Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Step one: get his breathing steady. 

Clover continued to watch Qrow closely as he inched forwards. He stopped a little more than a foot from his partner, being careful not to crowd him. 

“Qrow?” his voice stayed soft; protected and protective all at once. 

“Qrow, you don’t have to say anything, but can you just let me know if you can hear me?”

Clover focused on nudging, guiding; being careful with every syllable and movement, so as not to push too hard, or too fast. He waited anxiously for a response before quietly speaking again. 

“Please, Qrow?”

Still, nothing. Clover’s chest was beginning to feel tight again, as the doubt that he’d be able to help his partner after all began to creep in. He had started to back off, trying to figure out what to do next, when he noticed Qrow’s head lift. 

Pale fingers loosened from around a thin wrist, bumping up against the old worn leather cuff that sat there. Qrow brought both hands up to card roughly through messy, silver-dusted hair; long fingers twisting in frustration against his scalp as he cautiously looked up to meet Clover’s gaze.

Clover could feel his heart clench sharply as he saw the other man’s face fall the moment that their eyes met. 

Somehow, in that split second, Qrow seemed even more vulnerable than he had throughout everything up to that point; as if simply looking at Clover would be the thing that finally tore him apart. 

It nearly made the Atlesian sick: the idea that any of the pain in his partner’s eyes right then could be a result of simply seeing him. That thought pulled across Clover’s mind like burning embers, leaving raw nerves in its wake.

But the moment passed almost instantly, as Qrow pulled his gaze away and gave a short, cautious, nod. 

It was such a small thing, that careful nod; only a tiny step forward. But it was enough to instantly start to loosen the knot twisting in Clover’s chest. 

He sighed and closed his eyes, taking a moment to recenter himself; to push those scattered bits of confidence back together, before speaking. 

 “It’s just me, Qrow. It’s just you and me,”  Clover looked back towards the door behind him for a moment before continuing carefully.

“Yang and Ruby are right outside.” 

He didn’t miss how Qrow shrank further in on himself at their names; Ruby’s especially. 

That wasn’t good, Clover knew. It hurt to see this man —who loved his family so completely— pull away from even the gentlest mention of them. 

But, at the very least, there was a hint of a bright side to his motion, that small nod: he was aware. 

Maybe not fully, not yet; but, as painful as the moment with Ruby had been for everyone involved, it might at least have done something to start to bring Qrow out from wherever he was —stuck inside his own head. 

Even with that shred of hope in his mind, Clover ached as he watched Qrow’s demeanor wilt once more. 

He wanted to be able to forget all caution —all his worrying over steps and procedures and assessments— and close the gap between them. He wanted to pull the older man close to his chest and promise that everything would be alright. 

He wanted to be able to make it alright. Right that moment. Without the work and the worry and the exhausting but necessary thought that he knew still lay between them and ‘alright’. 

Clover just wanted to be able to hold Qrow together for as long as he needed, because seeing him fall apart like this was unbearable. 

His heart ached to be able to loosen Qrow’s fingers from his hair, replacing them with his own —a soft and grounding touch— sitting there until his breathing had slowed, and allowing the awful worry in Clover’s chest to ease. 

Deep down, Clover knew that what he wanted most was just to be what Qrow needed at that moment. 

Ever since that early day in the back of the truck, Clover had known that he wanted to be whatever Qrow needed. 

He’d felt drawn to Qrow since their first mission.  From the moment they’d spoken —and he’d gotten to properly meet the brooding, withdrawn, dry-witted, famously skilled huntsman— Clover had known that he was in trouble. 

The deep soft color of his eyes; the rough but warm, gentle, grit of his voice; the ease of his movement, that somehow managed to be smooth and a bit hesitant all at once; the deft, seemingly effortless but obviously well trained, skill with his weapon; the small nearly imperceptible fidgets as they chatted; the slight, conscious, correction of his posture when one of the kids walked up to him; the wry fondness he exuded around them; all of it burrowed its way inside Clover’s chest without even the slightest complaint.

So, he had flirted and quipped, let his confidence —which was only sometimes a careful act— lead the way as he tested the waters. But it wasn’t until that day in the truck, when Qrow had gotten so flustered by such a small compliment —by Clover simply insisting that he accept it— that the soldier had realized just how serious it all was; just how hard he was going to fall for the man. How much he already had. 

He had gotten a glimpse behind the stoicism and mystique and seen how soft Qrow’s heart really was; how vulnerable he was underneath all of his protective layering; how hard he was on himself. The longer they worked together, the surer Clover had become that he wanted nothing more than to show his partner how worthy he was; how kind and beautiful and good and important he was. 

And Clover had just been starting to let himself believe that maybe, Qrow was interested in him as well. That the reciprocating quips and smirks and eye rolls; the lingering glances; the small brushes that felt like they were enough to spark some uncontrollable fire, were all signs of there being a chance for something else between the new partners. 

Then, there was that night at the ball and the way Qrow’s eyes had burned through him. The giddy warmth that had bubbled in Clover’s stomach as they danced. The pressure of a cool, rough, steady hand on his back; as Qrow supported his weight like it was nothing, and smirked down at him with a fierce confidence that had Clover’s heart tripping over itself. And the endearing surprise and flush that had flooded the pale cheeks as Clover had recovered and eagerly pushed back. 

It had all been so tangible. Not just small looks and sparking moments that were gone all too quickly. It had felt like some final switch had been flipped —a door thrown open— and all they had to do was move forward; say it out loud. 

Clover had been so sure. So excited. So ready to take that next step. 

And then, Qrow had apologized. He’d asked to just pretend it never happened. He’d been afraid of ruining what they had as partners. 

And despite how much that had stung, how awful that sinking feeling in his stomach had been, Clover couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t resent Qrow’s inability to risk what they already were. 

