to be friends.)
“I’ve already eaten,” he lies. The prickle of shame at how easily it slips out gets to him, but he doesn’t let it show. “I’ll be down for lunch, don’t worry.”
Blake nods and leaves after telling him to rest well. He pretends he didn’t see how her eyes roamed over his chest, piercing gold a scan too sharp to miss any details. He knows they all know bits and pieces, enough for a picture but not for a puzzle.
A severe, life-threatening injury. A miraculous effort by Atlas' technology to reverse it as best they could. Qrow hid a piece when he mentioned to the teams of Tyrian escaping from their custody, but nothing of the actual fight. And with Salem and her forces at their doorstep, with Oscar missing somewhere in Mantle, with these kids trying to do anything and everything to save themselves from being what Clover should've been, the pieces were lost.
No one knows anything about how it happened, just him and Qrow. If the kids have assumptions, they haven’t shared. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to solve this puzzle with them.
Not before he does with Qrow.
The thought of the man dances electric along the edges of the scarring wound. It itches under the bindings, and he knows he needs to change them, knows he should have when he woke up but didn’t want to risk waking up Qrow who had finally fallen asleep late at night after keeping the kids up with some exciting to-be-continued tonight story.
It’s been a struggle to do it himself, especially with securing the back, but he--
He can’t ask Qrow. And he doesn’t want to burden the kids with the sight.
He'll have to go into town and visit Pietro. He went with Maria to save Taiyang some space, the woman apparently connected with someone there who has been overdue for returning a favor for some time now. Penny was there now. He could get directions from her when she came back from visiting her father; he'd rather not make the man come all the way out here again just for another check-up.
It could wait for later. Now he just wanted to sleep.
(A mindless sleep. Anything to chase away the static teetering along the edges in his head.)
The spare bedroom here is washed-out, white - it reminds him a bit of his space in Atlas, even if the fresh sunflowers in the vase atop the nightstand are a nice touch. His side of the bed (or at least opposite of the one that Qrow fell into once they first arrived) is closest to the window, and with the curtains pushed back, the sunlight settles comfortably through the glass against the bed sheets. The sun is warm here, unlike the frost-laced sunlight back in Atlas. He can rest here and leave the guilt behind for a few hours. Everyone is safe right now.
He can rest.
It’s how Qrow finds him an undetermined amount of time later. Clover is chasing the tail-end of a peaceful dream when he feels Qrow sit in front of him on the edge of the bed, mindful of approaching from the back.
(Clover’s not awake enough to feel the shame for that. At how he reacted the other day. How Qrow had walked up behind him without Clover knowing. The flash of realization in Qrow’s eyes at how Clover had crowded himself closer to the stove, back instantly pressed against anything flat, anything unreachable. How when Qrow asked for a cup from the cabinet, his voice fragile, both their hands shook in passing it along.)
Qrow's fingers are warm now as they touch his forehead, carding into the tuft of hair at the top, and Clover laughs, a small and sleepy sound chasing away his memory, an excuse for how he leans into the touch.
They can’t blame it on petals this time.
“Already ate, my ass,” Qrow says softly. It doesn’t sound judgemental. Clover doesn't want to guess why.
When he opens his eyes, Qrow’s looking out the window. Qrow’s hand hasn’t stopped moving, and for a moment, Clover wonders if he’s still dreaming. He can’t read Qrow’s expression in the dim light of the room. The sunlight’s behind the clouds, overcast, and the chill that has settled within the room has him all too content on chasing the warmth in Qrow’s palm.
On the nightstand next to them sits a plate of reheated pancakes. A mug, too - Qrow’s, from earlier. He hopes it's coffee.
Everything is lukewarm by the time he sits up, propped against the center of the headboard with his back cushioned by the pillows. He doesn't remember actually falling asleep earlier, and any memory of his dreams have long since faded back into static. He places the plate in his lap and fights back a smile at the berry-dotted smiley face that greets him, failing when Qrow moves to sit at his side on the edge, their shoulders touching. Qrow's gaze is still locked outside the window, lost in the leaves slowly giving up their green hues, and Clover wants to pull him back in, keep his attention in this room and not wherever his mind is flying off to.
Instead, he digs his fork in and takes the first bite, a pleased hum leaving him at the sweetness. It's slow-going, but Clover eats one-handed in silence.
There’s a pond in the woods nearby where everyone is staying in Patch, a place Clover gravitates to while they all recover from everything that happened in Atlas. As the days pass by, as his wound heals, as he keeps fishing with no luck, Clover soon realizes he has another choice to make.
Chapter 3/? - Clover oversees training, wonders why flirting is the topic of the day, and contemplates peace. Oh, and there’s sandwiches.
Ao3 Link.
“Oscar, switch to your initial position. Jaune, guard again.”
Both boys nod, their eyes remaining locked, and Clover can’t help the laugh that leaves him in a short breath. They’re waiting patiently, teetering on the edge of nervous tension; there’s a tic in Jaune’s jaw, and Oscar’s left foot digs into the dirt at his heel. It’s admirable, Clover thinks, how long they’ve been training this morning. Long enough to labor breath, long enough for the adrenaline to struggle in sparking back to life, and yet their attention is as clear as it was when they started.
But it’s still a bit predictable; they’re kids, after all.
Oscar cracks first, eyes flickering for a second to Clover who only nods for them both to begin.
True to form, Jaune settles into place quicker than Oscar: chin down, feet properly spaced apart, gaze tracing Oscar’s every step, every spare glance as they circle around underneath the open sunlight. Oscar is given away with every leaf that breaks underfoot, his steps a touch too heavy. And yet, as he leans back against the side of the house and settles as the spectator, Clover finds himself pleasantly surprised: Oscar’s gotten faster.
“On your left, Jaune,” he orders, voice calm. “Maintain your guard.”
The goal isn’t to surprise or to spoil an attack, but instead to raise familiarity with how their bodies move against one of their own, how to manage their breath and strain to see against the glaring sunbeams. How every step matters, every ounce of pressure coiling to release with every strike, every block. How to fight as one’s only tool.
It’s a give and take, fighting without the very thing that physically defines them as huntsmen, but gaining the skill to live, to survive, without it. Huntsmen can lose their weapons in battle. And if they aren’t careful, they’ll also lose their life.
He knows, almost shamefully relieved, that he doesn’t have to tell either one of them that out loud.
Oscar’s punch connects properly with Jaune’s guard, Jaune transitioning to topple Oscar’s balance with a quick sidestep. Oscar leans into Jaune’s movements, footwork light, rings forming among the leaves after every turn. His stumbles are rare and Jaune’s guard has only gotten stronger since they’ve started. Considering this is their first bout since coming to Patch to recuperate, their energy is justified - even if it’s no less admirable, Clover thinks with a smile.
Clover can tell the moment the sunlight sparks too brightly in Jaune’s way when Oscar manages to grapple him down to standing on one knee. But Oscar’s hold is loose; Jaune sweeps him by the feet, both tumbling down into dusty grass as a pile.
Their reaction time is improving, Clover all too aware that hand-to-hand combat is a quick affair in actuality. Quicker if one’s been at it all morning, even if they’re lucky to have each other, a living partner, instead of a training dummy unable to give way after hours of effort. The ice bucket holding bottles of ice water glints silver against the sun and Clover, laughing as Jaune ruffles Oscar’s hair, bends down to grab two and toss them to the kids.
