A/N: Ever since episode 3, I've really liked the idea of Qrow/Winter. And both of them are really fun to write (though if I had to choose, I'd pick Qrow over Winter). This was supposed to be shorter, I think, but it ended up being ~3000 words and 7 pages on Word. Oh well. I'm proud of myself.
Please review, because if you don't, I turn sad :( Also, shameless advertising, please check out my RWBY drabble dump! It's called "stories penned in permanent ink."
Anyway, enjoy!
Winter wore lace and diamonds, that night.
The lace was of her own choosing, a pale blue dress whose color was like glacial ice. It matched her eyes. Weiss had told her so, and though her sister's opinions were sometimes questionable, Winter had to agree that the dress was acceptable.
The diamonds, however, were to please her father.
On principle, Winter hated her father's functions. They were useless, in her opinion, only for small talk and flattery that veiled thinly disguised insults and snippets of false information spread to talk down about other companies. Men flirted with girls they didn't even know, acting bold and rich when they were just office workers in her father's company; women with no heads on their shoulders chatted around the wine and champagne, gossiping about the latest fashions and love affairs, and did he really do that to her, honestly, what a beast!; some couples disappeared into the night, giggling and clutching each other like schoolchildren playing a prank. All of it forced and fake, every single thing: something half-thrown together and close to ripping at the seams, hidden behind charming smiles and shifty eyes and the occasional, secret exchange of money between hands.
But Weiss's friends had coaxed her into going, which forced Winter to come just in case their father tried anything. It was the smart choice, she knew. Her sister had been right to ask her to come. That didn't mean Winter was looking forward to attending.
"We only have to stay for an hour, and then we can go," Weiss had promised. "That's what Yang said, anyway." Her sister didn't seem thrilled to go, either. She scuffed her impeccable white boot against the ground in an unladylike manner, eyes downcast. "But it won't be all bad!" her sister said suddenly, trying to sound cheerful. "We can dress up like we used to—it'll be fun!"
Dress up, Winter thought grimly, putting her 14-carat earrings in. Fun. All relative terms.
There was a hesitant knock at her door. "Come in," Winter said, her voice resigned.
Her sister stepped into the room, wearing a neat white dress. She wore diamond earrings, too, except hers were shaped like snowflakes: the symbol of Schnee Industries. Weiss was also trying to please their father.
"Will you be ready soon?" she asked. "Ruby keeps messaging me."
Winter took a comb to her bangs, smoothing them down. "Does she?"
In the mirror, she saw Weiss roll her eyes. "Her last message was 'u r going to make us late, u slowpoke'," she read off her Scroll, sounding perturbed. She shut the device off. "I don't know where she learned her grammar. Probably her uncle."
Winter stiffened. "Will Qrow be attending?"
Weiss shrugged. "Who knows," she said offhandedly. Her Scroll beeped, and she jumped. "Ruby," she growled down at it. "I will hurt you, so help me—"
Winter sighed, and stretched as she stood. Her dress was nearly backless, and she imagined the bare knots of her spine turning to steel cogs: clicking together, one by one, keeping the mechanisms working.
Like Qrow's weapon, her mind whispered, but she forced that away.
"I'm ready, anyway," Winter told her sister. "Let's go."
The ballroom was so bright it hurt Winter's eyes. Chandeliers floated down from the ceiling, suspended by fine golden chains. The walls were paneled wood and wallpaper, dark mahogany and pale blue; the floor was white marble, shot through with black like streaks of dark lightning. Velvet chairs were sparsely placed around the room, made for lounging or simply resting after a dance. Food and drink lay prettily in high piles on tables that matched the wood of the walls: chocolate truffles, savory hors d'oeuvres, rich red wine, sparkling champagne. Couples in gem-studded dresses and dapper tuxedos danced to the orchestra playing on the stage set near the front of the room. Businessmen and Hunters exchanged fake, polite conversation, keeping up the act for the reporters hiding among the crowd. Regardless of the company, it was a beautiful scene, dazzling in its opulent brilliance.
Winter hated it already.
"Did you bring an escort with you?" she asked Weiss.