Clover knew how big that was for Qrow; just having a partner again at all. He knew how much it had taken for the cautious huntsman to accept that relationship; to resist the nagging worry telling him it was safer to just stay alone; to accept that having someone else to lean on was good for him. 

Clover understood how Qrow could decide that protecting that fragile stability was the most important thing for him right then.  

So, he had pushed it down. It wasn’t that he had just ignored, denied, his own feelings; not exactly. He knew they were there; what they were —what that light curling warmth was that filled his chest whenever Qrow smiled after him, fondly rolling his eyes.  

But just because the Atlesian wasn’t clueless to his own heart didn’t mean that following it was the right thing to do.

And he really was okay with what they were: ‘just’ partners, if that was how Qrow needed him. Because there was no ‘just’ to that. It was strong and safe and good and theirs.  

All that had changed was that now, Clover knew —or at least was fairly certain— that Qrow felt it too; whatever it was that the tether between the two of them was wanting to tie itself into. 

It wasn’t one-sided. 

But ‘partners’ was as much as Qrow could manage right then. And he couldn’t risk messing that up. 

So, Clover had put those feelings aside —kept the line untangled— and focused on being there for Qrow in whatever way he needed him to be. 

And that’s what he was doing now as well. 

Though Clover knew the difference between short-term selflessness and long-term repression. He knew the difference between leaving something for later, and never addressing it at all. 

Knowing still didn’t change anything, though. Regardless of everything else that had happened —and not happened— between them, this wasn’t about Clover. 

Their partnership wasn’t about him. 

It was about helping Qrow. 

And this now: this dark room and tight chest; this looming dread and panicked breathing, wasn’t about what Clover wanted, or how he wished he could just touch some special charm and make it all go away in an instant. 

It wasn’t about his desperate need to be worthy of the trust that Qrow —against his every instinct— put in him. 

It was about Qrow. What Qrow needed. 

Clover’s own desire to help him could not come before actually getting him the help he needed most, whatever that might be. 

Even if it wasn’t Clover. 

And that look in Qrow’s eyes —in that split moment that their eyes had met— told Clover that his very presence might end up only making things worse. Maybe it was one of the girls he needed right then, or Ironwood, or… or no one. 

Maybe he needed to be alone. 

Though, if he was being honest, Clover always worried about Qrow’s ability to tell between when he truly needed to be alone, and when he just defaulted back to it, because it was familiar and —in his mind— safer. 

As much as the thought of leaving his partner alone in this state left a dry, sour, taste in Clover’s mouth, he couldn’t stand the thought of forcing his help on the man, only to cause him further pain. 

As close as they might have gotten over the last few months —as perfectly as they seemed to complement each other in and out of battle— this was something entirely different. This was a whole new kind of vulnerability, and Clover knew he couldn’t expect someone who was as careful with his emotions as Qrow to grant him that level of trust —something on a level wholly separate from that of fighting at someone’s side, or supply run reassurances, or just missed balcony confessions— so quickly. As much as it would hurt to leave; hurt to know that Qrow wanted him to leave, Clover knew he would have to. If that’s what Qrow asked. 

And yet, he also knew that he couldn’t really leave him, not fully. He couldn’t just stand up and go back to his room down the hall and get a good night’s sleep; he couldn’t go out of earshot while Qrow continued to go through whatever this was. 

He’d sit outside with the girls, or by himself, all night if it came to it. But he had to be open to that at least, if that’s what Qrow needed from him. 

Clover pulled himself back from his own spiraling thoughts; ready to get the girls, or whatever else Qrow asked of him. 

“Do you want me to get them?” he asked patiently, forcing the apprehension over the answer he may get from his voice.

But Qrow just shook his head weakly, refusing to meet Clover’s eyes again.  

He pushed past the simultaneous relief and worry that rooted itself at the base of his throat; just because Qrow didn’t want the girls there didn’t mean he wanted Clover. 

The younger man made sure his voice was steady before speaking again, “Qrow, do...” 

He paused, taking a slow, careful, breath before pushing forward —despite how afraid he was of the answer that might be about to come.

“Do you want me to go?”

The almost instant response those words got hit Clover like a tidal wave. 

Qrow’s head jerked up automatically, and the fear that Clover saw there —as their eyes met, red irises glued to teal— nearly left him gasping himself. His chest tightened as he saw Qrow’s hand start to reach towards him for just a moment, before pulling back sharply, shaking once again. 

“N-no. No!,” Qrow gasped, lips stuttering over the sound, “P-please… st-stay. I-i’m…” 

Clover’s heart ached as he watched his partner wrestle with the words between tired waves of tears. 

“Ple-please. P-please, don’t g-”

The small fragile words splintered as they reached Clover. The cry in the other man’s voice felt like burning scratches against his already tender skin. A stifling heat pooled in his chest, quickly turning to a warm chill that left him feeling almost dizzy. Anxiety and protective nature mingled together in Clover’s mind at Qrow’s plea. 

But the protective, collected, part of himself won, as he hardened his resolve once more.

“Of course!” Clover breathed, willing his voice to stay calm, reassuring.

“I’ll stay right here, Qrow.  As long as you need me.” 

Every muscle was aching to reach out, to cup Qrow’s cheek and show him that he wasn’t alone, he was safe. But he resisted, letting his words spill out as measured comfort in lieu of the grounding touch he knew he couldn’t yet give.

“I won’t leave you, Qrow.” 

Clover’s voice was gentle, etching every word with the calming embrace that he wished he could provide. He would build an aura around them both out of sheer will if he had to, if that was how he could help ease this pain. 

But when he saw Qrow’s reaction to his words, it felt like a hard slap to the face. 

The gentle reassurance didn’t seem to soothe his partner, as a new wave of something bitter and cold washed over the pale, tired, features.

There was a sharp sadness in Qrow’s eyes; a hesitation with which he looked Clover over. A hopeful flicker danced within those red irises for just a moment, before quickly twisting into something else. 

