It was early on in the afternoon, and Cobin was underneath a company car on the lift, straining his knowledge and experience with mechanics. He knew that at one point or another, he would find a project that defeated his and Ozpin's little lie about his mechanical aptitude, but he wasn't quite ready for it to happen yet. Still, Cobin was giving it his best shot, and figured that he could figure out exactly how to fix it given enough time. However, the question was whether or not the following morning would be enough time.

The good thing to come out of it was it provided a good distraction from the coming storm. The students who were about to lead him to his doom had decided that the shopping trip would take place that Saturday, giving them ample time to drag him around the city and visit as many stores as possible. When Cobin had responded with "Yeah, sounds great," he had just barely been able to hide the strain in his voice. What little time he had spent with Ruby and her companions he had quite enjoyed, but shopping was definitely not his type of activity. But there was something else that worried him about it, too…

Cobin wasn't exactly one of those 'well-adjusted' combat veterans, and he was aware of himself enough to know this. After you spend almost a year in country constantly in this state of red-alert, it can take a while to come down, and some people simply never do. Cobin knew that being in a big urban environment surrounded by faces and noises he couldn't recognize would set off all kinds of bullshit in his head. But, he had resigned himself to simply focusing all his psychological energy on keeping The Crazy at bay for the duration of the trip. He knew that no one was in danger, it's not like he would go ballistic and start throwing punches or anything, but having an absolutely crippling panic attack was a definite possibility. And that level of embarrassment was to be avoided at all costs.

Cobin was simultaneously attempting to fiddle with some wires under the car and look at a wiring digram he had pulled up on his scroll when the unmistakable sound of footfalls on the concrete floor of the shop made him stop and turn around. Cobin realized that he could only see the figure from the waist down because of where he was standing, so he stepped out from under the car.

As soon as Cobin saw who it was, his reflexes took over and he snapped to the position of attention, saying "Good afternoon, Sir," as he raised his right hand into a salute.

General James Ironwood returned the gesture, but then simply stated "Relax, Sergeant." The General watched Cobin nod, and return to a more relaxed posture before he continued, "You know, Sergeant, it's not like you're a POW, I'm not the officer of some foreign military force that you're required my military law to salute," he said.

Cobin chuckled, "I'll remember that for the future," he said, "So what brings the brass into my humble little shop today?"

"Well, first, allow me to introduce myself," Ironwood extended his hand toward Cobin, "I'm General James Ironwood."

Cobin took Ironwood's hand and shook it, "Sergeant First Class Rockland Cobin. And I figured as much, you've been in the news a bit recently," he said, letting go of the General's hand.

Ironwood smiled, "So you've been doing your own bit of research then?"

Cobin shrugged, "Intelligence drives operations. Or at least that's what the eggheads say."

That made Ironwood laugh, "Very well, Sergeant." Then the General's face got a bit more serious, "I don't know if anyone told you, but I was here at Beacon on the day that you arrived. I had to leave to attend to matters at my own academy before you woke up from your nap, but I returned as soon as I was able. I wanted to see what Ozpin had decided to do with you."

"Wish I could tell you that myself," Cobin said, "The Professor has been overwhelmingly generous, for sure, but really I don't think he even knows what he's going to do with me yet. So in the meantime…" Cobin patted the car up on the lift, "I get to play mechanic."

Ironwood nodded, "And how are you adjusting?" he asked.

"Fine," Cobin said, flatly.

Ironwood shook his head, "Honestly Sergeant, I was hoping you'd humor me a bit beyond that." The General sighed, "What do you say, got time to swap some war stories with another old soldier?" he asked.

Cobin was silent for a moment, but then nodded. "Please, step inside my office," he said.

Cobin led the general to the back of the shop, and into the small office space that was his living quarters. Once inside, Cobin directed Ironwood to sit in the office chair at the desk, and made his way to the cot where he slept. "Too early for liquid bread, sir?" Cobin asked.

"Never too early for liquid bread, Sergeant," Ironwood said, taking a seat in the chair.

Cobin grabbed a couple of beers from underneath his cot, and tossed one to Ironwood before taking a seat himself on the cot. "So, were you a Butter-Bar, Sir?" Cobin asked, opening his beer.

Ironwood looked a bit confused, "You'll have to explain that one to me, Sergeant," he said, taking his first sip.

"Sorry, that one was probably too specific to my world," Cobin said, "'Butter-Bar' is a reference to junior-officer rank insignia in my military. If an officer was ever a 'Butter-Bar' it means that they never served on the E-side; they started their career in the military as an officer," he said.

Ironwood nodded, now understanding. "Nope, I wasn't always 'Sir,' once upon a time it was 'Corporal Ironwood,' although it seems like a lifetime ago," he said.

"Hmm."

"Now it's my turn," Ironwood said, "When you came here, were you engaged in a conflict?"

"You could say that," Cobin said, then he paused, looking up at the ceiling as he thought, "It was bad fighting. Bad war. Bad reasons, maybe."

"The good reasons are always few and far between, Sergeant," Ironwood said.

"The actual incident that led to me being here, in one way or another, was a roadside bomb," Cobin said, taking a decent sized swig from his drink, "There was always a lot of that. It's somehow a lot harder to fight a mess of wires and plastic explosives than it is to fight a guy with a machine gun. But they had to make it as hard as possible on us."