If they both scramble a little too clumsily at catching them, well... he won’t tell anyone.
“Good job, both of you. Let’s stop for today, you’ve been at it for a while.”
He’s aware of his tone, weighted with pride - for a moment, he’s waiting for tails to wag at the praise. Jaune’s grateful nod and Oscar’s bashful smile, however, warms him just as well, and Clover spares a second to wonder how his old teammates are doing.
He didn’t leave them with much, just an empty space in their ranks.
Elm had been the only one to suspect his choice, given she flew the airship down to Mantle without Clover even having to ask. He still doesn’t know how she knew. Their proximity over the years had given way to casual teamwork, jabs and jokes thrown before diving into a crossfire, understanding within the confines of the job. That couldn’t be helped, but her knowing of things he’d never even spoken aloud privately in his hospital bed, her simple confidence in how she read him better than himself that night.
Knowing that he was betraying them for another, for himself. Knowing that in spite of how the AceOps were designed to work in the first place, betraying them even though he’d grown to care for them as much as he allowed himself to; it sat as well to him as oil in water.
So it had been funny - almost merciful, her response.
She only told him she was tired of surprise betrayals from people she thought she could trust, her smile small to match her pride.
Oh, and that Marrow had almost joined her but didn’t, in the end. When Clover asked why, Elm said Marrow was unsure if wanting to use his semblance against his captain, defecting or otherwise, would count as treason, and that he didn’t want Clover disappointed in him.
“I wouldn’t blame him,” he said instantly, hoping she’d catch everything else he left unspoken, and spent the rest of the ride wishing that Marrow’s worries were the other way around. Idols stepping down from pedestals were seldom done with grace. And rarely done with reopening wounds.
At the very least, Elm had been a steady driver that night. Just like she always was.
Oscar’s laughing at something when Clover comes to, the record skipping as his senses rush him. Their waters are half-finished by now, both boys sporting smiles as Jaune passes Oscar a rag to wipe the sweat clean from his face. He can hear how his own breathing shakes at the end of every exhale, how his back tingles with chills despite standing underneath the sun. A quick look overhead has him estimating it’s close to half past noon, and he brushes the sweat from his forehead, not for the first time finding himself close to missing the chill of Solitas.
If anything, the longing is grounding.
“You think it’ll work?” Jaune asks him, casually tossing his water bottle back in forth in his hands.
Clover blinks, hand falling in motion. He feels more than a little stupid.
“Sorry, mind repeating what you said before?”
The head tilt Jaune gives him fits the ones Marrow always gave, and Clover feels his smile begin to fall at the edges. Oscar interjects before Jaune can continue and, as he watches the boy speak, Clover wonders if he’s misreading the look of understanding in those hazel eyes.
“A two-on-one practice,” he starts and looks towards Jaune, who nods quickly. “Against Qrow or Taiyang. We... would ask you since you’re helping us out, but, um.”
Clover laughs and holds up a hand to stop him, to chase away that hesitant tone. “No harm in the truth,” and there isn’t, Clover playing off Oscar’s concern with a wink. “Although I’d like to think you both would have your work cut out for you, even with my handicap.”
Jaune gulps, a nervous laugh breathed out against the top of his water bottle. Oscar’s watching Clover for a second too long to be polite, the scrutiny not piercing but sharp enough to sting. And then he’s nodding very slowly, a smile growing as he falls back to lay in the grass, arms spread wide.
“It’s scary how quickly I can believe that,” the boy says, and Jaune laughs again before mirroring his pose. their arms overlapping at the wrists.
Clover smiles at the sight. Their confidence in him is surprising. It means something.
“I’d say make it a two-on-two, but I don’t know how well they’d work together, former teammates aside.” He’s heard snippets of stories, mostly from Taiyang versus Qrow, the latter more private with his past in ways Clover can’t blame but wishes he could. He folds his arms, fingers tapping at the bare skin as he hums. “You could ask Yang? I imagine her father taught her, it’d be good for you both to study a similar style at different skill levels.”
A groan comes from Jaune, one of pure exhaustion that’s echoed in Oscar’s laugh. “Okay, sounds great, but let’s save that for next week. I’ll probably be able to feel my arms again by then.”
Clover can’t help but laugh along. “Sounds good.”
“Hellooo, Clover? Jaune? Cute Boy Ozpin?”
Nora’s voice echoes from the other side of the house, carrying crystal clear through the early Autumn air, rivaled only by Oscar’s blunt, embarrassed groan. Jaune’s sitting up immediately, looking in the direction of the porch, and Clover follows, turning his head only to meet a hand in front of his face, inches from his nose. Stepping back, he levels her with a patented former leader of the AceOps’ glare before laughing when all she does is raise an amused brow.
“Aww, you know you missed me!”
“Jury’s out,” he grins, pleased when she grins back. “What’s up, Nora?”
“Me and Ren are done with the wood chopping stuff!” She makes a show of brushing at her skirt, and Clover humors her by imagining flecks of sawdust falling to dot the grass below. “Seriously, though, who does that Taiyang guy think he is, making his guests do his chores?”
“To be fair,” Ren starts, walking into view. He’s rubbing circles into his wrist, careful movements as he sends Clover a nod in greeting before turning to Nora. “We did offer to help out with anything he needed since he’s letting us stay here, not to mention eating all his food.”
“Yeah, okay, sure - but I mean help as in something fun. Like what Yang and Blake are doing now!”
Clover blinks. “Where are those two off to?”
Nora opens her mouth to speak but Ren’s quicker, voice flat despite the undertone of worry. Clover does his best to ignore the pout Nora sends Ren’s way. “Mr. Xiao Long asked them to look out for grimm, so they’re scouting for him while he’s at Signal today.”
“Where, exactly?” He asks, folding his arms. “Near the town?”
Ren nods and Clover looks down to the empty water bottle bucket at his feet, tracing droplets of condensation absently while his mind catches up. He’s heard from both Qrow and Taiyang that Patch had a grimm problem, but one that was assured to have been self-contained to certain parts of the island. The forests, spots near the cliffs by the coast, one place Taiyang wouldn’t mention. Nowhere near human life.
“They have Penny, though. Right?”
Jaune’s walking towards them, the smile telling of the exhaustion still lingering - a tone that gets an eyebrow raise from Ren but nothing spoken. Oscar is still in the grass, arms sprawled out wider with Jaune’s space cleared up, looking every bit as spaced out as he surely feels. Clover wouldn’t be surprised if he fell asleep right in the yard.
“Exactly!” And back to the topic at hand, Clover watching as Nora sweeps her arms about. “Penny’s all supercharged now - better than before, anyway; she can definitely handle a few grimm on her own!”
Clover, despite listening to Nora’s every word, shifts to keep his gaze subtly on Ren’s expression. He likes Nora and admires her spunk, her tenacity to speak her mind, but he can’t - and won’t - claim to have as good as read on her as the other kids do, least of all Ren. When he sees the boy glance over briefly, almost looking apologetic on her behalf as she keeps going, Clover waves him off with a shrug and a smile.
“Bet those two went on a date, knowing them,” Nora finishes, her nod certain, red hair flashing in the sunlight.
