Chapter Text
“I’m getting impatient.”
“I’m terribly sorry, I just need more time, I—”
“You’ve had your time. Don’t make me take matters into my own hands.”
“...Yes. It will be done.”
Every year on Prince James’ birthday, his father throws an extravagant feast in celebration. At least, that’s what he disguises it as. The prince knows better.
James wakes slowly, his body acknowledging consciousness first with a large stretch from head to toe, mind following when he blinks his eyes open and remembers what day it is, the revelation pulling a groan from his lips.
He lets himself lay in bed for a moment, head lolling to the side to stare at the sun filtering in through the window. Had he not closed the curtains last night? Had one of the help come in before he woke up? James frowns, turning his head the other way to look for any evidence of the latter. There’s no breakfast on the table, no fresh linens waiting to be dispensed in his absence, no nothing. He must have left them open.
When James decides he finally needs to get out of bed and sits up, he nearly doubles over in pain, left hand flying up to grab his right shoulder. Shit that hurts. An ache deep in his muscles, in his bones—at least it would be if he had them there. Instead, his hand connects with the hard metal of his prosthetic arm, which shouldn’t hurt at all. It seems a checkup with his prosthetist is in order.
“Great,” James mutters, letting out a hiss of pain as he forces himself to get up, shuffling over to the en suite and looking at himself in the mirror. He brings his left hand up to run fingers through his hair, grimacing at the grays peppered throughout.
Another year gone by. And what to show for it?
With a sigh, James reaches down to the hem of his shirt to pull it off, trying not to jostle his right arm, and carefully avoids looking in the mirror once it’s gone. He repeats the process with his pants and underwear, tossing them into the hamper and pressing the button to start the shower. It heats up instantly—thank god for the wonders of technology—but James closes his eyes, lets the room fog up until he can barely see anything.
It’s easier this way.
By the time James is showered, dressed, and ready for the day, the rest of the palace is alive with noise and hustle and bustle. Normally, he would appreciate the excitement, a stark contrast to the usually monotonous routine of palace life, but—but. He knows what’s going on. Knows what this is for. And he just wants it to be over.
He side-steps guests and workers alike in his haste to get to Pietro’s lab. His prosthetist has been cleverly situated in the wing adjacent to the one his own rooms are in, just in case there ever arises a situation in which James needs him immediately, but he remembers a time when this wing was completely vacant, rooms upon rooms with no use, nothing but empty space.
He trails his fingers along the wall with a frown as he walks. Come to think of it, besides Pietro and his assistants, James doesn’t know what else this wing is used for. He thinks about the people living on the outskirts of Atlas in Mantle, cold and hungry, too many on the streets to count. He thinks about his father’s scoffs whenever James suggests sending more provisions, extending the heating grid. And yet here they are, with more space and luxury than they know what to do with.
It makes him feel sick.
Before long, James finds himself outside of the lab, and he’s surprised when the door doesn’t immediately respond to his motion and slide open. He shifts awkwardly, raising his hand to rap on the metal. There’s a bang behind the door, muffled cursing, and then it slides open quickly, bringing him face to face with just the man he wants to see.
“My boy!” Pietro’s deep voice greets him cheerfully, and James can’t help but smile. Always in good spirits.
“Sir,” he returns, stepping further into the lab. “Is the door…”
“Broken,” Pietro grumbles, hand coming down to slap the manual button on the wall to close it again. “Has been for a while. But you didn’t come to hear about that! I got your message. I’ll take a look at your arm, but I’d like to look at everything else as well.”
James hums in agreement and lets his eyes wander for a moment, taking in everything that’s different since his last visit. There are more holo-screens displayed than ever, blueprints and 3-D models spinning in thin air, but one in particular catches his interest. James walks closer to it, peering at what looks to be the model of a girl. “New project?”
Pietro chuckles, making his way to a workbench scattered with papers and parts. He sweeps them away easily, patting the space beside him. “Just an idea. Come.”
James does, seating himself neatly beside the other man, right side facing him. He flinches automatically when Pietro reaches for his glove, then sighs, removing it himself, his pullover following with some difficulty. He’s left in his sleeveless undershirt, feeling much too exposed. Pietro wastes no time in picking up James’ right arm, inspecting the metal carefully.