She nodded. "Neptune came with us," her sister said, gesturing to the blue-haired boy. He grinned and gave her a two-fingered salute. Winter didn't smile back.
"Stay close to your friends," she said to Weiss. "Don't get lost. You're more vulnerable when you're by yourself. Do you understand?"
Her sister mustered a smile. It was nervous; Winter could see right through it, like a pane of glass. But Weiss nodded. "I understand," she said.
"We'll stay right behind her, sir—uh, ma'am!" Ruby scrambled to stand straight and tall, rubbing the back of her neck in embarrassment.
Yang gave her an encouraging smile. "She'll be fine," she promised.
"Good." Winter breathed in slow through her nose. "I'll meet up with you later, Weiss."
"Where are you going?" Her sister's voice sounded anxious.
Winter glanced over her shoulder. "I'm going to talk to him," she said darkly. "Before he can talk to me."
Weiss clenched her hands to fists, then hid them behind her back as if realizing Winter could see. "I'll see you later, then."
Winter melted into the crowd without responding. Her sister would be fine. She had her friends; she had an escort, which in Winter's mind was just a euphemism for bodyguard. Hopefully, Weiss wouldn't have to speak to their father at all.
Winter didn't have that luxury.
Her father wore a white suit, as always, and a black tie: so it was business, tonight. She steeled herself, took a deep breath like Ironwood had drilled into her, to brace her nerves before a battle. This wasn't a Grimm, but it might as well be a thousand. Facing her father was like fighting a metaphorical war.
(It was a good thing, then, that Winter was a soldier.)
He saw her coming. He met her eyes over the shoulder of a man smartly dressed, as all the men were. He smiled, but it was not kind.
He dismissed the man he was talking to, and strode to meet her.
"Good evening, father," she said. Her voice was like stone.
"Winter!" He moved to kiss her cheek. His lips were dry. "I almost never see you at these parties, my dear. What, if I may ask, is the occasion?"
Winter gave him a mechanical smile. "Business," she lied, looking at his tie. "Somewhat. The General brought his fleet for the Festival, as you know, and he gave me leave for a few days. Family matters, and all of that."
Her father's own smile was sharp like cut glass. Winter felt her chest tighten: he would deal the killing blow, right now. "Family matters, indeed," he mused. "Is your sister here?"
Her eyes narrowed. There it was. "Weiss came with friends," she said coldly. "I suggest you don't interrupt them."
His expression turned indulgent. "Of course," he agreed. "Weiss is young, yet—she should be allowed some fun." His tone said exactly the opposite; the look in his eyes was one of a hunter's. No matter what she said, he was going to ruin Weiss's night if he could.
Winter had to get out of here before she pulled out her rapier and slit his throat.
"I agree," she said stonily. "If you'll excuse me. I think I see an acquaintance of mine."
She moved to walk away, but he grabbed her arm.
"Don't leave so soon," her father said softly. It was disgusting, the way he thought gentleness would work on her. Winter wrenched her arm from his hold.
"Stay away from Weiss," she hissed, "and don't touch me again."
He inclined his head towards her. His eyes were hard, gleaming like the sharp cut of steel. "You're going to walk away from me," he said, voice horribly condescending. "That's not a smart choice."
Anger roiled inside of her. Since primary academy—of course the finest in Atlas, because the Schnee heir couldn't very well receive the second best of anything—Winter had done everything her father had asked. Fight with a blade instead of the pistol that felt better in her hand, because it was a family tradition? Yes. Go to every ball and social and function, no matter how small, no matter the amount of schoolwork she had due the next day? Yes. Eventually the rapier grew comfortable in her hand, and she became used to skimming the text for the exam scheduled for that day, but the resentment still brewed and boiled inside of her. Sometimes, Winter thought the military was one of the best choices she had made, because it had been a quick, vicious triumph over her father.
What you do know about my choices? she wanted to snap. I've been living under yours for the past twenty-three years.
Instead, she bit out, "I really must go. Please"—hating the word even as it left her mouth—"excuse me."
Her father's smile came slowly, this time, and coldly. "We'll talk later, darling."
"I doubt it," Winter said icily, and walked away.