Jaune laughs as Ren shakes his head, the sigh all too telling leaving Clover feeling he’s missing out on some team secret here. Still, their energy is infectious, perhaps a bit nostalgic; he can’t help a small smile at the display. Nora’s leaning down to Ren’s eye-level, fondly brushing his hair from his eyes only to lightly poke at his forehead once, twice, until another sigh signals his giving up, the boy lifting his head. In the distance, Oscar chuckles softly, the mirth almost lost against Nora’s rising tone.
“C’mon, Ren! It could be true.”
“Any feelings or flirting aside, the girls are huntresses,” Clover chimes in, tone serious despite his amusement. “They take their jobs seriously when all’s said and done.”
Ren lifts his head higher and his eyes flash with something that passes too quickly for Clover to read. He looks deep in thought, as if he’s taking Clover’s words in a completely different content. His eyes flick back to Nora and linger, leaving Clover wondering what unfinished puzzle he’s stumbled upon between the pair before the girl in question is popping into view, bright eyes narrowed, grin mischievous.
“Funny that you of all people would say that, Mr. Wish us luck.”
“What?”
Five seconds tick by with Nora’s grin growing by each one. A cheeky look not at all helped by Oscar’s voice in the distance going “oh boy, here we go,” - spoken like he’s wary of what’s to come despite sounding one step away from going to the kitchen to grab popcorn.
And then it hits. Narrowed red eyes and a cocky smirk, a gaze following him behind closing doors.
(A memory he didn’t realize he was still so desperate for.)
Oh.
Saving face is a lost cause when he realizes he’s been staring off in a daze for a moment too long. Clover coughs into his hand and pretends to be interested in the line of trees gracing the backdrop of this moment in shades of brilliant gold and red. And it’s a different shade of red, the image of it in his mind, that doesn’t help him with ignoring the heat in his ears, or the way Jaune’s choking off laughter behind a wobbly grin, Nora cackling gleefully with Ren sending her a pointed look. It burns worse at Ren’s subtle smile twitching to life.
Well, he’s never earned points for subtlety - why start now? Besides, being called out by children had nothing on the look Winter had sent him, one very thoroughly unamused, once those doors had closed.
“Anyway,” he starts, hoping to convince himself, aware that the tiny crack in his voice will haunt him to his dying day when Jaune’s laughter finally breaks free. “The town’s covered between three capable fighters, not to mention Maria Calavera is there, too. So we might as well continue to cover our bases here until we’re needed elsewhere.”
Nora’s still grinning, wearing her smile like a prize. Ren at least has the decency to look sympathetic at the quickly fading flush painting Clover’s cheeks. Jaune’s slowly settling somewhere in the middle, somewhere a little lost as he looks past Clover to the edge of the porch wrapping around the house, running his fingers over the worn red sash at his waist. His smile a thin wistful thing, the touch never stopping.
Clover’s never seen him without it. Much like his own red armband.
Thankfully, luckily, he’s saved from further teasing when Nora bounces over in Oscar’s direction, dust kicking up in her excitement. Ren sighs, shaking his head as he follows after. Clover catches the smile on the boy’s face, a fond expression if he’s ever seen one, and hates that after all of that, he’s wearing one of his own.
Shrugging to himself, leaning back against the side of the house, he looks in Jaune’s direction.
“You hungry? A break’s due, what with you all working and training all morning.”
Jaune’s hand stops, frozen. He looks up to meet Clover’s gaze, blue eyes cracking underneath unspoken emotions like an iceberg. Then he looks down, scuffing his shoes against the dirt, watching it fly up and drift in the wind. He wears a smile like an old friend, with Clover wondering how old, the hurt looking both settled and unmistakably fresh.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Jaune says simply. “Yeah, I am.”
And then he’s walking forward, leaning against the wall just as Clover is, lifting his head to match what Clover’s seeing. A few paces away, Oscar’s setting up, attention on Nora as she animatedly tells some story that has Ren adding in quips every few seconds. Clover glances over to catch Jaune smiling at the sight his team makes before the boy turns to him, looking as carefree as one his age should be.
“Think they’re really on a date?”
Clover groans, trying and failing to fight a smile. “Honestly? Probably not.” But then he adds, unable to help the way his voice softens, “I wouldn’t blame them if they were, though.”
Jaune laughs like he understands. “Me, neither.” And then he’s off, joining his team.
Smiling, Clover doesn't watch him go and pushes himself up to head inside the house.
Clover, having told them to find their way to the kitchen in ten (not that he’s actually counting, the phrase more a force of habit than anything else), stares down at the countertop before him. It’s not much, his idea for lunch - a few simple sandwiches since Taiyang’s fridge has been looking sparse since yesterday, and he knows someone probably needs to go out and restock up soon. He might volunteer just for a small change of scenery, but that's a thought for later.
Assembling his lineup, he tries to remember if Jaune’s allergic to anything and which way Oscar likes his sandwiches cut despite denying it when he’s asked. Not to mention the extra ones he needs to make for Nora and her bottomless pit of a stomach, and Ren who, thankfully, hasn’t shown any pickiness as of yet.
It’s almost funny, this domesticity. He’s never been one for it, never had a reason to be even if he wanted it.
And it’s sobering, an ironic existence playing out knowing everyone is a moment away from losing it.
He knows why Taiyang hasn’t been able to assist everyone with their training as often as he’s claimed to want to, not with his job at Signal or his family actually being home rightfully claiming his attention. That, and Clover can’t help but wonder how it’d feel to train family to wage war. Taiyang helping his daughters become impressive huntresses is one thing, and that’s a job with enough life-risking stunts. But the scales have tipped in favor of direr stakes, and Clover’s not a parent; it was hard enough, his own father finally accepting his choice to leave for Atlas all those years ago.
Asking any more of Taiyang in light of what he’s already given felt too personal a job for a temporary house guest.
And then there’s Qrow.
That’s all he’s done, what Clover has heard so much about since they’ve met. How he’s been fighting in spite of fate so the kids wouldn’t have to, only to guide them along when he knew that they had to. Fighting against anything and everything that would bring them harm, even if it was himself.
(And even if he still dodged most credit due, not that Clover was giving up on that front anytime soon.)
A left-behind father, a heavy-hearted uncle, and a broken soldier.
It’s a bitter thought, feeling as if he’s the one who has done the least throughout his life. As he hears a door open, Clover laughs to himself, wondering when and how he switched mindsets with Qrow.
“I know it’s not fancy like back at Atlas, but you don’t have to glare at the food like that.”
Speak of the devil. Qrow’s at the backdoor underneath the doorway, the kids’ voices filtering through faintly behind him, his smile amused despite the emotion not brightening his eyes. Clover feels the breath punch out of him at the sight before he’s straightening up, going back to building sandwiches, schooling away any telling emotions from his face. And yet, he feels himself fighting a smile when Qrow shuts the door and walks over, steps impossibly light against the wooden floor, to settle right next to Clover’s side.
“What happened?” is all Qrow asks. It’s all he needs to ask.
For a moment - a small, shameful moment - he’s tempted to tell Qrow to quit reading him, to put him back on the shelf and let him collect a bit of dust. Just enough so it’d take more effort than a simple damn glance to see what’s going on. And it’s a guilty thought, considering their sudden role-reversal. It’s hypocritical of him, if their experiences in Atlas have anything to say about it.
Hypocritical in more ways than he cares to think about right now.
So instead, Clover sighs. “Sometimes it just sucks not having whole wheat.”