“It’s been a while, James,” he murmurs as he works, testing the joints of each finger, smoothing his hands across the plating to check for any ridges. “They should be checked every six months.”
“I know,” James replies guiltily, lifting his arm obediently when Pietro guides it up, and wincing when it bends at his shoulder. Pietro hums, turning around to rummage through his tools. He emerges with a small screwdriver and a pair of pliers, and gets to work removing one of the plates on James’ upper arm. “I haven’t had much in the way of free time, lately. My father—”
“Yes, your father,” Pietro interrupts, voice full of hardly concealed annoyance. “How is the king doing? I can’t seem to get an audience with him as of late, despite his insistence that he needs final approval on all research and supply orders…” He removes the plate successfully, sets it aside, and peers into the inner workings of the arm, brow furrowed. James glances down, frowning.
“Is there anything you’re in immediate need of? I may be able to rush a shipment.” Pietro looks thoughtful as he positions the pliers.
“No,” he answers, sighing. “No, it can wait. In the meantime, I can work with what I have.” He gestures to the arm with his free hand. “It’s a disconnected wire. It’s confusing your sensors into thinking there should be pain when there isn’t.” James feels it as soon as the wire is reconnected, relief flooding through him as the pain ebbs away.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely.
“I may need to replace the wire or the site of the connection if it happens again.” Pietro shrugs, putting the tools back where they came from before looking up at James apologetically. “I need to look at the rest.”
James blinks. “Oh, of course.” He hesitates for only a moment before pulling his undershirt off, pausing with his fingers in the waistband of his pants. It’s nothing Pietro hasn’t seen before, James reminds himself, unbuttoning his pants and setting them aside along with his right shoe. He bends his leg at the knee and rests his foot on the workbench to alert Pietro that he’s ready.
They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while Pietro runs his checks: power cells intact, no sharp edges on the plating, sensors activating properly, joints bending as they should. James looks around to try and distract himself when Pietro pulls his underwear down slightly to check the connections at his hip, but he seems satisfied and quickly pulls them back up.
“You’re lucky,” Pietro concludes, back to his cheerful self. James grabs his clothes to pull them back on. “Everything else seems to be in order. I’ll send a full report to your Scroll.” He pauses, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Can I expect you in six months?”
When James finally has everything back on he glances at the door, then back to Pietro guiltily. “Sooner, if I can help it. I’d like to treat you to dinner and catch up. But today, I have to…”
“I know, I know,” Pietro waves him off, a twinkle in his eye as James taps the button to open the door. “Happy birthday.”
James pauses. “Thank you, sir.” And he’s off.
He’s hoping to have some time to himself after his appointment, but James should know better. When he turns the corner to go back to his room, he sees Klein, his father’s steward, pacing outside his door. When he spots James coming towards him, he purses his lips, looking annoyed.
James groans internally, but ever polite, exchanges pleasantries. “Good to see you, Klein. Was there something you needed?”
“You shouldn’t even be asking me that,” Klein snaps. “Your father sent over a very specific schedule this morning that must be adhered to if today is to go perfectly. You’re late for your fitting.” Standing a foot shorter than James, Klein shouldn’t be intimidating, but the way his eyes flash always gives James pause. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Klein will run straight to his father and he’ll never hear the end of it.
“I was just fitted last week,” James says patiently, trying to edge past him to get to his room. “I assure you my measurements are the same.”
“I didn’t ask,” Klein hisses, blocking his way again. James sighs, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “There is a schedule. Follow it.” Klein gives James a final glare and raise of his eyebrows and stomps off down the hall in the opposite direction James needs to go, thank god. James rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before turning away to start the short walk to where the palace’s personal tailor is, apparently, waiting for him.
It’s not his favorite place in the palace, if he’s being honest with himself. The bright, harsh lights, though necessary for the detail that goes into sewing and tailoring, leave his eyes burning for hours after he leaves, and there’s something unnerving about being able to see himself from multiple angles all at once thanks to the mirrors lining the walls. Still, it’s a necessary evil, doubly so as a prince who is expected to be seen in a different outfit for every occasion.