It seemed like every second of relief that Qrow found was immediately shattered by fear; pain; guilt. 

The way Qrow looked at Clover then was like the night at the ball: soft, earnest —though now shot through with something more frantic; apologetic. 

Qrow watched him as if he were begging for forgiveness for every shred of comfort that he found amidst his own panic. 

“C-cl-clo…Cl-clover?” 

The pleading, broken, sound of Qrow’s voice —as it stitched together his name— was somehow an anguish and a blessing all at once for Clover. 

He started to lean forward; to hope that maybe the worst was behind them; that even such a tiny struggle of recognition —of acknowledgment— meant that whatever had disturbed Qrow so deeply was over. And that now there was only the slow, careful, coming down; not the painful pulling through that seemed to make every second drag on and on, the end never seeming to grow any closer. 

But that hope sputtered as he watched Qrow’s eyes focus on the faint smear of blood on his hand.  

Maybe it would still be okay , Clover wished. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t bad…

But the cry that followed ripped every shred of that small hope from him.

It was a cry of sheer agony; a sound that tore Clover open, but which he knew must have been immeasurably worse for Qrow himself. It stung the back of Clover’s throat just to hear it; to hear the breaks in that familiar, deep, warm voice.

“No! Clov- Clover! Nonnonononono-” 

That frantic protective nature shot through Clover’s chest again, his muscles tensing as he rushed forward to stop Qrow’s hands —nails once again moving to dig into the pale skin of his wrist— without even thinking about his movements. 

Clover couldn’t say what exactly stopped him at that last moment; everything was so fast, so jumbled —so much. 

But, as soon as his fingers had touched Qrow’s hand, he faltered; briefly remembering Qrow’s reaction from before. Clover couldn’t help but worry once more that all his trying to help would just upset his partner further. 

And, at the same moment, Qrow seemed to stop himself; to pull his fingers back again, all on his own. Clover couldn’t tell if it was because he actually wanted to stop, or if he was reacting to being touched for even that brief moment. 

But before he could assess that, Qrow’s angry, desperate, bark struck him like a sudden punch to his gut.  

“Don’t touch me!”  came the sharp, broken, distorted sound of Qrow’s voice; his throat surely raw and tight and tired. 

It was all Clover could do to keep from jumping back —his own concern over not doing more harm than good clashing instantly with a sharp twinge of hurt; of rejection. 

He had to do what Qrow needed. The thought pounded in his head over and over.

But the forcefulness of that yell —the intensity that verged on rage, disgust — still struck a stinging blow to some bit of pride, of self-esteem, in the Atlesian’s chest. 

No matter how hard Clover worked to focus on Qrow’s needs at that moment, it still hurt to think that even his slightest touch was so unwelcome — repulsive — to his partner. 

Clover felt the tightness building in his chest. And once again he questioned whether or not he could do this; whether he was in over his head; whether he’d been arrogant to ever think that he could be what Qrow needed at that moment. 

But he forced himself to look back at Qrow, and the panic he saw in those eyes pulled Clover from his own self-pity.

The huntsman was staring at his own hands; primal terror carved into his face, eyes flitting back and forth like he was trying to find something, trying to understand. 

Clover’s gut twisted as the thought came to him; that look, the way he was looking at his own hands, as if asking ‘what have I done?’    

Clover took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. 

This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about Qrow rejecting him. 

Something was wrong; something was going on that Clover couldn’t understand yet. This was no place for his own ego, his own vulnerabilities. There would be time for that later; time to understand and accept, but right now wasn’t it. Right now Qrow needed him to be a calm, guiding, presence. 

Right now wasn’t time for vulnerable, smitten, hypercritical, faulty Clover Ebi. Right now wasn’t the time to push for explanation, or reciprocated care; not when the man could hardly put a sentence together and, as Clover was starting to grasp more and more, wasn’t even sure what was real and what was panicked delusion. 

No. Qrow needed the steadfast, reliable, confident, ‘always-has-his-shit-together’, Clover Ebi; leader of the Ace Operatives, Golden Boy of Atlas, walking good luck charm. 

That was what Qrow needed him to be now.

There would be time for the other him later: on his own.

Clover made sure his voice was steady as he spoke, though he could hear the barely veiled strain —the subtle stiffness to his tone— just as clearly as he could feel the persistent lump in his throat, which he was just barely keeping at bay. 

“Qrow. Qrow, shhh. I’m here. It’s okay. I won’t touch you. Please… Qrow, listen to me, okay? I need you to try to slow your breathing down, alright? Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Clover’s heart stuttered as Qrow looked up at him, a vibrant sliver of red surrounding the edge of his pupils. The pain there was overwhelming, consuming, and it struck Clover somewhere deep. 

And with every second that Qrow watched him, that agony seemed to grow; a sadness, as if he were facing something that only continued to fuel his panic. 

Seeing Qrow like this; how much he was hurting, was awful. 

And Clover cursed the selfish part of himself that wilted dejectedly at the thought that Qrow was hurting more just by simply looking at him . That somehow, the very sight of him was able to deepen Qrow’s pain. 

But, as he held Qrow’s gaze longer, Clover noticed something else there. 

It wasn’t just a pain, a fear; it wasn’t as simple to explain as that. The pain and fear were there, yes —it was agonizing— but it led to something deeper. 

Sadness, compassion: an ache that was all at once sacred and cruel.

Grief. 

That’s what it was. A grief, deep and heavy, and old. The complexity of the loss of something, someone, dear. 

Clover remembered how Qrow had looked at Ruby. How he had said her mother’s name: like a prayer that had become lodged in his throat but was still somehow utterly at home on his lips; something precious, familiar, sacred. 

It wasn’t quite the same look or the same sound that Qrow now offered Clover; a cadence built around the stuttered syllables of his name as if its shape were some tired, long-forgotten scaffolding stuck to a wall that seemed ready to crumble at any moment. 

