Corvus
Two days. For two whole days, Clover allows himself to be weak; to enjoy a soft restart back into the daily routine, to leave the briefings to Harriet whilst he settles all of the reports and filed forms. Those two days are full of blissful solitude, almost more relaxing than his actual vacation, for giving his hands tasks helps to ease the growing dread creeping up inside of his heart.
He knows he cannot avoid the issue forever.
On day three, the hammer finally falls. There is a herd of Grimm circling Mantle's wall, hiding out somewhere to the east; each day, they grow closer, bolder, trying to break through. They have already attacked personnel and civilians at multiple points. Atlas must dispatch multiple teams to guard the entire eastern hemisphere of the wall in order to sus out the heart of the pack.
And Clover must lead the Ace Ops to victory.
He dusts off Kingfisher and steps into the briefing room, staring at nothing but the screen as he explains their roles. He allows Marrow to step up and answer the questions from the general Huntsmen and Huntresses who have signed on to join them in their hunt while Clover goes to the back, drinking his homemade coffee. It does not have the bitterness he needs, but he spots dark and grey hair, a red cape, lurking by the coffee in the briefing room. His own brew shall have to do.
There is no way to partner Qrow up with anyone else for fear of Qrow's Semblance, so he and the elder Huntsman lock eyes at the end of the briefing. Qrow is hesitant to approach him, his tepid steps so unsure that Clover can see Harriet and Elm exchanging baffled looks by the coffee machine; Clover pulls out his most nonchalant expression, gesturing to the door. "We have a flight to catch."
"…Yeah," Qrow says, clearly biting down what he wants to say.
Clover ignores it.
The trip down to their drop-off point is nearly silent- painfully so. Qrow attempts small talk, the anger from the previous weeks having simmered down into something that can almost be deemed as pleasant. He does not lash out, does not bicker nor pout; he is calm and put together, asking more about Clover's vacation, commenting on the attack patterns of the Grimm they shall be facing, running through the logistics of the mission and their supplies one more time with Clover. This mission may last well into the night after all- their extraction points and emergency procedures need to be set in stone, and Qrow is still not exactly used to their operations here in Atlas.
Clover answers him as succinctly as he can, but he finds that it is almost a relief once they encounter a few stray Grimm at last. Amidst combat, there is no need for idle chatter.
Throwing himself into his work is easy enough even with Qrow there, he finds. Very soon, he is focused so perfectly upon the mission that he no longer finds himself minding Qrow's presence; the body fighting by his side is just another Huntsman, just another ally. There is no history between them to be seen.
The more that this idea permeates through Clover's skin, the more relaxed he finds himself. The tension eases from his muscles, allowing him to languidly enter combat like he never has before; it is almost as if he is no longer in control of his body, his instincts so sharply honed in on the ever-growing battle that he has no time to ponder why the man fighting by his side has hurt him so.
Eventually, however, it seems that Clover's luck fails him- or perhaps, it is just Qrow's luck that wins out in their constant struggle. The blizzard which sweeps in from the south is completely unexpected, throwing their plans into total disarray; it is so fierce and so powerful that even the Grimm retreat, skulking off back to their hidden nest before the brunt of the storm takes over. Clover calmly issues the command to not follow them, for there is no point losing lives that night.
He does not want to have to send the rookies out with shovels and body bags to retrieve those lost souls buried six feet under snow by the next morn.
There is no chance to leave, however. Before the communications crumble thanks to the storm's interference, he manages to send out the map of access points on the wall. The vast majority of Huntsmen will be able to find the nooks and crannies, maintenance areas and tiny covered bunks, built into the giant structure. As long as their survival equipment is ready, no one shall be lost.
Clover guides Qrow wordlessly to the nearest hideout, opening up the door concealed upon the wall with his Scroll and slipping into the tiny room within. It is miniscule- more of a closet than anything, built so that the technicians can hide in case of Grimm attack or extreme weather. The elder follows quietly, too distracted by the reveal of these secret bunks to strike up another conversation, now that the battle has tided over.
However, that silence can only last so long. Clover cracks open his emergency sticks of fire-Dust-fueled energy generators which shall heat the room until the blizzard has blown over, setting them aside to pull out meal replacement bars from his kit. Tossing one to Qrow, he hunkers down upon one of the chairs and begins to eat, eyes locked on the glow of the Dust upon the pit in the table.
Then, he looks away. They are too red. He does not want to focus too long upon them, for the temptation to seek out the colour of fire-Dust reflecting in crimson eyes shall grow too strong otherwise.
He can almost hear Qrow's air rising in his throat as he moves to speak, the steam escaping from thin lips nearly silent. Qrow does not say a word in the end. Clover does not know whether to laugh at the man's cowardice or to feel relief at his respect of Clover's boundaries. He cannot decide. Clover mostly wants to cry, but he swallows that down with every bite of his meal bar.
It is only once the world feels muffled and drowned out, the blizzard's howls muted by the thick snowflakes coating the landscape outside, that Clover finally risks looking over to Qrow properly. The elder is shivering beyond what is normal, trembling as he picks at his emptied wrapper, eyes cast downwards. He seems thin, waif-like- as if he had been left in the storm he would've been knocked over, smothered before he could ever cry out for aid.
The words leave Clover's lips before he can even register them. "If you're cold, why don't you turn into a crow?" Qrow freezes in place, eyes snapping upwards to look at Clover. He does not respond otherwise, the intensity of his gaze enough to make Clover want to brave the storm; Clover bites back his discomfort anyways, taking another bite as calmly as possible. "I'm just saying you'd conserve energy, wouldn't you? Less body mass to keep warm."
Finally, Qrow whispers, "I don't know what you're-"
"I saw you transform, Qrow. During our last mission. Stop hiding it." He is almost proud at how strong his voice comes across; he does not waver, does not back down. "James confirmed it, too. You can turn into a crow. I'm assuming the children know, since you used to so easily to save them. Am I wrong?"
"…no."
"Thought so." He swallows down the last bit of his bar, his stomach already growling again, craving more. He needs something to fill him up. He feels so empty.
Qrow lets out a long, weary exhale, the weight of the world crushing his shoulders little by little. Leaning forward, he hunches over, burying his face in his hands. The voice that slips past thin, bony fingers is surprisingly weak, pitching upwards, vulnerable and exposed. "So you know about…"
"Yeah."
To his surprise, Qrow stands abruptly, tossing his kit onto the floor. "Fuck!" His face is twisted into a snarl so feral that Clover instinctively recoils- he almost steps away completely until he sees the genuine grief in Qrow's eyes, morphing into what can only be called guilt as he begins to pace his side of the tiny room.
For a moment, Clover pauses, mind finally catching up to the words that have tumbled forth so unceremoniously. They are still on a mission- there is no point causing discord between them.
What's done is done, I suppose. He cannot take back his words now, and with the storm raging on outside, they truly have all the time in the world.
So, he takes in a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and asks the final question which has been plaguing him for the past ten days.
"Why did you come back to me?"
Brokenly, red eyes lift to find his, glinting fiery-red in the light of the Dust. The reflection of the generator's glow is just as beautiful as Clover thought it would be, but the image is tainted by the guilty, ashamed tears which begin to roll from bitter eyes. "…I just… I didn't know what else to do."
Clover does not even register the movement. It is as if his mind goes blank, his body moving with a will of its own; for the next thing he knows is that he has opened up his arms, and Qrow has come to him, and the elder feels thinner than before, and Clover is- as much as he hates it, brothers he hates it- finally, truly warm again.