James steels himself before opening the door, eyes automatically squinting in response to the light assaulting them. As usual, the dressing rooms are chaotic and messy, but he knows that’s how Maria and Roman like it.
“James!” Speak of the devil. James turns a smile on Roman, half-buried under a pile of fabrics in the corner. “Give me—just a sec—” He watches Roman struggle for a moment before taking pity on him, walking over and reaching a hand out, the other coming up to try and stifle a laugh. Roman glares but takes his hand all the same, releasing a small “oof” as he’s pulled to his feet.
“Just you today?” James asks when he’s righted himself, glancing around. He doesn’t see Maria, but who knows; she could be buried somewhere, too.
“Just me?” Roman scoffs, placing a hand on his hip and cocking it, an arrogant smile on his face. “I’m the only one you need, handsome.”
“Yeah, yeah,” James rolls his eyes, turning away to step onto the platform situated in the middle of the room. “I was told I needed to be fitted for tonight’s outfit… again.”
“Oh, yes,” Roman says, the cocky inflection of his voice changing into one of annoyance. “I can’t tell you how much I despise doing the same work over and over again.” He sighs, walking over to a rack of outfits and plucking out James’. “My measurements are perfect.”
“I know, Roman.”
“Do you, now?” Roman clicks his tongue as he carefully sets each piece out by itself: greatcoat, vest, button down, undershirt, dress pants. “Well as long as you know…”
“I didn’t make the order, Roman.” James reminds him, taking a deep breath before beginning to undress. Roman pays him little mind, waiting until James is down to his underwear to start handing him the pieces to put on.
“I know.” He says eventually, sounding a little defeated. “I can’t stand that little…”
“Careful.” James smiles, doing up the last button on his vest. He holds his arms out for Roman to start measuring. “The palace has ears.”
Roman scoffs again but stays silent, running his tape measure quickly along the length of James’s arms, then around the biceps, around his middle. He moves on to the inseam of the pants, then back up to the waist.
“All perfect, wouldn’t you know,” he says sarcastically, gesturing for James to put on the coat. The fabric slips easily around him, and James has to appreciate how comfortable Roman and Maria have managed to make this many layers feel. Roman starts the measuring process over again at his arms.
“How are Junior and the kids?” James asks, meeting Roman’s eyes in the mirror and looking at the his face carefully. James doesn’t miss how the corners of Roman’s mouth turn down slightly, the way his nose crinkles in an effort to keep his face expressionless. “You know, if you ever need anything…”
“We’re just fine,” Roman says stiffly, bending down to study the hem of the coat. “The bar is getting more customers than ever.” James considers his words, toying with the buttons of his vest. The implications of a bar in Mantle suddenly getting more patronage as the kingdom receives more complaints about conditions and morale aren’t lost on him.
“Alright,” James says, turning around so he can speak to Roman face to face. “The offer stands.” When Roman opens his mouth to protest again, James holds up a hand with a smile. “I’ll drop it. I just want you to keep it in mind.”
Releasing a shaky breath, Roman nods, bringing his hands up to make a few small adjustments to the collar. It’s subtle, but James hears the relief in Roman’s voice when he breathes out a quiet, “Thank you.”
James follows the rest of the schedule his father has laid out for him to a T before returning to his room, but when he hears the telltale click of Glynda’s heels approaching him from behind, he can’t help but whip around a hold up his hands defensively. She stops in front of him, one eyebrow raising as her arms fold across her chest. It’s times like these that James has no doubt in his mind why his father chose her to be in charge of palace weaponry training and handling; she can be downright terrifying when she wants to be.
“Glynda,” he greets her, lowering his hands slowly when she doesn’t immediately start lecturing him. “Great to see you.”
“You’re not in trouble, James,” Glynda says, an amused smile pulling at her lips despite the flatness of her tone. She gestures to the door behind James. “May I come in?”
James blinks. “Oh, uh, of course.” He opens the door quickly, stepping aside to let her in first. It’s odd, seeing Glynda like this; the stiff way she holds herself and her no-nonsense attitude feel out of place outside the training field, but he supposes it must serve her well at court, too.