The added dramatics in his tone do the trick; Qrow’s eyes finally light up, a touch amused. Clover watches Qrow swipe a sandwich from the plate closest to him, biting in without a care. With a hip against the counter, he waves his free hand out, gesturing towards the crowded plate.
“What’s with the smorgasboard, anyway? That hungry?”
Clover snorts softly, shaking his head. “No, it’s for the kids.”
“Oh.”
It takes him a second, probably one too long, from Clover to look over when Qrow doesn’t continue to speak, but when he does he feels his hands still against closing the loaf of bread. Qrow’s half-eaten sandwich is untouched in a relaxed grip, Qrow’s expression anything but. He looks close to haunted, narrowed gaze aimed towards the stacked plate on the counter, and Clover hates how quickly he smiles at the sight once he understands.
“Don’t worry. There’s plenty to go around.”
Red eyes snap up to his own and Clover does his best to look reassuring against the doubt.
“How did you...?”
It isn’t hard to tell. Qrow is a bit on the lean side despite the strength he carries with the utmost ease, and given his nature to nurture, even if Clover only goes off what the man’s nieces have told him, it would make sense to chalk him up as someone who rations out their own food for the sake of others. He’s done it himself, once or twice, but meals came easily in Atlas. And he’s sure food is more readily available here in Patch versus out on the road, miles between any semblance of civilization.
Clover smiles as he watches Qrow begin to eat again, ignoring the remaining flecks of doubt burned a rusty shade in red eyes.
“Just a lucky guess,” he says, laughing when Qrow carefully shoves at his shoulder. “How’s the town, by the way?”
If Qrow looks surprised Clover knew of that, he doesn’t mention it; they haven’t exactly been sharing itineraries that took place outside of these four walls (or the clinic.) “Better, after Blake assured them everything would be fine. Ruby and Yang put some countermeasures in place in case any grimm end up coming back.”
“Ruby’s with them?”
Qrow blinks, one cheek puffed out with a bite of food. He nods and silently raises a brow in question.
Clover waves him off, suddenly finding some mysterious pot on the countertop much more fascinating than Qrow’s imitation of a chipmunk. “Nothing, it’s-- something Nora said, not important.” He ignores the train of thought further by pointing to the corner of his lips, flicking his eyes to Qrow’s mouth. Qrow hums, and Clover can’t help but think the man looks a bit worn down as he wipes the crumbs away.
“How come you made so much?” Qrow asks when the silence stretches on. Clover’s grateful.
“Oscar and Jaune have been training all morning, and Nora and Ren were helping with Taiyang’s errands.” He gets back to the task at hand, dividing up plates, hardly surprised when Qrow joins in and helps. The process goes smoothly and soon enough, there’s four plates for the team outside and a plate wrapped up (with a not for you, Nora note taped to the plastic) for the team out in the field. “Figured it was time for them to eat and take a break.”
“What about you?”
Clover tilts his head in question. Qrow’s smile looks strained at the edges.
“You earn your break yet?”
The question strikes him a bit odd but Clover shrugs it off, making a show off puffing out his chest a bit and waving his hand to showcase the food prepared and now on the kitchen table. When he looks back to Qrow, knowing the silent isn’t it obvious? is paired with a smile a little too loose to match the slightly haughty display, he breaks character when Qrow’s laughter, quiet and rough, fills the room.
“Well then, I hope you’ll forgive me for doubting your efforts,” Qrow says, and Clover ignores the eye roll tacked on.
“Wish I could do more than make sandwiches but hey, I like to think I’m taking it in stride,” he jokes, reaching to the one plate he saved for himself and Qrow. He knows he needs to keep something on his stomach, something to work alongside Pietro’s medicine - that, and he can’t let any fatigue negatively impact his aura. A single sandwich won’t help much, but it’s better than nothing.
Qrow’s eyes following the action tell him the same.
“I’m-- It sucks that you can’t spar with them. They could learn a thing or two from you.”
Clover sighs quietly through his nose, careful as he leans his back against the counter. If he closes his eyes and focuses, narrows down his senses to him and only him, he can feel how his aura flares across his body in patchwork spots. Vivid green a concentrated cluster along the length of his spine, soothing the pain, with flecks of color at his ankles from standing all morning. Surrounding clenched fists, chasing away the stress. A swirling nest over his heart at all times, quietly repairing whatever it could.
He knows it's invisible, these instances of vulnerability, the reality of his healing body. (He almost wishes he’d let himself show it.)
Rolling his shoulder, mindful to flex his arm slightly when Qrow’s comment comes back to him, he replies, “Guess they’ll have to settle for my words of wisdom instead.”
Qrow’s eyes linger and Clover, doing his damndest to not grin, fails. Not that it matters as Qrow looks away, eyes off in the direction of the living room, muttering something under his breath. It’s low enough that his voice is muffled, gravely like muted static, but they’re close enough that Clover catches the words arms and ridiculous, and that’s enough for him.
He grins wider, leaning into Qrow’s space. “What? Care to expand on that?”
“Nope!” And, predictable enough that Clover can’t even be mad, Qrow’s turning on his heel, cape fluttering behind him as he makes a beeline towards the rest of the house. But, shortly after, under the archway, so softly he almost mishears, “Thanks for the food.”
Clover laughs, and wears the pleased smile when the kids settle in the kitchen, quick to start eating after thanking him for his care. And if Nora sends him a pointed look, amused behind mouthfuls of food, Clover pointedly ignores that they all came in from the same direction Qrow fled in and hides his smile behind the rim of his tea mug.
Later, over dinner, Clover watches as Nora and the others find out that Yang and Blake were, in fact, not on a date.
Nora, predictably, looks defeated at the news. Ren just looks exhausted.
Clover wants to count it as a win for his pride but when he sees the way Yang’s cheek flush just a bit under the fluorescent lights, the way Blake’s ears fold down in embarrassment, he can’t help but feel a little bad for the girls. Asking about the grimm seems to have been the right choice, considering how quickly Yang snaps out of her daze, looking up from her plate of food to share how everything went. Blake shoots him a grateful look while he nods along, her smile shy, and Clover’s willing to bet all the lien in his (now non-existent) savings that they’re holding hands under the kitchen table.
“What’s this about dating?”
Qrow’s walking in, stopping to lean in the doorway, arms crossed while he glances down to where his niece is sitting. Clover watches the man’s smile twitch at the corners and laughs to himself, knowing he just won his own bet.
Yang grins sweetly. “We’re saying you should try it.”
Rolling his eyes, Qrow scoffs. “Like I have the time, what with babysitting all of you constantly.”
Before Clover can ever register Qrow's comment, Yang's eyes are blatantly aimed in his direction. Three seconds lasts a lifetime, Clover unable to look away but wanting to see what Qrow's thinking of the implications that currently has Nora bouncing in her seat in excitement, and then Yang's turning her head back to her uncle, her golden hair close to shimmering under the light as it sways with her movements.
Her grin turns smug. “You could always date the other babysitter.”
Oscar chokes on his bread roll, Jaune beating at his back to get him to breathe. Blake’s hiding her laughter in her hand, smile peeking out behind her fingertips. Nora looks ecstatic, and Ren looks like he’s planning on fleeing through Zwei’s doggy door.