But it was similar. 

It was… it was a retelling of a favorite fairytale from childhood; the details, the meanings, the tone having all shifted with age, experience. 

A story whispered over and over —innumerable times— until everything was jumbled up and read out of order: the pain of loss creeping in before the warmth of presence had even settled between his ribs; the names all morphed from translation after translation; the gravity of every moment increased by time-biased emotions and selective memories. 

The characters might not have held true to the original in every detail. But the effect, the moral, was the same —if not warped in its nature at times: loss is part of love. 

Love is dangerous. 

That was how Qrow was watching him: as if he were a cherished, unimaginable, and terrifying thing; his very presence a simultaneous comfort and threat. 

Clover pushed that thought down and looked away from Qrow quickly, sure that if he saw any more of that illustrious red he would convince himself; he would find something and swear that it was love —that the flint at the core of Qrow’s anguish was what he felt for him. 

That underneath all the pain, nestled within Qrow’s reluctant, careful, pieced together heart, was Clover.

And he couldn’t afford to think about that, not now. He couldn’t grasp at any little sign and bend it to fit what he wanted to find there. His feelings, his longing , was not what was important here. He couldn’t acknowledge the selfish voice in his head: hoping that the reason Qrow could fall apart at just the sight of him was in fact because he needed him: that his pain stemmed from his care. 

His love. 

That wasn’t important now. 

Qrow, Clover repeated over and over in his mind, drowning out everything else once more: his partner was his sole focus.

Helping Qrow. That was the only thing he needed to worry about right then. The only thing he had any right to. 

But when he looked back at his partner, Clover nearly lost that control all over again. 

This time, it wasn’t the hope of what Qrow might feel for him that left Clover reeling. 

Rather, it was the further understanding, the full acceptance, of just how firmly Qrow had managed to plant himself in Clover’s own heart. 

There was something there; in the crook of his ribs; the pace of his breath; the shadowed bits of all his hidden faults, that was different. Some silly part of him wondered, if he were to see his aura now, if it would seem a little warmer; if that red would have become ingrained in his very soul, dusting his entire being with the presence of this tired old bird? 

Clover knew the answer. Of course, he knew. He’d known for a while: the bubbling warmth in his chest when Qrow spoke; the soft fuzziness that filled his head at the low gritty rumble of his laugh. 

Clover knew that he loved this man in a way that he had never felt before. 

And usually, that fact was gentle, if sometimes melancholic. 

But at this moment, as he saw everything huddled there under the surface, as the man he loved watched him; Clover started to understand a little bit better everything that he knew had had some part in Qrow turning away from him that night on the balcony. How Qrow could be so scared of just how vulnerable love could make you. 

But, despite that, Clover held fast; even as his heart ached with a pounding, endless, compassion as he watched Qrow try to slow his breathing. The Atlesian focused on his task: helping the man he loved however he could.

Qrow’s chest stilled shakily, his eyes clenched tight as he struggled to take a slow deep breath. A reluctant inhale tripped down his throat, sounding more like a gasp than anything.  Clover watched patiently, though every struggling breath twisted his stomach tighter and tighter.

He could see Qrow’s frustration building, as attempt after attempt failed; as the panic started to  bubble up once more.  But still, Clover waited; patient and attentive.

“Cl-clov… I-I c-can…”  the words were jagged and clipped; a frantic effort started over and over as Qrow tried to find control.

“I ca-... I can-’t.”

Clover was sure that the tightness in his chest at that sound was from his heart breaking. Everything in him was screaming that he was too far away. That he should be able to fix this. That if he could just hold the other man together, everything would be fine. It had to be. How could this feeling, so consuming in its devotion, not be able to make everything right? How could something like that —an emotion so strong it felt like it could bury everything else within him if he just let it— not be enough to protect the very person who ignited it?

There was a palpable pain in Clover’s bones every moment that he kept his distance. Qrow’s distress was an overwhelming density, which took every ounce of restraint Clover had to not be overcome by; to not fall into.

But he managed. He stayed still, ensuring his breath was steady and his voice calm before he spoke, his measured words smooth and careful. 

“It’s okay,” Clover soothed, leaning forward ever so slightly. 

“It’s okay, Qrow. Is... is it alright if I get closer to you?”

There was no answer, just red eyes staring at him with a desperation that seemed too cruel to exist alongside such tender, pleading, compassion. 

Clover held Qrow’s eyes —keeping his own gaze soft and reassuring— as he slowly moved towards him; the knots in his stomach stuck somewhere between waiting for the slightest hint of Qrow’s retreat, and relief at being able to finally have a chance to comfort him. 

“Qrow…,” Clover watched the familiar face, noticing once more just how tired his partner looked: the already pale cheeks drained of all color; a cold sweat on a weathered, lightly wrinkled brow; bags sat heavily beneath crimson eyes.

“I want to help, Qrow. I… I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I promise. I-,” his voice broke for a moment, forcing him to swallow and pause in order to find his even keel again.

“I’d never hurt you, Qrow. I just want to help,” he kept himself from reaching up to cup Qrow’s face and poured all the aching tenderness that would have been in that touch into his words instead. 

For a split moment, Clover saw his partner again —the one he had grown so close to those past months— as the older huntsman laughed sarcastically at something, though Clover couldn’t have said what. It was gone in an instant but, by now, he knew Qrow well enough to have seen the lie of it. 

It was pushing away a fear, making jokes of the sick feeling in his gut. It wasn’t the happy, genuine laugh that Clover had come to treasure over the past few months. 

But, at the very least, it was something familiar. It was one of Qrow’s defenses that Clover had faced before. It was something he knew how to handle. 

It was a clumsy stepping stone back to normalcy. So, Clover used it to steady himself as he slowly reached forward.

“Qrow? I’m going to take your hand, alright? If you don’t want me to touch you, let me know.”