When James steps in behind her, he immediately notices two things out of place. The first is his formal outfit laid out on his bed, which he was expecting, since Roman told him he would have his outfit dropped off within the hour. But the second catches him by surprise: a dark metal box lays on the table in the middle of the room, rectangular and about the size of a briefcase. James stares at it for just a second before turning back to Glynda. It would be rude to investigate now.
However, to his surprise, Glynda walks straight to it, beckoning James to follow. He looks down at it with her, a question on the tip of his tongue, but again Glynda is one step ahead of him. When she opens the box, James’ words die on his lips.
Glynda clears her throat. “I had it made for you. You’ve always had that spare holster...” James nods silently, finally reaching down to pick up one of the items before him. It’s a near replica of his signature revolver, Due Process, complete with intricate floral patterns on the sides and a barrel equipped to hold Dust bullets. The only difference he can see is in the color; while Due Process is a shiny silver, this gun’s barrel is a matte black. “You can use it for whatever you’d like, but I intended it to be used with Gravity Dust to give you more mobility.”
At her words, James finally notices the Gravity Dust crystals resting in the case as well. “Glynda…” He turns the gun over in his hands, feels a tight pressure build in his chest. He had forged Due Process years ago under Glynda’s direction and support, despite his father’s disapproval (“It’s just not proper, James, the Ironwoods have always forged blades as a symbol of strength in Atlas.”), and the fact that she had done this for him, presumably behind the king’s back... “This is… I don’t know how to…”
“James.” He looks up, and Glynda’s face is soft, the kindest he’s ever seen her look. She rests a hand on his arm—the right one—and smiles. James nods.
Nothing more needs to be said.
The thing James has been dreading all days comes faster than he likes, and before he knows it, he’s accompanying his father to the head of the dining hall, standing beside him as he makes his annual speech. James smiles politely and tunes him out, words like “birthday” and “promise” and “eligible” washing over him and barely registering. Finally he falls silent, and they sit down to the sound of hundreds of people clapping in tandem, the noise echoing around the hall.
Since his coronation five years ago marking him the one true heir apparent to the king, James’ father has used his birthday as an excuse to gather potential spouses from all the kingdoms in the hopes James will finally marry. He looks on in disdain as noble folk local and foreign alike fill cup after cup of wine, heave piles of food onto their plates only to abandon them halfway through. This day is a waste in more ways than one.
James loses track of how many women drop by the high table to speak to him and his father. In the following hours that pass, he kisses the hand of Princess Amber of Vale; exchanges pleasantries with Lady Sienna of Anima; and endures the cold stare of Mistral’s Princess Cinder while trying to make small talk. In fairness to her, the feeling is mutual; she’s much too young to be paraded around at these events, and it leaves James with a bad taste in his mouth.
Eventually, James excuses himself by pretending to see someone important across the room. He expertly dodges another one of his suitors before she can strike up a conversation and glances at his father; he’s deep in conversation with the king of Vale at the head of the dining table, so he takes his chance to retreat into the hallway. Leaning against the door, James allows himself a moment of peace. Tonight is almost over, and then things can go back to normal until next year.
“Sir?” His eyes fly open, afraid he’s caught, but James is only greeted by the knowing smirk of one of his personally trained Ace-Ops, the best of the best in the Atlas military.
“Clover,” he breathes a sigh of relief, beckoning the man as he takes a few steps down the hall. Clover falls into step easily, hands held behind him at parade rest, proper as always. “I just needed a moment. These parties, they can be… overwhelming.”
“I understand, sir,” Clover answers easily, and James rolls his eyes.
“Enough. I’ve told you you can call me James.”
“I don’t think your father would approve of that, sir.” This time, Clover’s voice has an amused lilt, and James fights a smile himself.
He stops when they reach the end of the hall, paths diverging on either side to lead to the kitchen and the library. James considers leaving the party altogether, disappearing for the night in one of the palace’s many hideaways, but decides against it, turning back around with a sigh.
Clover raises his eyebrows, posture faltering for just a second, but it’s enough for James’ trained eyes to see it. “Is there anything I can help with, si—James?” James considers his answer. He trusts Clover.
“Can you get through to my father and convince him that no matter how many parties he throws, I will not be wed to any of these women?”
