Chapter Text
The emerald canopies and chestnut soils and gentle, soothing rains of Patch felt like naught but a distant dream to Clover by the time he had finally re-established some semblance of a routine in Atlas. As he awoke each morning to the sight of harsh sunlight streaming in through the windows of his chamber, the view from his window naught but the perfectly-structure spires of Atlas’ capital city surrounded by nothing but icy tundra as far as the eye could see, the feeling of earth under his fingertips and greenery growing from his efforts felt like they were basically a hallucination, a delusion he had built for himself to justify his time spent in Patch.
It wasn’t a dream, however. He knew that. The moment he had returned bearing that scroll with the Valean royal advisor’s emblem, the castle had rejoiced. King Ironwood had held a banquet in his honour, for the relationship between Vale and Atlas continued to prosper thanks to Clover’s hard work. Clover attempted to refuse the celebrations- he knew that this mission was far less glorious than anything else he had ever done- but the king would hear nothing of it, far too proud of his knight’s success to notice his embarrassment.
The truth of his mission was only ever known by Harriet and, after hiding away from the festivities in the smithy, Pietro; even then, those two had no idea of the reason for which Clover’s face fell every single time people mentioned his safe return from Patch.
Perhaps he would have been truly able to accept his lovelorn loss as a part of this strange, dreamlike fantasy which was his memory of Patch, if it were not for the aforementioned gift awaiting him upon his return. The case of fine liquor which had been delivered to his estate was the finest in the land, famous to be a favourite Valean import of King Ironwood as well. Every time Clover looked at the labels, however, all he saw in his mind’s eye was the same bottle lined up on Qrow Branwen’s shelf in his dimly-lit home- long fingers shifting into talons, hooking around the neck of the bottle- a glass lifting up to thin, chapped lips, a ruddy flush in pale cheeks, a husky, growling voice crooning in his ear-
He missed Qrow Branwen.
In light of Clover’s service, the king granted him a leave following the harrowing journey back to Solitas. Clover’s luck and heightened skill had managed to keep the entire crew safe for the whole voyage, after all, which was commendable after numerous attacks from seafaring Grimm throughout the month-and-a-half they were stuck at sea. Clover hated this vacation, however, for it gave him little to do each day but train and toil and mull about; the servants of his noble house were more than capable enough of running the estate on their own, so there was nothing for him to do even when he returned to visit his frigid family.
So, Clover spent his days at the castle. The training rooms were always available, and even when they weren’t, no one would ever pass up the opportunity to spar against the Clover Ebi. Thanks to his rigorous, albeit brief training with Qrow, his skills were sharper than ever, so he was never short of training partners with whom he could battle away his grief. It was a monotonous existence, to be sure- the only true highlights of his days were evenings in the smithy with Pietro, assisting the blacksmith with designing new armours and weapons for the knighthood- but Clover welcomed the exhaustion left in his bones at the end of each day.
When he was too tired, it was easier to not think about just how much warmer he would be if Qrow had been in his bed, too.
When the new intake of pages began training at the castle, their eyes bright and eager as they prepared themselves for their six-year-journey to becoming proper members of the knighthood, Clover was forced to face reality once again. It had been three months since he had left Patch, he realized as he observed one of their first combat lessons. Three months of aimlessness, of restlessness. Three months of filling his days however he could, because for some reason, he simply could not remember what life had been like before his journey down to Vale earlier that year.
Three months since Qrow should have recommenced teaching at the famous Beacon Academy. I hope you’re doing well, Qrow, he thought to himself, watching the pages run exhaustedly around the school in frigid weather to train their stamina. I hope you realize just how much of a difference you’re probably making.
Every word of encouragement he had ever said to Qrow had been true, after all. He sincerely believed that Qrow belonged in a classroom- his lessons were better than the instructors in Atlas, at any rate.