Forcing his anxious amusement down, Clover counts the seconds as he watches a transformation on Qrow’s face: blunt surprise, a mouth twisted wry in embarrassment, before he’s raising flashing red eyes with a grin smug enough to match Yang’s. Clover pretending the shivers coming from the imaginary draft overhead - and absolutely nothing else - doesn’t help much. Oh, Qrow’s speaking.
“Never thought you’d want me dating your dad, firecracker.”
Yang blinks. Once, twice, and then her expression twists into pure disgust.
“Ew, ew, ew, I did not need that image in my head!”
Qrow shrugs casually, a silent you started it, yet Clover can’t deny the man’s proud set to his gaze. They lock eyes while Yang’s gagging into Blake’s shoulder, Clover wondering what he looks like in Qrow’s eyes as he watches the man’s smirk settle into a natural smile. One private and something close to apologetic.
Once Yang recovers, she shoots a glowering look at her uncle who takes it in stride, strutting towards her side to nudge at her shoulder. There’s a smile on her face despite the act, hidden behind a bite of bread. “He’s already the team bicycle anyway,” she mutters and Qrow snorts. Clover laughs if only for the relaxed look on the man’s face, pouring water for Oscar (who thankfully has stopped choking) while he watches Qrow snag an empty chair, sitting next to his niece.
Taiyang, having been standing at the stove with a second helping of food the entire time, sighs to announce himself.
“I’m just gonna pretend I didn’t hear a single word you-” he starts, eyes aimed at Qrow, “-said because I’m a nice guy, one who doesn’t want to throw up all over your shoes. And you,” Taiyang points, glaring at his daughter. “If I ever date your uncle, you have permission to punch me at full semblance.”
Then he adds, grinning, “No offense, Qrow.”
“Please. I’d let her punch me, too.”
As her father leaves the kitchen, Yang shakes her head, electric grin now a somber smile even as she rolls her eyes. Qrow places a hand on her shoulder, a touch Clover watches the girl lean into, her prosthetic hand coming up to place itself over her uncle’s. At that, Clover looks down at his plate, smiling when he sees Blake do the same out of the corner of his eye.
It’s no secret Qrow and Taiyang’s relationship is… strained, at best, even with both men trying to keep their girls out of it. To keep up some semblance of normal. Clover can respect that.
One by one the kids fill out, Ren first and Oscar last. Qrow’s left soping up leftover bits of meatloaf with a torn bread roll as Clover leans back in his chair, eyes set on nothing in particular and landing on Qrow all the same. The wooden legs creak underneath his weight. Ruby’s laughter filters in from the living room, Zwei’s barking soon following with Weiss cooing over the corgi. Someone’s speaking but it’s like cotton to Clover’s ears, nothing important enough to pick out from thin air. Not when it’s finally quiet, despite him feeling a little ashamed at the thought. He genuinely enjoys everyone’s company despite it being everything he’s unused to, and would gladly use Robyn’s semblance to prove it if he ever had to, but.
But it’s been a while since he’s just had Qrow’s to himself, and not in the space of their shared bedroom or a clinic.
(It comes with guilt when he thinks that this afternoon hadn’t been enough.)
For a moment, he’s not too sure what to do about it. Then Qrow’s deciding for him, calling out to the population in the living room.
“Wait, who’s on dish duty?”
“The babysitters!” Yang yells back.
Taiyang adds, “Not it!” and the round of laughter from the kids doesn’t help either of them as Qrow turns back in his chair, complaining about ungrateful brats and betrayal. Meeting Clover’s eyes and sighing, Qrow shrugs, a man resigned to his fate. Considering what they’re usually up against, he didn’t think dishes would get this much theatrics. But like he’d ever think about complaining.
“You wash, I dry?”
Clover laughs, nodding. At this point, it’s all he can do. “Sounds good.”
Leftovers scarce, Clover collects the dirty dishes while Qrow straightens up the rest of the kitchen. The setting sun casts the room in a gentle glow, the wood catching the light and warming up underneath their feet. The sink soon fills with hot water, the soap bubbles dancing along the surface to race up his arms as Clover dunks his hands underwater, scrubbing away the remnants of dinner.
Qrow dries quickly, slipping the clean plates and glasses into the drying rack by the sink’s edge. He’s humming a tune under his breath, slightly off-beat if Clover’s guessing the song right. The slight raspy edge to the tone that’s always present in Qrow’s voice keeps Clover from making any sound as he sinks another plate.
Between Qrow’s voice and the gentle swishing of the water, with the sunlight gently fading into dusk and the sound of everyone relaxing in the other room echoing off the kitchen walls, everything feels at peace. When he pulls the plug and watches the water swirl down the drain, stubborn suds clinging to the chrome, he finds it’s much the same.
Qrow keeps humming after they finish, something unfamiliar as he dries his hands. Something catchy and warm as he chucks the towel in Clover’s direction, a short-lived laugh drawing attention from the other room when the rag lands on Clover’s head and falls to hang from his ear.
A relaxed, stubborn peace.
Clover finds himself surprised that he wants to keep it.
There’s a smile on Qrow’s face, directed towards the entrance of the kitchen at Ruby, the girl poking her head into view. She’s looking at him, though, not her uncle. Her eyes are warm, a soothing silver against the calm brown tones of the wood around her, but something’s flickering there. Something he can’t read, something he turns from to place the rag on the counter.
There’s a pond in the woods nearby where everyone is staying in Patch, a place Clover gravitates to while they all recover from everything that happened in Atlas. As the days pass by, as his wound heals, as he keeps fishing with no luck, Clover soon realizes he has another choice to make.
Chapter 2/? - Pietro patches him up, Clover tries harder for himself and Qrow, and Weiss has her own healing to do.
Ao3 Link.
Clover’s known Pietro for years.
If he's ever asked, he knows two absolute truths about the man: that he loves his daughter with everything in him, and that his hands were always kind when he tended to someone regardless of why they came to him in the first place.
A stroke of good luck for his target while he was out on a solo mission through Mantle had landed Clover in the good doctor’s office a few years ago, back when he just started with the AceOps, nursing an almost broken rib and sitting in line behind a drunken man with a loose tongue. Apparently an argument over a bet had turned into a full-on brawl, one drastically violent if the man’s words were believed. Adding that he slipped on a patch of ice only to land on his already broken arm on the way over, Clover had listened as drunken regrets soon turned into misaimed barbs.
Pietro’s hands had remained kind as he patched the man up without a word. Gentle care in every stitch, every realignment, even if the set of the doctor’s eyes were hard while the man talked himself into a medicated spiral, soon led away by Penny to an open bed on the second floor. Clover had apologized for not speaking out in the doctor’s defense and got a fond yet exasperated smile in reply before being told to disrobe and settle near the scanning station.
Clover knew Pietro to always work with gentle care.
“You’ll ruin all my hard work if you keep acting foolish.”
Even if his words were often on the side of sharp in those same moments.
“Sorry, doc,” Clover grins cheekily, grateful the blank stare he knows he’s getting at the moment is aimed at his back. “Never been one to stay bedridden even if I-”
His words leave him in a punched-out gasp, Pietro’s hands careful as the needle slips through to his spine. He does his best to resist the shudder that wrecks its way down his body, failing when his back begins to spasm, trying to remember through the pain that this is needed, it’s worth it, it’ll be worth it, it’ll help-
The needle slips out and Pietro’s wiping a rag along the puncture area.
Clover instantly drops his shoulders, the tension breaking. No one mentions the weak gasp that leaves him.