As a soldier under Ironwood, Winter usually abstained from alcohol. Her colleagues teased her about being stiff: "A good glass of ale'll loosen you up, Schnee," they would say, raising their own frothy mugs after a skirmish with some Grimm or the like. Winter would coolly refuse, and they would shrug and tip their glasses back. But Winter had had enough experience with her father to know that alcohol turned on parts of people that they liked to keep hidden.
Tonight had to be an exception. Winter itched for some wine, or at least some champagne. A cold glass in her hand was better than the steel hilt of her blade. Anything to stop her from storming out of the room and dragging her sister with her. Her father did not abide cowardice.
She found a table in the corner that had crystal flutes of champagne in them, golden and sparkling like the chandeliers twinkling above. She reached for one.
"Well," a voice growled, sounding amused. "Look who it is, the Ice Queen herself."
Winter dropped her hand and whirled, a flurry of blue lace and silver jewelry. A familiar face stared down at her—and she needed a familiar face right now, even if it was a face with greasy hair and a lingering five o'clock shadow that desperately needed shaving.
"Qrow," she said through clenched teeth. She told herself to breathe, to be as cool and calm as the season she was named for. She would be cordial if it killed her. "What a surprise."
He leveled her a mocking bow. "Miss Schnee," he replied, over-pronouncing the foreign roll of her name on purpose. His eyes glittered like coal, black and shiny.
(Cordiality be damned; Winter couldn't stop her lip from curling. Even with an expensive glass of wine in his hand, she still saw a flask peeking out of his pocket. Even with a coat and tie on—which were fairly nice, even for him; Ozpin must have pulled a few strings to make that happen—Qrow was still the womanizing, dirty no-good he always was. Some things never changed.)
Still: her father's white suit caught the corner of her eye, and dread pricked her like the slow, cold freeze of icicles, and she knew she had to continue this conversation.
"How is reconnaissance these days?" Winter asked stiffy.
He raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a roguish semblance of a smile. "You've never cared a whit about my reconnaissance, so I don't know why I should answer."
"Well, then, how is Ozpin?" she tried.
He stepped a little closer into her space; his cologne smelled like the faintest hint of pine and gunmetal. She would not back down, she would not. "You know you can contact him any time on your"—he made childish finger quotes—"'military-issue' scroll, right? Although," he mused, leaning back a little, "you're not the type to make social calls." He sighed gustily.
"I could tell you," Qrow began, and with some self-disgust, she found herself hoping. Please. Please. I don't want to talk to him again, I don't want to look at him as he tells me all my faults, I don't want to look at him and remember—
"But I won't," he said.
(The hope froze, shattered, and sliced her up, ready for the butcher.)
"You're trying to talk to me," he said, bitter humor in his dark gaze. "You're being deliberate. Did Ironwood order you to? Make peace, or some stupid crap like that?"
Winter tamped down her emotions—anger, revulsion, the lingering icy press of fear. "The General gave me no orders," she said evenly. "I simply wanted to—"
He laughed harshly. "Wanted to what, princess?" he demanded. "To start a fight before it begins? We're like a bomb, sweetheart—too many chemicals in a closed space. Light the fuse, you're already done."
Again, he stepped closer: so close that his lips were at her ear. She fought down the urge to shiver, though the room was warm.
"You're afraid, Miss Schnee," Qrow breathed. "I'd like to know why."
He stepped away: a slight movement, a smart movement. He knew there were eyes on them both. If he made it look like a big deal, if he strode away scowling like he had a secret, it'd be splashed all over the front page news. Instead, he inclined his head to her, that infuriating smirk still curling his lips: Well?
Winter hated that she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. But she hated it more when she inhaled through her nose and said quietly, "It's my father."
She saw his eyebrows raise; he was curious. "Your old man, huh?" he repeated. "That idiot they plopped on the head of the company?"
Her mouth tightened, a hypocritical reaction. "I'll thank you not to talk that way in front of his business associates," she hissed, but he scoffed.
"C'mon, princess, he's terrible at business," he said casually, reaching for a cherry on the side table. It was deep, dark red, a winter cherry, for the Schnee family must have the appearance that they're rich, even if their company was falling apart. It reminded Winter of a frozen drop of blood.
