footprints in the carpet
"You really like that feather, huh?"
As if it is a secret between himself and the crow he believes to have made friends with, Clover grins, a haughty glint in his eyes as he brushes the feather happily. "Don't worry about it."
Qrow's lip curls into a sneer, but he does not continue the conversation. There is no point even trying to talk to the younger about this, after all. Clover likely believes his discovery of the corvid in the indoor gardens to be something magical, something special; unless if Qrow decides to reveal himself to the younger, there will be no way to convince Clover otherwise of the mediocrity of the feather he has grown to apparently cherish so deeply.
So, he turns his eyes outside the supply truck, leaning his head on the window. The lines on the road reflect the sunlight, short pieces of white paint on dark tarmac rhythmically rushing past their truck over and over and over again until he is dizzy. Bile rises into his throat- perhaps it is the movement. Perhaps it is his thirst, never to be sated. Perhaps it is the fact that he can see Clover's fingers brushing against the feather repeatedly, as if it is the most soothing thing in the world.
The sky is cloudless, vast expanses of blue stretching far overhead. There are no birds in the sky, either. Solitas is not the place for birds to fly freely. He wishes it wasn't so, but such is his luck.
He only throws up once they have arrived at their destination- only once he is outside of the truck, thankfully. For that, he is grateful. Clover eyes him in disgust as he walks past the steaming pile of stomach acid and bile resting in the snow, on his way to speak to those who will unload their cargo. Qrow wants to snarl at him, but he is too weary, too bitter, for the black, silken feather still hangs upon Clover's hip, but Qrow is left behind yet again.