footprints in the carpet
That day- that interaction- is the trigger, and Clover Ebi is never the same.
The hostility which had been vaguely contained within their interactions becomes outright. Clover Ebi truly is one of James' men, Qrow realizes; the officer is truly the model Atlesian soldier, knowing exactly how to use his glib tongue to portray the image of the benevolent-but-upright officer-in-command of the Ace Operatives. He is able to where his smiles like the best of the Atlesian aristocrats while still maintaining that sense of simple, honest trustworthiness that only a true, loyal soldier can exemplify.
And then, when he and Qrow are alone, he allows all of that to slip away, and Qrow can only snarl in response.
They no longer share words if they are not seen together. There are no more attempts to engage, even when there is information to share; Clover has grown almost frighteningly-fast at forwarding orders and messages he receives on his Scroll to Qrow. The separation between them grows wider and wider, and no one else is the wiser.
It's better this way, Qrow tells himself. What is the point of dealing with Clover if he clearly already thinks of Qrow's Semblance as a mistake? As if I don't already know that, asshole.
On yet another patrol, the silence has grown palpable between them. Qrow does his best to keep his eyes straight ahead, but Clover insists on walking ahead of him, causing crimson to fall unwittingly upon a swinging rabbit's foot and black feather over and over again. Eventually, the irritation which rises up in his gut is too much, and Qrow begins to simply look out into the distance. It is easier to look into the endless expanse of tundra, the white melding with the blinding horizon almost painfully, than to watch how Clover walks as if there is nothing to fear.
Qrow cannot relate to this sentiment. It is not the Grimm he fears. His head aches. He knows why his Aura has been so low as of late, for his energy is consumed by fighting off withdrawal and sleeplessness and heartache.
He just wants to be at peace.
The distant blip on the horizon grows larger and larger with every breath, and soon, Qrow's blade is not enough to strike them all down. His aim is deadly and true, as always, but there are simply too many Grimm to keep up before they are upon the battleground once again. "Well shit," Qrow mutters as the pack of Sabyrs approaches the wall with such speed that he has no choice but to extend the blade itself.
"Finally get to fight," Clover says, pulling Kingfisher out of its holster.
With as scathing a glare as he can manage, Qrow spits, "I swear, if you say 'it's my lucky day' or some shit-"
The heat in Clover's eyes reflects Qrow's, his irritation and disdain clear as day. "I'd stop there if I were you," he says, voice strained with anger.
"And why should I?"
Clover steps past him, readying to leap downwards into the fray. "You've got a lot of confidence for a liability," he says.
"Says the person who has, up to now, killed absolutely zero Grimm. Why do they put you on patrols if your weapon isn't useful?"
Clover's lips curl back into a grimace, but they have no more time to engage, and for that, Qrow is thankful. He takes the beasts which attack from the west. Clover takes those sieging the southern side. Separately, they cull the herd with little problem.
And yet, when they return to the academy, their glowers are so pronounced that even Penny is prompted to ask, "Did something happen on your mission?"
"No," they both say immediately, striding past her.
They have reports to write, but before Clover can try and issue an order, Qrow announces, "I'll send you my parts. You can log it in."
"I'll do no-"
"See ya." With that, Qrow turns on his heel, shoves his hands into his pockets, and marches down the corridor, leaving Clover behind.
He does not head directly to his barracks, instead heading out onto the nearest balcony he can find upon the upper floors of Atlas. The moment the fresh air hits his cheeks, he relaxes; the briskness of the wind against his face is refreshing, welcoming. He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out, his breath forming a steady stream of steam into the air in front of him.
I'll write your reports, he thinks, pulling out his Scroll and taking a seat against a windowsill nearby. And then I'll go there again.
So, he does. The reports are finished soon enough and sent to Clover, attached to a wordless email. He will figure it out; he's good a paper pushing, after all. Once that is finished and the sun has begun to set, Qrow's heart feels a little lighter, for he can finally return to the indoor garden. He needs to be in nature, somewhere warm and away from Atlas' endless white expanse. And if Clover comes back, it'll only be later, he thinks gleefully. He knows there is a meeting planned for later that evening for the Ace Operatives; Qrow should have more than enough time to enjoy the greenery without interruption.
The fireflies welcome his entry, flitting up to him before he can find a hidden nook in which to rest. He thinks for a moment on eating one- would that send them away from him?- but when he sees the tiny abdomen of one bug glow gently as it almost floats past his eyes, he lets them be, hunkering down upon his perch and relishing in the sound of circulated air rushing through the canopy of leaves which surrounds him.
It feels like home- not exactly the same, but the scent of bark and leaves and grass and flora is so comforting he could weep. His eyelids sink down, body relaxing, melting into the tiny nook in this low tree that he has commandeered as his own. Soon, the glow of lightning bugs no longer bothers him, their flickering forms merely acting as dancing starlight as the lights within the room shut completely off for the night.
He does not realize when exactly he drifts off, but he awakens in a fright; the presence of another's Aura near to him is horrifying, for he is not one to let his guard down like this.
It is with a mix of horror and relief that the face he sees peering up at him is Clover. There are no words needed to understand the sheer wonder painted across Clover's joyous face; despite the clear lines of strain and fatigue in his brow, he looks at the bird as if he has caught sight of one of the wonders of the world, his fingers playing across the feather hanging from his hip as if it is the most natural of rituals.
Qrow swallows, freezing in place. What should he do? From his perch, he can see the door; it is closed, offering him no real escape route unless he transforms back into a man. However, that would mean exposing himself to Clover-
No way in hell, he tell himself, am I going to let him find this out.
So, he does the only other thing he can do. He plays his part.
Softly, he trills, startling the bugs which drift lazily on gentle, warm air currents. Immediately, Clover's eyes widen, his face relaxing, removing years of burden off his visage. "They've really started introducing wildlife here," he murmurs gently, his voice softer than Qrow has ever heard it. "But why a crow, of all things?"
Immediately, Qrow bristles. He knows he is but an omen, a sign of bad luck, but to be referred to as such even when trying to rest is-
"You're beautiful," Clover murmurs, eyes creasing so happily that Qrow's chest aches.
Qrow squawks. His song is not, in fact, beautiful. The sound only seems to delight Clover, though, for the man holds out a hand in offering. Qrow does not go to him- it'll be a warm day in Atlas when he'll ever perch upon Clover Ebi's hand- but even when he moves to peck the younger, Clover is not fazed, the man simply taking a seat at the base of the tree in which Qrow perches. Then, he closes his eyes, clasps his hands across his chest, and leans back against the trunk, utterly contented.
Qrow watches it all with unease roiling around in his stomach, adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his avian heart pound painfully against his ribcage. If only you knew, he thought bitterly. Would you still look so happy?
He already knows the answer. For some reason, the thought of it makes his chest ache all the more.