He popped the fruit in his mouth and dug around for the pit with his fingers, speaking with his mouth full. "Not to mention diplomacy—you've probably read about his Faunus labor muck-up. Your sister's friend—Black? Blane? Ah, I don't remember, she's a cat one—she'd have a bone to pick with him." He retrieved the pit and dropped it in a trash can standing discreetly by.
"It's not about diplomacy," Winter said, trying to forget the present spectacle. Disgusting, her mind seethed, but she set her spine to diamond and slowly breathed out. "It's more about . . . family matters."
"Oh, you got a bone to pick with him, too?" Qrow asked, suddenly alert. His tone turned mincing, slow, mockingly polite. "That's a little surprising. Daddy didn't spoil you as much as you wanted? Did Mini-Ice Queen steal all the attention when you were little?" He crossed his arms over his chest, angry and defiant. "Well, suck it up, sweetheart. I don't need your stupid sob stories. I got enough of my own."
Winter stepped closer, heels striking the marble floor like diamond against stone. "You want to know my 'sob stories'?" she asked venomously, fury boiling in her blood. It sang against her skin, hot and electric. "When Weiss and I were younger, my father's company was good. It was excellent, actually, and then the White Fang showed up. It started small. They would picket my father's office, peaceful protests, harmless things. Then it was organized attacks on company exports, all the Dust that it had taken weeks to mine. Then it got personal. Then they started throwing bricks through our mansion windows with death threats on them. My father was fairly young. He didn't really know what he was doing. He was in meetings with his advisors all day, every day. When he got home, he had to be on his guard. He got stressed. And who did he take all his stress out on?" Winter had kept her voice barely above a hiss, but it felt like she had been yelling. It felt freeing. "Me and my sister, that's right. Maybe that's why I follow orders so easily. Maybe that's why I'm so impersonal. Maybe that's why I always stand straight and tall, because I've been beaten for how my posture looks. I told my sister to bring a bodyguard tonight, did you know that?"
She stepped away, trying not to relish in the dazed look on his face. She kept her eyes down, her jaw clenched, and smoothed down the lace of her dress with clammy hands.
"If you have nothing else to say, Mr. Branwen, I need to leave," Winter said coldly. She turned her back to him, and lifted her chin.
But before she could stride away, he caught her wrist. It was the same thing her father had done. "Let go of me," she hissed, voice like the mist of dry ice.
"No," Qrow said.
"Excuse me?"
"No," he repeated, and once more stepped closer. His chest was mere centimeters from her bare back. She grit her teeth and vowed not to flinch away.
"Look," he murmured next to her ear. "I'm sorry for making assumptions. That's all I want to say." He stepped away, but she turned before she knew what she was doing, mind fizzing with confusion.
"I'm—I'm not sure I forgive you," she said tersely.
His smile was rueful. "You probably shouldn't," he said gruffly. He took her hand again—in both of his this time—and stared down at it as if he was fascinated by it, small and white with neat painted nails.
"What are you doing?" she said, voice going soft instead of the dangerous tone she wanted it to be.
"I'll be seeing you around, then, sweetheart?" he asked her out of the blue, and quickly, as if he didn't want to lose some kind of pathetic courage, pressed his mouth to the back of her hand.
A fire lit up somewhere a little lower than her heart, and something burned behind her eyes, slow and soft: a storm candle, an autumn flame, a summer lantern. The moment was far too long—time surely must've been moving faster than this—
"I think I see my niece," Qrow said, snapping her back to herself. His lips were off her skin. Some time amid before and now he'd stepped back to create a considerable distance between them.
"Alright," she heard herself say. She felt lightheaded, floating.
He shot her a last crooked smile and strolled away like nothing had ever happened.
When he disappeared into the crowd, Winter found a chair and sat down, hard. Get it together, Schnee, she ordered herself. He's a drunkard, he's a liar, he's rude and disgusting and—
But: his gentle hands, cradling her own. But: the rue of his smiling mouth. But: the apology pressed into her skin.
(This was not an option she could pursue. This was bigger than her, than Qrow; this was about her father, and making the smart choice.)
The burning something turned to sparks behind her closed eyes.
Winter blew the sparks to ash as she stood, and quit the ballroom.