"I find that we're slowly transitioning into that sort of conflict ourselves," Ironwood said, "And it scares me, honestly. I'd never say this in meeting or a press conference, but we don't have the knowledge base necessary to fight a war without a battlefield. It's a new concept for our world."

"Yeah, definitely don't say that in a press conference," Cobin said.

Ironwood chuckled at the comment, but his attitude slowly regained its serious tone, "A lot of bad things have happened here recently. A lot of things that are making the people doubt our ability, as a military, to keep them safe."

"So I've heard," Cobin said. "Let me ask you this: how's your intel community?"

Ironwood shook his head, "Not strong enough," he said, "Even within the Atlas military and all its funding and weaponry, military intelligence still boils down to little more than scout work; who's got the best view of the guys on the other side of the field. And that doesn't really work against these enemies."

"The White Fang?" Cobin asked.

"Yes," Ironwood said, "So you know of them?"

"Like I said, I have been reading the news," Cobin said, "I wish I could offer you some fool-proof advice, but I'm not an intel guy. I'm not qualified to design the kind of operation that you'll be needing to fight these people. What I can tell you is that you're probably in for the long haul."

Ironwood nodded, "I understand," he said, "And what about you?"

Cobin raised an eyebrow, "What about me?" he asked.

"Are you going to fight?" Ironwood asked, suddenly staring down the Sergeant with the practiced intensity of a high-ranking officer.

Cobin just looked at Ironwood for a minute, unprepared for the question and unsure of how to respond, "Sir, I've spent a lot of time fighting. In fact, it's reasonable to assume that I died fighting back on my home world," he finally said, "And even back there, I was beginning to question why. With all do respect to your rank, now is not the time to try and push me into a conflict I don't fully understand on a planet I don't know."

"Of course, my apologies," Ironwood said, realising his mistake.

"I'll forgive you," Cobin said, "If you tell me how how you got that nifty prosthetic," he said, pointing at the white glove that Ironwood wore over his right hand.

Ironwood was surprised, and looked down at the appendage, moving his fingers around. "How did you know?" He asked.

"Call it Old Soldier's Intuition," Cobin said, "Now I bet there's a real war story behind that."

Now it was Ironwood's turn for an extended pause, "It… it was a mistake," Ironwood, said, looking at the ground, "A mistake by a young Lieutenant Ironwood, who should have been more wary of what the Platoon Sergeant was telling him."

Cobin nodded, accepting the answer. He could tell that this was one of those stories that you didn't press the details on. "I've made plenty of mistakes," Cobin said, "Unfortunately for us, we chose the only profession where mistakes can't be forgiven."

"All too true, Sergeant, all too true," Ironwood said. "Well, I won't take any more of your time if you don't take any more of mine," he said.

Ironwood moved to stand up from the chair, but Cobin motioned for him to stop. "Just one more thing, Sir," Cobin said.

"Yes, anything," Ironwood said, sitting back down.

Cobin thought for a moment, forming the question in his mind. "How do you deal with it?" He asked. "How do you deal with The Crazy?"

Ironwood didn't even need to question that one to understand what Cobin meant. "I remember… I was out with my daughter one time when she was very young. It was just after this," he said, knocking on his fake limb with his real flesh-and-bone fist, "I had recently been released from the hospital, and was granted a few days to be with my family. I was not ready to be out in public yet, but my daughter, she really wanted to go get ice cream with daddy, so I obliged." Ironwood paused now, as he grappled with the retelling of the story, "I don't even know what set it off, what may have triggered it. What I do know is that I lost control, and I let everything that had happened to me be the face of who I was. Afterward, I saw how scared my daughter was, and how badly she just wanted her father to be okay. So I resigned myself to the idea that I couldn't let all of the awful things that have happened to me affect the people I love; I started to think of it as criminal, in some ways. Maybe that's overly critical of myself, and of everyone else who does what we do as soldiers, but it's helped me." Ironwood suddenly looked exhausted, just from telling the story.

Cobin nodded. "Thank you, Sir," he said.

Ironwood stood, and moved to the door of the office, but he paused before he passed through the threshold, and began to speak again. "Sergeant, if I can offer you one piece of advice, regardless of how meaningless it is to someone in a place completely alien to them, I want you to know that you'll need to find something to love. It's the only way you'll make it out of this alive." And with that, the General simply left.

Cobin didn't see him to the front door, he just sat on his cot and stared at the place where Ironwood was sitting moments ago, as if the man had simply vanished. A couple of seconds after the sound of Ironwood's footfalls were no longer audible, Cobin said…

"I know."

…

Brief and unexpected little interlude here! I'm hoping to have the Operation Dress Code chapter done by the end of the weekend, but before I started working on it I wanted to write this little 'one-shot' within the larger story itself showing some actual interaction between Cobin and Ironwood. This was fun to write, and was one of those things that came naturally. That's how you know two characters work well together.

Also, it's never revealed in RWBY that Ironwood's weird glove thing is due to having an advanced prosthetic limb, this is just my interpretation of it. Another very real, and possibly more likely possibility is that it's just advanced nerve damage, and he wears the glove because the skin is almost completely mangled scar tissue. I think this particular piece of cannon is one of those things that's up to the individual fan.

That being said, I don't really have a place in my brain for Ironwood as part of Cobin's larger story, so I'm glad I got a bit more into his character here in the beginning stages.

Hope you all enjoyed!

-Wahs.