And it’s the truth; James Ironwood, beloved prince of the kingdom of Atlas, expected to produce a natural heir upon his ascension of the throne, has no interest in these noblewomen, or any women, and would, in fact, sooner bed Cardin, the blacksmith’s infuriatingly arrogant son.
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t take it that far.
Not to mention… James curls his right hand reflexively, feeling the metal shift against his glove. It’s wishful thinking to hope his father will never learn how much the accident truly took from him, but he’s gotten this far without having that particular question asked. Perhaps he’ll continue being lucky in that regard.
Clover blinks, understanding slowly spreading across his face. He nods sagely, and begins walking back to the dining room. James follows.
“As much as I sympathize with your plight, I’m afraid your father certainly won’t listen to me if he hasn’t already to you. But,” he glances back, eyes twinkling. “I can assure you you’re not the only one with those… inclinations in the kingdom.”
James considers his words. “But I am the one with an obligation to the throne.” And god, James has spent his whole life being reminded of that.
As a child, attending meetings at his father’s feet, being made to listen as adults discussed his future. As a teenager, obediently listening to his father lay out his future, responsibilities and duty and honor. As a young adult, awkwardly flirting back with princesses and noblewomen chosen for him while feeling absolutely nothing. Realizing what this meant, but kissing them anyway.
Trying to push down his feelings of shame and do what needed to be done.
And finally, as an adult, coming to terms with who he is, knowing he can never be what his father wants. But still determined to be a good ruler when the time comes.
Clover escorts him as far as the door, saluting him with a sympathetic look on his face. He slides his eyes to the right when someone turns the corner, a slow smile spreading on his lips as the Ace-Ops’ newest member comes into view, fussing with a scarf around his neck.
“Marrow.” James greets him, smirking when Marrow looks up, startled, eyes darting to Clover quickly and then back.
“Oh, sir!” He salutes quickly, free hand dropping and leaving the scarf a rumpled, half-tucked mess.
“Here.” To James’s surprise, Clover approaches him, not stopping until he’s right in Marrow’s space to fix it, reaching up without hesitation. Marrow eyes James for another moment, gauging his reaction; when James only raises his eyebrows with a grin, Marrow shifts his gaze away with a small smile of his own, looking up at Clover through his lashes.
James has a feeling he knows who Clover was talking about now.
“Well, I’ll leave you two,” he sighs, turning away and resting a gloved hand on the handle of the door, hesitating. Pushing it open, James inhales through his nose, rolls his neck, and grabs a glass of wine as he enters back into the fray, trying not to crush the delicate glass between hidden metal fingers in his frustration.
He has a feeling it’s the first drink of many.
James knows he’s gone a little too far when he ends up doubled over the toilet in his bathroom later that night, emptying his stomach of all its contents for the third time. He breathes steadily, hoping that’s the last of it; mixing beer and wine and not taking a break isn’t as easy as it used to be, but it had certainly made the party more bearable at the time. He reaches up to flush and wipes the back of his mouth with a grimace.
“James?” He recognizes Summer’s voice immediately, sweet and laced with concern, coming faintly from the other room.
“In here, Summer,” James calls weakly, glad that it’s her of all people to find him. With as long as they’ve known each other, she’s seen him in much worse shape.
“Tai’s here too.” Her voice sounds slightly closer, like she’s entered the bedroom but is hanging back. “We saw you leave dinner. Are you okay?”
“Define okay,” he groans as he feels his stomach churn again, and when he finally stands, the room is still spinning. Taiyang’s head pops around the door, grinning at him.
“Hey buddy,” Tai lets himself in and loops an arm around James’ back, using the other to grab his wrist and guide him back into the bedroom. James tries not to lean against him too much—Tai is strong, but James is big and half metal— as he’s walked to his bed, laid down gently. His head lolls to the side, eyes searching for Summer, who comes to sit beside him, running her hands through his sweaty hair.
“Where’s Ruby?” James mutters, closing his eyes and leaning into it. He feels Tai settle down on his other side, warm and solid. “I hope I’m not keeping you from her.”