Pietro sighs and Clover hears the rag drop next to the table the doctor pulled out when he arrived. The biggest clinic in Patch, delighted at the arrival of a doctor as renowned as Pietro Polendina, had scrambled at the chance to let the doctor use their services to patch up the kids and Clover (mostly him), and, well. It isn’t what he’s used to.
The down-scaled care, or being this badly off.
“We don’t have the luxury of my home equipment, Clover, so please don’t be rash. You’re already lucky enough that you’re healing after something so severe. Especially your spinal cord, what with those doctors of yours in the sky deciding that your best option was to-”
He breaks off, a rare bristled moment for someone so well-mannered, and Clover feels cold, careful fingers tracing the lines the wound is slowly leaving behind. From the top of his spine, a pause at a patch of snared skin (one of many), a sigh at clustering bruises (too many to count), down towards the lower back.
“I still don’t know how you survived that injury, my boy. I really don’t.”
From the moment he said goodbye to Qrow to waking up inside Atlesian walls, Winter at his bedside in her own bandages while the beeps of life-support shared the news of his struggling heartbeat, Clover hasn’t caught himself up on the extent of his injuries or how they even fixed him in the first place. His memories have been coming and going in waves of static, too heavy to sift through, and it’s been convenient to ignore the pain back at the house with help from Jaune’s semblance and the whirlwind of exhausted excitement bustling within wooden walls.
But he knows his ignorance won’t last much longer.
It’s telling enough, considering who joined him today.
(A stroke of luck. His or Qrow’s, he’s not sure.)
Near the entrance of the small room, stark against the white walls, Qrow leans against a small hip-level shelf. Clover hadn't forgotten the man's presence - pretty sure it'd be impossible for him to do something like that even if he had to. But it was all to easy to avoid those vibrant red eyes once Pietro had asked him to politely remove his shirt.
Clover looks up and Qrow’s eyes dart up to meet his, rising from his chest. He sees how Qrow’s arms are crossed, fingers curled and digging into wrinkled sleeves, white-knuckled and shaking. He tries to send the man a reassuring smile, something better than the haze he’s in as the medicine works its way through his body, but it can’t be much. Not when he finds the storm raging in Qrow’s eyes and simply stares back, a point of contact he can’t escape from until Qrow ducks his head, saving Clover from defining emotions he can’t bear to name.
He doesn’t want to believe Qrow’s eyes were as wet as they looked.
He doesn’t want proof that Qrow would cry for him again.
“Neither do I, doc.”
Qrow quietly slips out of the room. Clover doesn’t watch him leave.
Pietro sends him off with a laundry list of medications to take, pain-killers and aura enhancers wrapped neatly and tucked in a small white bag with his name smudged across the front. At the doorway, Pietro also gives him two orders.
One: to rest in bed as much as possible and to try and limit any and all overly strenuous actions (considering the risk of organ rupture is still a possibility, even if slightly, and his spine and heart don't need the added stress on top of working overtime to patch him up.)
Two: to have someone fish for him, or at least help out, since he’s clearly going to keep doing it anyway.
They’re a repeat of last time, spoken in a firmer tone as Clover and Qrow leave the clinic, and Clover’s steps are slow and slightly pained as they make it to the truck. While he is healing, continuing to progress to something resembling his normal self, the doctor’s proding has left his body (and his pride) with a few extra bruises.
That, and someone else was here to hear Pietro’s orders this time.
Clover can’t blame Qrow for helping him into the truck, or with how hard he slams the door after tossing the medicine bag into Clover’s lap. When he climbs into the driver’s side it’s with a seething glare, one that slowly simmers out as he takes a minute to breathe. Qrow’s knuckles are still white as the truck starts off, engine sputtering, the buildings of the town giving way to golden graced forests and a narrow, dusty road.
They don’t talk. Clover wonders who the silence is eating at more.
When they get back to the house, Qrow shuts the engine off and doesn’t look up from the wheel.
“Clover.”
His name sounds broken.
“Qrow, I-”
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
Clover crinkles the medicine bag in his hands, mouth twisting into a grimace at the insult, but he doesn’t argue. If anything, he probably deserves it for adding another bout of recklessness to his reputation, knowing full-well Qrow’s going over in his head every single injury Pietro listed off that’s straining to heal inside and outside Clover’s body. And despite every warning, he’s been up and about. Helping with the kids. Cooking, fishing, treating his healing body like a trophy he has a duplicate of resting on a dusty shelf up in some forgotten bedroom.
It hasn’t been long since they’ve arrived in Patch, apparently a week and a half behind their original plan. All because Clover had decided to pull his wires free and drop from Atlas, decided to bargain his way into their hideout in Mantle, stumbling in with a choice made on his lips and collapsing from the excursion of it all with only a foot in the doorway. Qrow and Yang had been the only ones there at the moment, the man’s yell echoing throughout the broken down building, leaving Clover’s ears ringing at the sound of his name spoken in such a tormented tone as his vision blacked out.
It hasn’t been long since he’s been alive again.
He’s right, Qrow’s right. Once again, he’s right.
Clover wonders if he’ll ever get used to being so wrong. If he’ll ever get used to someone else being right just because they care about him so much.
The truck door opens and shuts with a rusty creak and Qrow’s off towards the house, footsteps crunching leaves underfoot. Clover traces the lines of the man’s sunken shoulders through the sun-born glare against the windshield and settles against the upholstered seat once the front door closes. He doesn’t notice that Qrow had taken his medicine from him until he reaches for the door’s handle minutes later.
As he heads inside, he hates the fact that when Qrow called him out, it sounded like he was screaming at himself, too.
He goes to lay down in their shared bedroom later that morning, the injection a numb static he knows he's better off sleeping through. With the house strangely quiet, the kids gone, it's the perfect white noise to sleep to. Besides, it’s not like he’s getting company anytime soon.
Opening the door, his sweat-soaked shirt meets the floor. He climbs into bed and shudders at the chilled sheets against bare skin, settling on his side, looking out the window before he notices something new.
On his nightstand, there’s a glass of water and his medicine for the day laid out, the white bag discreet against the lamp.
Unable to resist, Clover hides his smile in the pillows and hates how his throat burns.
He doesn’t see Qrow again until dinner time, when he’s waking up and Qrow’s walking in, handing him a plate of food with the meat cut up and the portions gentle enough for the medicine to work with. Qrow stays and sits with him, watching Clover eat without staring as the fork scrapes against the plate, as the seasoned meat settles heavy in his empty stomach, and Clover’s grateful.
Stupidly, foolishly, fondly grateful.
“I’m sorry,” he says when he’s finished. The next round of medicine rests bitter on his tongue, the empty packets placed on top of the empty plate. The water in his glass is gone, the pitcher Qrow brought in half-empty, both dripping condensation on the nightstand’s decorative cloth.
Qrow takes the plate with one hand and places the other on Clover’s shoulder, squeezing once.
“Me, too.”
The next morning finds him lying awake in bed listening to Taiyang’s footsteps echoing down the hall, Zwei’s paws padding along a distance behind. It’s early. Against the violet curtains of the room, Clover looks and watches the sun strain to break through the canopy of trees, gold and auburn leaves catching on the light.
It’s been years since he’s seen so much natural color.