But this was the new normal. And even as he began to pick up local missions once again, ridding local communities of Grimm and supervising the pages and squires on low-stakes missions in Grimm-infested territory, he found that his greatest challenge continued to be this emptiness in him, this coldness in his veins. He wasn’t broken. He just… He knew it all could be better, and he didn’t know how to do it alone. The few women, and fewer men, whom he brought into his bed could never compare to the shifter he had grown so painfully fond of.
For the first time, not even his luck could keep him safe. That was likely the most frightening part of it all.
At the end of the day, however, he was contented enough. There was no point pining for what could never be; so, as time passed, he began helping out more and more with the students, putting his all into watching them grow and flourish. It helped that with everything he did, he could simply imagine Qrow putting in just that much more work; it kept him motivated, if nothing else, to imagine the elder man praising him for how he interacted with the children, for Clover had never been very good with younger folk, and for him, this leap of faith was greater than anyone looking in could have ever imagined.
Apparently, he was working too hard, though. One day, when he was assisting the newest page recruits during a fencing lesson, he heard Qrow’s voice echoing in his mind just as usual as he moved his blades through the basic attack stances for the demonstration. He ignored the voice- it sounded a little different than usual, but he could analyze his own fatigued hallucinations another time.
The feeling of a giant claymore striking against Kingfisher with a clang was certainly not a hallucination, however.
“Take a look, children. This is how you disarm your opponent.”
No-
His heart was halfway up his throat when the flurry of attacks began, the assault from the giant, familiar weapon which had haunted his dreams for months far too fast for its unwieldy size; despite all of his skill and speed, the wielder quickly overwhelmed Clover with his skill, running the knight ragged in front of an enraptured, mildly-frightened audience.
It was likely only due to his luck that he saw the opening, but Clover was not about to waste it. As the other man straightened up, shifting his grip on his blade, Clover rushed forward and struck the man’s hand with the hilt of his blade, causing his opponent to yelp in pain as he dropped his weapon momentarily. The man tried to step away from Clover, to evade Kingfisher’s range; it seemed his misfortune had finally caught up to him, however, for he lost his balance, already preparing to roll back to his feet before he hit the ground.
He had no chance to. Clover moved on instinct, lunging forward to catch the elder before he could touch the cold ground below; his arm snaked naturally around the other man’s waist, catching him, the movements practiced despite it having been months since he had felt this heat for which his heart had yearned so desperately.
It was just as perfect as he remembered. That weight in his arms- that warmth, that scent- those talons growing-
Oh Brothers above.
All he could do was relax his body and allow himself to be picked up bodily by a giant beak, the horrified screams of the pages watching on ringing through the hall at the sight of this giant, red-eyed corvid taking their instructor captive. The pressure of the creature’s beak upon his wrist was too much to bear, and he soon released Kingfisher, the blade clattering to the ground in a pathetic fall.
The moment it stilled, however, Clover was released. Strong hands caught him before he could hit the ground, helping him upright while he fought to regain his sense of balance. “And that,” Qrow Branwen called cockily, “is one way to disarm your opponent.”
One by one, the students realized that Clover was not screaming, not calling this newcomer a monster, not running away; the familiarity in his face must have shown, for soon, the students merely replied, “Um… milord, we’re not shifters though…”
“Class dismissed,” Clover called brusquely once he had regained his bearings, too shell-shocked by what was going on to provide a proper conclusion to their lesson. “Go wash up before the supper bells begin to ring.”
“Yessir,” the pages replied, their eyes bursting at the seams with questions they clearly longed to ask the knight. However, it would not be appropriate to accost their instructor all at once, so they had no choice but to obey.
As the pages all filed out of the room, heading towards the bathhouses, Clover finally sheathed Kingfisher, tottering to his feet to look at the other man properly. It was no hallucination, no mere fantasy; dressed in a warm tunic was Qrow, the elder man sporting a few more greys than Clover remembered. However, the man’s furrowed brow, his chiselled jawline, the confidence in his gait and the amusement in that smile and the sweetness of those crimson eyes-
Clover wanted to sob. Instead, he choked out, “…you know half of Atlas will think there’s a shifter who turns into a Nevermore in the castle now.”