“Such a gentleman even when he’s drunk off his ass,” Tai snorts beside him, slinging an arm over James’ chest and resting his chin on his shoulder. James opens his eyes to turn his head and glare, but even that slight movement sends a wave of nausea over him. Tai lowers his hand, rubbing James’ stomach lightly. “Relax. She’s with Bart. He’s been dying to babysit.”
“James,” Summer sighs, something sad in her voice. “Focus. What happened?”
James looks up at her, deep blue meeting shining silver. The feeling of her hands in his hair, concern etched on her face, showing up right when he needs her—it’s like being ten years old again, isolated and lonely until the orphaned Duchess of Mistral showed up at court to live under his father’s protection, fierce and protective and everything James needed in a friend. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with affection for her, and brings a hand up to cup her cheek, the smooth fabric of the glove gliding easily over her skin.
“Why couldn’t I be straight?” He mumbles, eliciting a laugh from Tai in his ear. Summer understands and isn’t amused, her frown deepening. James closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her. “I’m fine. Thank you for helping me get to bed. I’d like to retire now.”
“That’s his polite way of telling us to fuck off,” Tai stage-whispers to Summer, patting James’ shoulder as he sits up. Summer hesitates, but when James turns away, she simply squeezes his hand before following her husband out the door. James waits until he hears the door shut and their footsteps fade away and lets out a shaky sigh, rolling over to flop onto his stomach and bury his face into the sheets.
He breathes in deeply, but the sterile smell of the palace’s fresh linens does nothing to make him feel better. With a groan, James rolls over again, staring up at the canopy draped over his bed, losing himself in the rolls of dark fabric, stitches of constellations sewn in. Maria, ever the experienced seamstress, had truly outdone herself. Perhaps he should commission custom sheets, as well.
Before long, James feels his eyelids growing heavy, stomach finally settling enough that he knows he won’t be sick again. He considers getting up to take off his formal attire, but can’t muster up the strength to do so, and doesn’t remember falling into a deep sleep. He’s not sure how much time passes, but the next thing James knows, he’s being awoken by a rustling noise near the window. He lifts his head slowly, sticky with sweat and wincing at the pounding in his temples. It’s still dark out, but he never got up to turn the lights off, and he can see someone’s shadow on the other side of the bed.
“Summer?” James croaks, starting to sit up. It would be just like her to come check up on him in the middle of the night.
“Not exactly.” He doesn’t recognize the voice, but it doesn’t matter; one second he’s reaching for Due Process and the new gun at his belt, and the next, everything goes black.
Humming.
A voice too high and airy to be anything but a child’s is all around him, floating between being close to him and then a bit farther away. James keeps his eyes closed for the moment, trying to take in his surroundings as much as his can with his other senses.
Beyond the humming, he can hear murmurs, other people conversing in low voices. Crickets chirping all around. The crackling of a fire. He smells smoke, too, so it must be close. His cheek is smushed against something hard and cold—dirt on the ground, if he had to guess—and his wrists are bound behind his back, tight. His head feels foggy, hangover mixed with something else. All in all, the situation could be better.
James finally cracks his eyes open, letting them adjust. He sees the fabric of a tent a few feet in front of him, well-lit by several Dust lanterns scattered about the ground, but can’t see much else from this angle. He uses what little strength he feels in his bones to wrench his body to the side, successfully flipping over to face the other side of the tent… and a small pair of boots.
He looks up slowly, but his eyes don’t have to travel far before they meet bright violet, wide and surprised, and the humming abruptly stops.
Before James can say anything, the little girl in front of him screeches, “Uncle Qrow!”
James winces, her voice like a knife in his ears. Even if he weren’t hungover, he has a feeling it would have been enough to give him a headache. She watches him warily, hands reaching up to tug at long, blonde hair, biting her lip until it turns white. She opens her mouth again, and James braces himself for another yell—
“What’s up, firecracker?” A new voice joins them, thankfully in time to stop her. James sees a new pair of boots stop in front of his face. “Oh, he’s awake.” He doesn’t even have to look up to see the newcomer as he leans down to greet him with a smirk. Eyes as red as blood bore into his own, and James’ head feels hazier than ever. “Hey there, prince. You’re a long way from home.”