His home as a child was painted in shades of brown and gray and blue, a harbor town where the only flash of something else were the green hills that crested near the town opposite the sea. When spring would come, the frost giving up to the rising warmth, flowers would spot the grass, a sight he looked forward to because his father would pluck his grandfather’s sketchbook out of the desk drawer and would take Clover out to those hills, a quiet morning spent before the sea would call to them around noon.
Atlas and Mantle had their washed out tones, the icy-blue hums of electric energy that ran like a current through every inch of the academy, the struggling orange hues of Mantle’s generators - the frigid cold wasn’t the only thing lacking warmth in that place. Even if he finds himself, in quiet moments, almost missing it all.
And the tundra. That place held colors that only came with snow against a vibrant sunrise or a gentle sunset, the stars coming and going with the shades that danced along the horizon. Purples, blues, reds, pinks - other-worldly beautiful and-
-and something that he doesn’t really want to remember anymore.
As he raises a hand to his chest, feeling along the line of his bandages over the fabric of his tank-top he changed into last night, he tunes in to the sound of Qrow snoring beside him. This proximity of sharing a bed, a closeness he’s tried hard not to meditate on (and has failed spectacularly), it’s led him to discover new things about the huntsman he never thought he’d get a chance to learn.
Flirting aside, back in Atlas, he never allowed himself much other than a few fantasies.
Qrow's curled up under the comforter, a small sight for someone with his presence. His hair is sticking up at the ends against the pillow and Clover watches how his body rises and falls for a moment too long to be polite, torn between something close to enamored and feeling a little lost. He’s still not sure why Qrow joined him in this spare bedroom, not with a number of other options: the couch downstairs and Taiyang’s room, to name a few.
Maybe it was the leftover worry back from when they were resting in Mantle, with Clover clinging to consciousness after Pietro hooked him back up to life support at the clinic. How when he’d find himself awake, breathing through tubes and swimming in cocktails of pain-killers and alignment shots, Qrow was somewhere nearby, speaking everything into the silence except the disbelief that lingered behind his eyes.
Or maybe it’s just luck.
What a blissful, hollow thought. But it’s something.
Before he slips out of bed and out the door, opting to stay in his pajamas, he dry-swallows the morning’s pills and leaves the empty packets on the nightstand. Proof, for Qrow, that he’s trying. Absently, as the door closes behind him, he wonders how Qrow feels when he flashes reassuring glasses of water and mugs of tea to well-meaning, prying eyes.
The steps carry a slight chill, creaking under his weight. At the bottom of the stairs, Zwei circles in excitement, paws tapping a happy tune against the floor.
“Always full of energy, aren’t you, little guy?”
The corgi looks at him like he understands, barking out what Clover imagines is dog-speak for accepting a compliment. He’s never been fortunate enough to have a pet of his own, either too busy or never home. The fish he’d talk to while out on a dock didn’t count, unfortunately; no way he’d ever have enough lien to feed a sea full of pet bass.
Zwei zips into the kitchen and Clover follows, doing a scan of the living room on the way. There’s an unfinished board game on the coffee table, most likely the remnants of laughter he heard from his room last night. Qrow had stayed with him after Clover ate, leaving only to return his dinner plate and swap it for a cup of spiced tea. When Nora had poked her head in, asking if either of them wanted to join - Ren’s voice right behind, telling her to speak softer - Qrow had joked the old men needed their sleep.
She had pouted, had been obviously hoping for another chapter of Qrow’s story later that night, but her smile when she left was sympathetic, Ren’s voice following her steps as they went back to their friends downstairs.
Then Ruby came by later that night once everything calmed down, right when Qrow had drifted off and Clover was nose-deep in Blake’s book. Her smile was tired as she walked in and pushed the blanket higher on Qrow’s shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss into his hair. When she walked around the bed and gave Clover’s arm a gentle hug, the action surprising a nervous smile out of him, he had asked her if she was okay.
“He cares so much,” she had started but never finished, her voice tipping into something heartbreakingly soft. A reflection of her age, her experiences despite it, something he’s been slowly seeing in all of them since they arrived. She had slipped out with one last look at her uncle before wishing Clover pleasant dreams.
Qrow had spoken then, when the door was shut. “Brat.”
His voice embarrassed, a touch wet.
Clover had laughed.
Making a note to clean up the game later, he hopes they had fun. That they’ll continue to for however long they’ll stay in Patch. It’s not much of a luxury, a limited one like time, but he’ll do anything to keep it going until they’re ready to leave again.
After that, he isn’t sure.
When he slips into the kitchen, watching Zwei leave through the doggy door in the back, he notices Weiss sitting at the kitchen table. She looks small sitting alone, hair a vibrant curtain down her back as she tips her head down, staring into a steaming mug. The tune he was humming stops short and he takes a breath, one loud enough to let her know she suddenly has company.
“Mind if I join you?”
Her shoulders twitch up and she turns, blue eyes strikingly familiar and foreign all at once. She smiles then, nodding politely as Clover walks towards the counter to help himself to coffee. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Weiss,” he replies, settling into a seat diagonal from her. “You’re up early.”
“So are you,” she quips back behind the rim of her red mug. She turns a bit sheepish when he raises an eyebrow at her, amusement clear in his eyes. “Ah, well, I’d imagine you’re probably used to that, what with working back in Atlas.”
He laughs and leans back into the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Just a little bit, yeah.”
He takes a sip from his own cup, blanching a bit at the bitterness before the warmth soothes it out. Even if Marrow had been known for a few accidents in the kitchen back at the academy, the kid could make the meanest cup of coffee around. Enough of a delight to charm a pleased smile on Winter’s face, for one, something that always had the faunus’ tail wagging for hours afterwards.
A sigh brings him back. Blue eyes are tracing the bandages visible from the neckline of his tank top.
“I wonder if… Winter’s healed by now.”
While Clover knows his own injuries beat everyone else’s by miles, he remembered seeing Winter poorly off, burned and bruised with a line of neat stitches along her cheek near her nose. Nothing as blunt as the shame that had settled her expression into stone, however, even when she was talking with him at his bedside. He doesn’t know much of what happened, only a failed mission and that Miss Fria was gone.
A shame, all of it. He wonders if they gave her a proper burial.
“I’m sure she has,” he speaks up, noticing he’s left the silence stretch for a little too long. Weiss’ eyes are curious as they meet his and he hopes he looks as every bit as confident and comforting as he wants to be. “Your sister is one of the strongest people I know. She’s fine.”
“Right. Thank you, Captain.”
He doesn't call her out for the title, watching her hands curl around her cup. Skin pale against chipped red paint.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
Taken aback by her question, more intent on her own comfort in this moment, he does his best not to show it. “Sore,” he says, surprised at his honesty, but it earns him an understanding nod and he forces himself to take comfort in her sympathy. “But fine, otherwise.”
“Good. You had everyone worried yesterday.”
“I did?”
She nods and levels him with a look that reminds him exactly of Winter: sharp and calculating.
“Qrow mentioned your check-up with Mr. Polendina and told everyone to let you rest more for a little while. He wouldn’t tell us why, but,” and then she trails off, the glare in her eyes cracking away into something concerned. “He looked…”
And then she stops again. Clover’s holding his breath by the time she starts again.
“Why does Qrow look at you that way?”
She asks it like it wasn't meant to slip from her mouth. It’s not what he was expecting and curiosity has the words struggling out of him in three short breaths. “In… what way, Weiss?”