Clover waited, patiently watching for Qrow’s response. But his partner only continued to stare back at him, eyes wide and searching for something that Clover couldn’t even begin to place. 

He noticed the tiny flex of Qrow’s fingers as they tightened around his  wrist again; nails starting to pull once more at the still irritated skin. Clover sighed gently, curling his fingers around the side of Qrow’s palm, and carefully, slowly, he pulled the pale scarred hand down before cupping it in his own. 

He pushed down a burning knot in his chest as he felt the effect his touch had on his partner. 

There was a moment of tension —in which Clover worried he’d overstepped— before the older man seemed to decompress gently. Clover could still feel how tense Qrow was, but something had fallen: some wall had finally crumbled away, and Qrow seemed to have accepted it. It was as if that one gentle point of contact had flipped a switch, drawing him closer to Clover with every shaky breath. 

“Okay. I’m gonna try to help you slow your breathing down alright? This... um... This works sometimes for m-...”  Clover cut himself off abruptly. 

He wanted to show Qrow that he wasn’t alone; that someone else could be there and help, someone who knew even a sliver of what he was going through. 

And yet, there was that deep, instinctual, resistance to showing his own weakness that wouldn’t let him admit to it, not even to Qrow: Clover’s own shame at how many times he had lain awake, alone in his bed, teaching himself how to calm down quickly and quietly enough so that no one else would have to know.  It was a secret he still needed to be just his own for now. Besides, that was part of the other Clover, not the strong, calm, grounding presence that Qrow needed now. The experience of that part of his life was helpful here, but not the existence itself; his method was the thing of use to his partner now, not the vulnerability that led to it.

That insecurity was pushed to the back of his mind again as Clover focused back on Qrow, who was now watching him with the slightest hint of clarity in his eyes; a look that sent a jolt of worry through the younger man —afraid that he had given himself away. 

It wasn’t until he saw red eyes flicker down towards their clasped hands that Clover realized he had started to absentmindedly rub a pattern over the back of Qrow’s hand —his thumb trailing in gentle circles over the cool skin. 

Clover told himself it had been a reflex: another way of trying to calm Qrow down. 

It was for Qrow. Not himself. This wasn’t about him. 

Slowly, Clover laid Qrow’s hand onto his knee, palm down, and then rested his own on the opposite. 

“Alright. Now, I’m going to tap your knee, really light, and start counting to eight over and over. I also need to get your pulse, so I can match your heart rate. When you think you can, try to follow my rhythm, okay? And count, even if you just mouth it. Take your time. Do you think you can do that?” 

He barrelled on talking for a while before noticing the caught, lost, look on Qrow’s face, and his mouth bobbing slightly.  He was clearly scrambling to understand, but finding no purchase. 

Clover scoffed at himself in his head. Of course . Why would he think he could give a long list of instructions like that right now. There was no way Qrow could follow all of that like this.. 

Clover sighed and smiled patiently, apologetically; hoping to convey that it was his own fault, not a shortcoming of Qrow’s for not being able to keep up. 

“Okay, yeah, my bad. Way too many steps at once, sorry. That’s okay. Um...just… just try to do what I do, okay?” 

He kept his voice steady and soothing as he moved to gently take Qrow’s wrist, pressing carefully at his pulse. Clover took a deep breath, feeling the conflicting rhythm of Qrow’s racing heart and his ragged breathing. Teal eyes closed, and Clover let himself focus in on just the pattern, not the emotion. 

Once he had it firmly in his mind, he moved his hand back to Qrow’s knee and slowly, methodically, he began to tap out a beat just slightly faster than the measured pulse. Clover was sure to keep his touch gentle:  enough to provide a grounding, concrete pressure, while not so heavy as to cause Qrow to flinch from him. 

Once he was secure in the motion, Clover began to count. 

“One two three four five six seven eight. One two three four five six seven eight. One two three four five six seven eight.”

The count repeated easily a few more times before he finally let himself open his eyes and look up at Qrow once more. 

Clover was glad he had taken the time to make sure he was firmly confident in the rhythm, because if he hadn’t been, the look he found as red and teal met again would have been enough to undo him.

Qrow’s face seemed to drop some new tension as they met, not in resignation but relief. Like the simple act of Clover meeting his gaze again was some huge comfort; some great un-promised thing that he was endlessly grateful to have found again. 

Clover held Qrow’s eyes for a moment before nodding gently, motioning towards his hand as he continued to count, his expression asking if his partner was still comfortable with the new contact. 

Qrow nodded and Clover continued counting for a few more rounds until finally, Qrow started to try to mirror him. He stumbled a few times, his mouth clenching as his hand trembled rather than smoothly keep rhythm. 

Clover could see the older man starting to get annoyed, deterred, panicked, again; so he finished two last counts before speaking, making sure his own rhythm stayed steady. 

“You can also do it over your heart. Sometimes it’s easier to control your hand there,” he guided kindly. 

Slowly, Qrow raised his hand, the long slender fingers shaky as he pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum. 

Clover saw red eyes widen again slightly, as Qrow felt just how fast his heart was racing. 

He knew how frightening that realization could be, how insurmountable that stampeding sensation could seem. But the echo of the rhythm against his chest —a rhythm that he kept, that he had power over; something within himself that he could control— had often been exactly what the Atlesian had needed to be able to pull his body firmly back under his own control. 

“It’s ok, Qrow. Just focus on matching me,” Clover encouraged him softly, smiling thankfully as he watched Qrow slowly take up the rhythm. 

It was small, but Clover knew: he knew how huge it really was, that subtle repeated motion. He felt a grateful, luminous, joy bloom in his chest as he saw Qrow’s lips begin to move —his count silent but steady. 

“There you go. Just like that. You’re doing great, Qrow,”  the soldier practically cooed, trying to infuse his words with the deepest, fondest sincerity. 

