Cutting Ties
Qrow is happy with his life.
No one can see his pocket knife as it sits tucked into his belt, tiny and glittering red and silver under the dim, warm lights nestled into the walls. That's all the better for Qrow, though; he does not need anyone to ask questions, not unless they are a client, after all. And since clients rarely come to him needing Harbinger's blade, he can rest easy wherever he goes, knowing that the tiny piece of his soul manifested into spiritual steel is close to him, always.
His fingers tap against the hilt idly as he waits in a booth of his favourite bar, the quiet, subdued atmosphere calming after a long day. Leather upholstery squeaks as he shifts, always in time with the saxophone line lilting along, smooth jazz filling the air in the background, providing the perfect canvas, the perfect cover, for the other patrons who murmur and giggle and chatter away the toil in their lives. He sits alone, however, standing out like a sore thumb; he is too gaudy to sit alone, to not demand attention, and he knows it. On any other occasion, he would be going to sit at the bar, waiting to see who may arrive, who may pique his interest for the night.
He is here for business tonight, though, so he remains alone, running fingers through dark hair beginning to streak with grey, gazing out at the subdued clientele through thick lashes. He knows his red eyes must look mahogany in this ambiance; it is what always attracts people first, they always say. Deep-set, almond shaped eyes that shift between burgundy and wine and blood-red, depending on the light- they are his greatest tool, alongside a sharp wit and a charming visage.
Harbinger's blade is never sharp to his skin, so he runs callused fingertips down the blade, relishing in the cool, silky-smooth feel of metal upon his skin. It is more of a meditative gesture than anything; it is rhythmic, calming. No one can see the motions underneath the table, and even if they did, all they would be able to perceive is his fingers playing with the seam of his slacks, drawing tempting lines upon his hip. He does not mind if they watch.
The time draws near. He takes a swig of his whisky and smiles, preparing himself to meet this new client. The contract is ready to be filled out is satchel, so all he needs are the details. Vaguely, he wonders what this request will be. Perhaps he shall be finding someone's soulmate; those are the most common requests, after all. Perhaps he shall be examining two lovers, finding out whether they are indeed destined for each other as written in legends. Or, perhaps he shall be seeing whether a couple's unhappiness comes from their miscommunication or a cruel twist of misfortune.
These are all the usual questions which come to him. He is Qrow Branwen, after all; the quiet observer of the red string of fate, able to see silky spiritual cords tying people to one another through the sands of time. His business is pricey, for it takes time to get to know a client well enough to be able to pick their red string apart from the haze of millions of others crossing the earth everywhere he looks, the sights of cords always lingering like a spirit in the background of any scene. Even in this bar, he can see people's strings crossing, tying, folding this way and that, thirty little fingers bearing little knots and rosy-red strands which fade away into the deluge below.
Based on the sound of the footsteps upon the floor of the bar, he would assume the floor is polished hardwood. He wouldn't know, though. All he sees criss-crossed beneath his loafers are ghosts of connections which may never come to fruition.
The door chimes as it opens, and a new set of footsteps begin to walk along that hardwood. Qrow grins, checking his watch. Right on time.
Within moments, a tall man has found Qrow's booth, an amicable smile upon his lips as he holds out his hand- not to shake, but to offer a small, familiar white business card, emblazoned with naught but an email and an emblem of a black, stylized eye formed by feathers and clockwork. Qrow grins, nods, and gestures for the man to take a seat.
He does not hesitate to look over the stranger as he gets settled into the booth across from Qrow. He is tall, Qrow realizes- likely as tall as Qrow, but with built shoulders and a muscled chest which is evident even through his zipped-up coat. He unzips it and pulls it off, revealing that Qrow's assumptions had been on the mark; yet, despite his obvious strength, there is a softness in his face, a kindness within drooping, forest-green eyes. A genial smile seems permanently affixed onto his face even as a waitress arrives to take his order- he asks for naught but an old-fashioned, but his voice is lilting and melodious, and Qrow finds himself leaning back, crossing his arms, and waiting for the stranger's attention to turn back to him, his own curiosity successfully raised.
Once the waitress has left, he murmurs, "Clover Ebi, I presume?"
Clover smiles, holding out a hand across the table. "And you're this Qrow Branwen I've read about?"
Qrow grins, taking the hand and giving it a firm shake, assessing the other man. Their strength matches one another. "That I am. So," he says as he leans forward, clasping his hands upon the table, "James gave you this recommendation, correct?" When Clover nods, brushing soft, short-cropped brown hair back from his forehead, Qrow continues, "He's an old friend, so I'm happy to hear you out. What can I do for you? My prices aren't cheap, y'know."
Clover lets out a long, controlled breath, thoughtful as he finds the words to say. "I'm a journalist," he begins carefully. "I've written a million stories on people whose lives have been changed thanks to the red string of fate. Even if my boss hadn't recommended you directly, I likely would've found you sooner or later anyways."
Qrow hums, smiling sardonically. He doubts it. His services are by reference only for a reason.
"But, since you are able to see the red string of fate, I was wondering… are you able to cut them, too?"
Well. That was unexpected.
Harbinger almost begins to tremble upon his hip, his spirit thrumming, begging to solidify, to be used once again. It has been years since he has brought out his blade- when was the last time he had cut someone's string? After all, a red string was not exactly something which people could retie once lost. So few people dared to ask for those services, unless it was a dire situation.
Already set on edge, Qrow sits up a little straighter, lowering his voice. "I can, but it's not something you can go back on. I need to know why." He is not trying to be invasive, truly; he simply needs to know if he needs to provide the other man with supports after the string is cut. There are services to help those who lose their soulmates. Cutting the string of fate in any way is like cutting away a part of the body, whether people realize it or not.
To his surprise, Clover merely shrugs, nonplussed by the entire affair as if it is just a regular question he normally asks to every stranger he meets in bars; his voice is calm and just as approachable and even as ever when he explains, "I just don't think it's worth wasting my life away for someone I'll never meet."
"I could help you find them, y'know," Qrow laughs, raising a brow.
Clover shakes his head, pausing only to thank the waitress as she brings over his drink. "It's not about that," he murmurs, spritzing the orange twist into his drink. "It's about freedom."
"Not a fan of fate?"
"Not exactly."
Qrow smiles, watching Clover carefully. He likes Clover Ebi, he decides in this moment. His instincts have always been strong, and his gut is telling him that he'll enjoy spending time with this man in order to materialize his red string.
So, he raises his own whiskey. "I can cheers to that."
With a relieved, yet intrigued smile, Clover raises his own glass, and the two men clink and cheers and take a sip, for their business shall be fruitful this night; Clover shall gain his freedom, Qrow's bank account will be nicely padded, and Harbinger shall taste thread once again.