A flicker of regret crosses her face and Clover wonders what it’s for: this conversation as a whole, or the fact that this feels strangely overdue. “I haven’t known him for as long as Ruby and Yang, of course, but… it’s terrifying. Seeing someone look that haunted. He almost looks like…”
Clover speaks without thinking. “The general.”
They don’t say his name. Weiss nods, once.
Silence takes over and Clover drowns himself in the remainder of his coffee. He wants more, eager for something to wash away the words bubbling up his throat, to chase away the creeping irritation brought on by the rising pain in his spine, but he doesn’t want to disrespect Weiss’ bravery by answering her with the screech of chair legs against wooden floors, his back to her as he refills his cup.
“He’s hurting,” is all he says after a moment.
“Aren’t you?”
Another jolt of pain. He grits his teeth.
“Aren’t you?”
Weiss gasps and her eyes flash, a dangerous storm rapidly close to spilling rain.
Clover kicks himself under the table. “I’m… sorry, that was rude of me, Weiss.”
So much for poise and tact born of confidence; if anyone had a hard time back in Atlas (and they all did), it was Weiss. Dealing with everything Jacques Schnee was involved with, arresting her own father in their family home, leaving her mother and younger brother behind in an uncertain situation, leaving behind her older sister and not even knowing how she was doing, if everyone was healing properly, if she'll ever see any of them again.
She meets his gaze with her mouth in a firm line, tears in her eyes but none falling. He’s stunned, once again, at how strong these kids are, and makes a move to pass a nearby napkin to the girl. He's grateful when she accepts.
“Everyone’s acting like they’re fine.”
She sounds almost offended at the words, her own weakness. Clover offers a weak laugh.
“Can you blame them?”
Weiss shakes her head, straightening her back in her seat, every bit as proud as her family name suggests. The damp napkin crumples in her fist. “No. We’re all trying to protect someone by staying quiet. I think… Qrow is doing the same, with you.” And, so softly he strains to hear, “I know I am.”
Clover sighs. He leans forward in his chair and winces when the wooden edge of the table digs into a bruise.
“I think you should let your team know how you’re feeling. They’re here for you, you know.”
At the mention of the others, Weiss smiles, heartfelt. But then she’s back at peering into her cup, looking into it like it’ll hold the answers to every burning question she’s ever had. Clover knows the feeling and he restrains himself from moving, wanting nothing more than to place a comforting hand on her shoulder to keep her smile around.
“I know that, but… Ruby, she– after what Salem–”
She breaks herself off, almost violently as her teeth clack together, shuddering bodily. Clover bites the bullet and moves, crouching next to her chair.
“Weiss,” he starts, waiting until she turns towards him. Her eyes are dangerously wet again and one tear slips out when he reaches out, brushing it away with his knuckle. “It’s okay to want your team’s comfort, especially after what you went through. I’m sure Ruby knows that she’s not the only one hurting after everything.”
Even if he doesn't know what exactly happened, especially with Salem. No one's talked about it.
After a moment, he adds, “Probably why she’s smiling so much.”
Weiss lets out a breathless laugh and the sound carries Clover’s confidence a notch higher. “Ruby’s always been bubbly.”
Clover chuckles; he doesn’t doubt that. “It’s different. You know that, don’t you?”
She nods.
“But it’ll be okay. Ruby has her family here, her team, and you. So does Yang. Blake, too. And you have them. You have each other and everyone else here, if you need us.”
Taking a breath, wiping away another of the girl’s tears, he admires her strength. At how her lip slowly wobbles but her eyes remaining firm, fierce, so determined to not cry fully in front of him. It's striking how much she resembles her sister. Even if at this moment he's seeing more humanity, more vulnerability, in Weiss than he's ever seen in Winter despite the years he spent serving Atlas at her side.
“I won’t look.”
The softness in her voice stings. “What?”
“If you need to let it out," he says. "I won’t look.”
When she blinks in response, mouth open but unable to answer, Clover sends her a smile. He stands and looks down at her before looking back at the table, watching the steam curl from the curve of her cup. He counts to one, two, then three.
And sighs quietly in relief when Weiss reaches forward, grabbing at the ends of his shirt and pressing her forehead into his stomach, ever mindful of the pressure against his wound as she starts to cry. He places his hand on her head, brushing gently down the strands while the kitchen fills with the sound of her weeping, hiccups echoing off the walls. It breaks his heart, her pain, and he prays to his semblance that he’s actually lucky, that this is enough of something to comfort the girl staining his clothes with tears.
Taking a breath, he turns and continues to watch the steam escape, respecting her privacy.
He hopes, by Winter’s standards, that he’s doing the right thing.
By the time she’s done, Clover’s fingers have gone numb against the silky feel of her hair and his stomach aches as she lifts herself and lifts her chin, ever proud even with tear tracks pressed faintly into her cheeks. He sends her a wink in return to lighten her mood, smoothing it out with a genuine smile.
“Your sister would be proud of you,” he says. Means it with everything in him.
Weiss’ smile turns watery again and she opens her mouth to reply.
“What's going on?”
Clover looks over and Qrow’s in the doorway, shoulders raised and hands loose at his side. His bedhead is untamed and his sleep clothes are wrinkled from the press of the mattress, and Clover can’t read his expression but knows the slight jolt of fear that tingles along his skin is justified, especially when Weiss lets out a wet sniffle. He watches as the girl stands, sending him a thankful nod before walking over to Qrow who instantly steps closer, eyes never leaving Clover’s.
“It wasn’t him; I’m okay, Qrow.”
He finally looks down at her and Clover watches as Qrow pulls her in, holding her in one arm as he whispers something into her hair. She smiles and hugs him, a squeeze knocking a soft surprised gasp out of the man, before sprinting off towards the stairs. Clover holds his breath, stepping back towards his chair. Qrow sighs in the doorway.
“What- no, uh. Sorry.”
Clover shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
It’s surprising how quickly the foreboding feeling fades as Qrow smiles, torn between a scoff and something sheepish.
Leaving the doorway, Qrow’s shirt rises up his stomach as he scratches at the skin. Clover catches sight of a scar before the fabric covers it back up, and he’s soon dodging an apron being thrown in his face when he turns to watch the man raid the fridge. There’s eggs on the counter, butter. Leftover bacon, some veggies. Creamer for coffee. Clover’s stomach growls and a smirk twitches at Qrow’s lips. Despite the tired look in the man’s eyes, Clover wonders if he’s misreading what seems to be an olive branch.
“Help me cook?”
Lucky guess. Despite being unsure why he’s asking instead of outright telling him, Clover nods and starts tying the apron around his waist. Of course Qrow tossed him the one that had printed on it: I cook as good as I look - Taiyang's, no doubt. He wonders who made it; it looks homemade, the wording stitched carefully, almost lovingly, into the red fabric.
“You sure?”
Qrow snorts and walks forward, motioning with a twirl of his finger for Clover to turn. Grabbing the strings to tie them neatly at the base of Clover's spine, Clover feels Qrow's exhale along the bare skin of his back where the tank top's been pulled down by the apron. Neither man moves. Qrow's knuckles are warm, pressed against his lower back.
Then Qrow’s walking back towards the stove, looking over his shoulder when Clover hesitates.
“Course I’m sure. With your lucky ass around, I won’t get shells in my omelet.”
Clover laughs, despite this morning, despite everything.