He’d never felt this kind of pride before; it wasn’t the guiding, protective, honor of watching his teammates, or even the kids, improve during training; it wasn’t that of seeing his younger siblings achieve some goal they’d pushed so hard to meet. 

No, this was different. This was... Awe. Wonder. Reverence. This was a tender, surrendering pride that filled his chest with a weightlessness that somehow managed to feel so safe and so foreign all at once.  

It was watching someone with the softest, grandest, compassion and knowing: of course. How could it not be them? 

Clover continued to count for a few more rounds as he ensured that Qrow was steady in his rhythm. And then, still tapping, he softly spoke again. 

“Okay, Qrow. I’m going to stop and let you do it on your own, alright? I’ll be right here and if you lose track I’ll start back up, but see if you can do it by yourself for a bit. Is that okay?”

At some point, Qrow’s gaze had drifted from Clover’s, settling on some distant spot on the floor.

For a moment, Clover was worried that he would get lost in his panicked delusion again, but he quickly saw past that: it was a blind gaze, a distracted look as if Qrow had finally been able to let his mind start to quiet. 

His steadiness was confirmed when Qrow nodded gently, smoothly, in response. 

Clover nodded, letting out a soft, slow breath, and began to lift his hand from Qrow’s knee, thinking it best to grant him space again. 

But Qrow’s hand flew up as soon as he felt Clover’s move. Pale fingers curled loosely around Clover’s wrist, pressing with a barely contained desperation; the touch making Clover’s heart stutter for a moment. Without ever looking away from his spot on the floor, Qrow guided their hands back to his knee, placing his own palm gently over Clover’s knuckles.  

After a moment, Qrow pulled his hand away, flexing it stiffly before resting it in his lap again. 

Clover pushed down the lump in his throat —a lump that was now a tenderness rather than pain; formed from the utter joy and pride and compassion that was flooding his senses at Qrow’s insistence on keeping that little bit of contact. 

He swallowed heavily, willing his voice to be steady and soft, to not give away how wonderfully Qrow had managed to shake him without even a word.

“There you go, just like that. Now… Keep counting, just focus on that, but try to let yourself slow down. Don’t force it. Just gradually try to slow the count. Okay?”

He smiled and sighed as Qrow nodded, and watched red eyes actually slip closed calmly, no panic of past delusions evident. Clover’s heart warmed once more as he saw the subtle sway of his partner’s shoulders: as Qrow found his own comforts to ease his soothing even as he continued to count. And over another dozen or so of those counts, his hand steadily slowed, his breathing still quick but no longer shallow and staggered. 

“Good. That’s it. You’re doing so well, Qrow!” The praise was rich and honest, even as Clover kept his voice quiet, knowing that any louder and his excitement would reveal itself in its blubbering. 

That certainty only strengthened when Qrow slowly opened his eyes and met Clover’s. There was finally a hint of flush on his cheeks; a fact that Clover reminded himself was surely only something to do with the stress he was coming down from. 

But the smile. The tender look in those deep rust-red eyes. The grateful softness that spread across his face, as exhausted as he still was. 

It all melted Clover. 

He’d have done anything at that moment to etch the memory of that relieved expression —as shaky as it still was— into his mind forever. 

“Just keep going like that until you feel comfortable stopping,” he continued to guide Qrow.

Clover felt the knot in his chest loosen a little more as he watched Qrow close his eyes again, and within a few rounds of counting, he heard the soft mumble as a quiet, slow, heavy voice found each number like a nervous step onto fragile ice. 

It was shaky, but Clover could hear the effort, the thought in each syllable. Something in his gut warmed at hearing Qrow’s voice again. As shaky as it still might have been, it finally sounded like him again. 

It sounded like his choice, his insistence to be. To speak. To expose himself to the world around him.  Not the forced, panicked, scream or the pleading whispers. Not the cries of someone fighting to just keep existing, moment after moment.

Clover couldn’t help but feel a bit comforted himself, to hear the familiar gravel of his partner’s voice, and not have the sense that every syllable was just hurting him more. 

He watched as Qrow continued to count, until he slowed, and slowed, and slowed. And then stopped. 

The smile that found him was a blessing. It was strained, tired, and there still wasn’t quite the bright gleam to Qrow’s eyes that Clover had come to cherish. 

But it was relief. It was gratitude. It was a still present vulnerability, but it was no longer frantic and defensive. 

Clover knew, somehow, that this wasn’t just Qrow forcing himself to welcome Clover into that part of his life, his pain, because he had no other choice. This was Qrow letting, wanting, him to stay. 

This was him choosing to let himself accept Clover’s help. 

“Th-than… tha-nk y-,”  Qrow frowned, biting at his lip, as he tried to get the words out. 

There was the ghost of the man Clover watched during training in Qrow’s frustration. 

It wasn’t the total resentful disappointment it had been when he tried to speak before. Now, there was a determination that he had found again: a resilience. A desire to not just stop hurting, but to prove himself stronger than the source of that pain. 

A part of Clover wanted to laugh. Not at his partner’s struggle and frustration, but in relief; fondness. 

Instead, Clover smoothed his hand over Qrow’s knee gently, speaking softly. 

“It’s okay, Qrow. You don’t have to try to force yourself to talk yet. Just breathe.” 

Clover did let out a small, fond laugh now, as he saw the realization wash over Qrow: he was breathing normally again. Without even realizing it, he’d slowed not just his heart or his count, but his breath. 

That was the point, after all. 

“Y-yeah,” Clover sighed easily, smiling, “It’s the best way I’ve found...,” he just barely stopped himself from adding ‘personally ’.

”Helps you stop thinking about it long enough for your body to just take over.”  

Slowly, Clover moved to take Qrow’s hand again, watching him carefully to make sure he was still comfortable with the contact.

“Um… I’m going to clean your hand off. Let me know if you need me to stop, okay?”