“Yeah, Clover? That sounds like Jimmy’s problem, not mine.”
“I’ll give it till suppertime before he begins asking me about it.” Taking in a deep breath, Clover straightened his figure and finally approached the shifter. “What are you doing here?”
Qrow shrugged. “Ozpin created a program where advanced students spend their time cycling through other allied kingdoms to give them more field experience and improve their technical range,” he explained frankly. “They needed a field liaison in Atlas who could also return to Vale on a moment’s notice, and, well... I realized that my bad luck wouldn't be as problematic here.”
In that one moment, Clover had never been prouder of his good fortune- how could he not be, when he had just been told that Qrow felt truly safe by his side, that his anxieties would ease thanks to Clover's proximity?
Then, something else caught his attention. “On a moment’s notice? That’s not- but how would you-“
“Flying to Anima, resting, then going to Sanus. It’s draining as all hell, but it could be done in an emergency. We’re hoping I can stick to normal methods of travel.” The elder grimaced momentarily, adding, “The sea voyage here was terrible, though- gods, I spent half the time in the air just so I wouldn’t have to feel the goddamned boat rocking anymore.”
He wanted to beam, but panic seized Clover instead. “But what about your nieces?”
Rather than replying right away, the elder’s face reddened, the man looking away. “They told me to come,” he muttered after a moment. “They…” and the rest of his words trailed off, too quiet to hear.
“What was that?” Clover asked, stepping forward.
Groaning, Qrow repeated louder, “…They said I looked too sad at home, so I should come ‘rescue you’.” Oddly shy, he added, “I did promise that I’d bring you back with me to visit, so… you may want to start figuring that out now.”
It wasn’t just me. I’m not- I was not alone. Clover smiled, feeling his heart swell up, filling with a warmth he had not felt for months. He had forgotten what it could be like to not be so damn cold all the time, to be something other than what the icy northern continent required him to be.
This heat felt right.
Stepping closer, Clover whispered, “Have a drink with me tonight, Qrow. I have your favourite.” When Qrow raised his brows in surprise, Clover merely shrugged, a wry grin upon his lips. “Another one of Ozpin’s ‘gifts’.”
Qrow clasped Clover’s shoulder, squeezing gently; then, the hand drifted downwards until it settled onto the small of his back, his thumb tenderly kneading circles in the man’s waist. “That sly bastard,” he chuckled.
“Shh- you can’t say that-“
“I’ll call him a bastard and I’ll call your king Jimmy if I want to,” Qrow growled, a wicked gleam in his eye as he began leading Clover to the door. “What’re they going to do- stop me?”
“How are you going to fight back?” Clover retorted instantly, his own hand reaching up to brush Qrow’s hair out of his eyes. It was shorter now, he noticed- fresher, cleaner than before. Brighter. “Are you just going to caw at them?”
“Wow. This is the treatment I get after coming all the way up to this godforsaken ice-field.”
“Says the bird.”
“Says the giant bird. You’d better have enough room for me,” Qrow grumbled, pretending to pout.
At the sight of that silly expression, Clover felt his feet plant into the floor, laughter burbling up from his gut so fiercely that soon, he had thrown his head back, clutching onto Qrow for support as he laughed and laughed and laughed, only ceasing after a few minutes. Wiping a tear from his eyes, he chuckled, “I’m sure I can find some old wood scraps for you to make a nest after you get drunk,” he teased. “Otherwise, my bed shall have to suffice.”
Qrow raised a brow, but the way his eyes creased, his smile softened, his heart appearing on his sleeve- Clover knew that he had said the right thing. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” the elder murmured.
Qrow Branwen tasted sweet, Clover learned that day, and figure something out, they certainly did. Shifters were resourceful creatures, after all, and Clover Ebi was nothing if not the luckiest knight in Atlas.
-fin-