Clover waited patiently until he saw Qrow give a small nod in response, before turning towards the first aid kit that Marrow had brought him. 

He could feel Qrow’s eyes still on him, and he took a moment to breathe, clear his head and refocus on the proper order of progression now. He finally picked up the damp cloth, which was thankfully still at least somewhat warm, and turned back towards Qrow. 

As he faced him, Clover went to turn his hand over —cupping it with his own, thumb pressed to his palm— to get to the smeared blood on the inside of his fingers. 

But he stopped, as Qrow’s fingers curled around his thumb, squeezing gently; the slightest tremble to his grip. For a split second Clover worried something was wrong. 

But no. The pressure against his hand was a comfort, a grounding point: it was Qrow once again finding his own small way to reconnect to what was solid —what was now . 

Clover smiled at his partner with a fondness that he couldn’t bother being subtle about in that quiet, tender, moment. He returned a steady, gentle squeeze: his fingertips tight against the cool pale skin of Qrow’s palm, and then he began to carefully clean the spots of blood, still aware of the intensity of the deep red eyes glued to him. 

Clover continued to clean for a while before he noticed the tension starting to wind back through Qrow’s form. And then, finally, he heard a shallow, barely-clipped, breath. Green eyes looked up in concern, finding Qrow’s face blotchy and strained, tears being held back with such force that it hurt Clover just to watch. 

Draping the cloth back over his own leg, Clover carefully took Qrow’s hands in both of his, his voice gentle. 

“Hey, hey, shhh. It’s alright , Qrow. Don’t worry. Crying won’t. You...You can cry without that happening again.  And I’ll still be right here if you need help calming down again.  But don’t… don’t hold it back.”

Clover ignored the tiny voice in his head calling him a hypocrite. He had his reasons. That was different.

“It’ll feel better if you let it out.” 

Gently, Clover squeezed Qrow’s hand, partially to reassure the other man, and partially to keep himself from lunging forward to hug him as he watched the tears gather in the corner of his eyes. 

“If you feel like you’re spiraling just start the count again, okay? And I’ll be right here if you need help,” Clover repeated, and then paused.

His next words were heavy with so many others hidden within them.

”You can trust me, Qrow.”

Something of what he said must have been the last straw because, as soon as he finished, tears spilled freely down pale cheeks, trailing slightly through sparse smudges of dried blood. 

Clover waited for a moment, to make sure that he was right in thinking Qrow’s panic wasn’t starting over again. Once he was confident in that, he looked away, returning to the task of cleaning his partner’s hands; hoping to give the man even a sliver of privacy. 

It was a cry that didn’t need comforting right then, Clover knew. It just needed to be allowed to happen. 

Finally, Clover finished with Qrow’s hands and spoke quietly, gesturing towards the patch of raw scratches at Qrow’s neck. 

“Qrow? I’m going to get the rest, okay? Let me know if you need me to stop,”  He paused, sighing quietly at the sight of the marks.

“This uh, this might sting a bit. Sorry.” 

He waited and watched patiently. Qrow didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch either. 

Clover had a feeling that just staying calm was as much as he could manage at the moment. So, he proceeded cautiously: aware of every move Qrow made, ready to back off at the slightest sign of withdrawal. 

He took a slow deep breath, and ignored the subtle shakiness in his own hand, as he carefully dabbed at flecks of blood. 

Finally, Clover moved towards the actual wound, another wave of relief washing over him as he was once more assured that it was shallow: more raw than anything, the few sources of blood still tender but clearly stopped. 

Gently, he pressed the cloth to the inflamed skin, before immediately pulling back as Qrow winced at the touch. Clover chided himself, his eyes wide as he watched Qrow apologetically. He should have said something again; warned him before actually trying to touch such a sensitive spot. 

He was about to apologize, when Qrow squeezed his free hand suddenly; another soft, grounding pressure, and tilted his head back, blinking slowly as he looked up at the ceiling so that the wound was easily accessible. 

Clover was meticulously cautious as he cleaned the area, but Qrow stayed steady through it all, not flinching again, though Clover was fairly certain he was forcing himself to hold it back a few times. 

Finally, satisfied with his work, Clover laid the cloth back down, turning to shuffle through the first aid kit for a moment before finding a small tube of antiseptic soothing gel, then turning back to Qrow. Squeezing a small drop onto his finger, he then carefully smoothed it over the wound, making sure to cover it completely. 

He told himself to pass it over once more, just to be safe. But as he ran his finger back over the small patch of pale, inflamed, skin, Clover wasn’t thinking of the wound itself. He wasn’t sure he was really even thinking. 

He was just there. Relieved. Grateful that he was able to do even the smallest thing to ease Qrow’s pain. 

He kept his eyes on the wound as he spoke.

“That… We should keep an eye on that, make sure it heals fully since you can’t really keep it from moving. Just let it breathe for now…Your aura should heal it pretty quickly, I’d think. It’s not nearly as deep as I’d wor-”  Clover quickly cut himself off, pulling away, as he felt the knot push violently at the back of his throat again. 

He still couldn’t let Qrow see just how scared he had been. Just how shaken he had become at even the idea, the fear, that something had happened to him. 

Clover cursed himself as he felt his hand shake when he pulled it away from Qrow, quickly moving to look for something in the first aid kit; hoping Qrow wouldn’t notice. 

When Qrow caught his hand and gave it another slow, careful squeeze, Clover told himself it was something Qrow needed, not to comfort him. But Qrow didn’t pull away, and Clover couldn’t help but smile back, returning the gentle pressure. 

He raised the cloth again, moving towards Qrow’s face, watching to see if it was alright to continue. Qrow just calmly closed his eyes and waited, unknowingly fueling a deep burning wave of tenderness in Clover’s veins. 

Slowly, Clover brushed the cloth over small spots of blood on Qrow’s cheeks and jaw. 

He couldn’t help but stare at Qrow’s face as he worked, taking in every gentle crease and mostly faded scar, and even a few scattered hints of freckles that he could almost miss at any other time. He noted every feature with a steady reverence in his chest, taking the chance to map all the details he was never close enough to catch; feeling his own pulse ease as he did. 

He noticed how Qrow’s face had filled out since that first night they’d met. Not just his face, though. 

The man, who had been all but skin and bones when he’d arrived, was still slim, lanky. But he looked healthier, his skin brighter, plusher. His arms strained slightly against his sleeves, rather than the strong but nearly gaunt bony things they had been all those months ago. His new clothes didn’t slouch on his form but held him together. Even in this moment of utter pain and fear, Clover could see the strength and kindness that nestled among his partner’s bones. He looked like he’d come back from a precipice from which he’d been all but willing to topple. 

Clover knew how close, time and time again, this man had been to losing himself completely. 

And in turn, how close Clover had been to never have gotten the chance to stand at his side, to fight at his back. 

That last thought pitted in Clover’s gut, and his gaze softened as he moved to get a speck of blood by Qrow’s lip. When he accidentally grazed a finger along the soft swell of tender skin, he melted slightly, feeling the warmth of his partner’s breath brush over his hand. 

He froze just as quickly though, about to pull away, as he felt a sudden tension jolt through Qrow. 

Clover looked up at him, trying to see if the contact was too much. 

But the eyes that met him were overwhelming in an entirely separate way. 

A different weight grew in Clover’s chest, and he couldn’t help but remember the night of the dance again; the way Qrow had looked down at him as he held him up. 

Clover couldn’t help but feel the echo of the giddy warmth that had coursed through him out on the balcony, the surge of adrenaline as he had made his choice, and then finally taken that first step: he asked. 

And the crushing, confusing, pain when Qrow had cut him off; apologized for it all. 

But this. This was that first enchanting, encouraging, draw. This was something in both of them finally trying to reach out and reveal itself to the other. 

If it had been a different night, a different situation, Clover thought he might have just had the courage to ask to kiss him. 

But it wasn’t a different night. It wasn’t the dance. And regardless of what Clover felt or read, Qrow was in no place to answer.

And then, the moment had passed; Qrow looking away quickly, and letting Clover resume the last bits of his ministrations. 

Clover withdrew the cloth slowly before draping it back over his leg. He hesitated, watching Qrow, whose eyes were closed once more. 

And then, without really thinking, Clover raised his hand again. 

He cupped his palm against Qrow’s cheek, his thumb grazing softly under his eye; a tiny gesture, a mere shred of the unending tenderness he wanted so badly to convince the other man that he was so much more than worthy of. 

Clover was about to make himself pull away, to force all those feelings back into the lump in his chest, when Qrow crumbled. 

A sob tore from the older man and, suddenly, Clover felt Qrow’s weight against his chest, as his partner clung to him. Clover could feel warm, broken, breath flowing over his chest; as pale, cool, scarred, hands scrambled to twist into the fabric of his shirt. 

Finally, Qrow was there, in his arms. The exact thing he’d wished he could have done all night. 

And it broke Clover’s heart. 

He hated himself for having wanted anything like this. 

 “I… Cl-”  the tears in Qrow’s breath were impossible to miss, as he struggled again to speak.

“C-clo-clov. Clover, I… ”

The broken sound of his own name against his chest; the pressure of Qrow’s shaking presence against his shoulder. 

It was Clover’s last straw. A quiet sound slipped from him, his arms trembling as he started to reach back towards Qrow. 

At the same moment, he felt Qrow tense, and Clover knew he was about to pull away. Not because he wanted to, but because he thought this was too much; he thought he was too much weight for Clover to bear. 

So, finally, Clover let himself do what he had been wanting to since the moment he’d burst into the room: he threw his arms around his friend, his partner. This man he loved so completely. 

A wave of relief settled over him as he pulled Qrow close, melting into the feel of the older man wilting against him, clinging to him, accepting his comfort. 

Clover was long past trying to hide the waiver of his voice as he curled around Qrow, pressing his lips to the top of his head.

“It’s okay, Qrow. Shhh. Shh. It’s alright. You're okay. Everything's okay," he squeezed his eyes closed, breathing carefully as Qrow's hair brushed his cheek softly. 

"I’m right here, Qrow. I'm not going anywhere.” 

His stomach dropped as he felt Qrow’s hands move, twisting tighter in his shirt, closer, fingers flexing shakily. Finally, the movement stopped and Qrow just sat there, pressing against him. 

Clover could hear him repeating something over and over against his collarbone, but he couldn’t quite make it out. For a moment he worried that he was spiraling again and had started counting. 

But it wasn’t that. Somehow, Clover could tell, this wasn’t that same panic. 

It was fear, it was pain, yes. But it was something more solid, more cemented than that desperate fright. It was old. It was a built-up agony that was finally being allowed to decompress. That old grief that had burrowed down somewhere deep; disguised itself as acceptance, and laid in wait.

So Clover just held him and let it happen. He buried his face in Qrow’s mess of hair, focusing on the sweet, crisp, sharp scent of his partner; the feel of downy soft, ashen, strands against his cheeks, in order to keep his own breathing steady. 

After a moment though, Clover began to understand what Qrow was saying. 

A chill twisted through him eerily, and he pulled back slowly, staring down at his partner with a pained concern. 

Clover had faced all of this. He had forced himself to stay calm and keep a level head through it. 

But that? 

The broken confession being whispered against his chest floored him. 

He had no idea how to fix that. 

He had no idea how Qrow could think he owed him that desperate, guilt-ridden, mantra. It was the furthest thing from the truth. 

But still, it fell from him, a pleading chant.

“I-I’m… I’m so sor… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m s-sorry. I- I’m so sorry, Clover.”