Chapter Text
i.
Winter had a missed call from Qrow. That by itself wasn't unusual — she was the only person he would call, since he spoke to his other contacts in person. She knew that he didn't trust her enough, and vice versa. It wasn't personal. She had let it go through without picking it up.
What was unusual was the fact that he left her a voicemail. An odd one, at that. Ten seconds of heavy breathing, then his voice, listing coordinates. Winter would be embarrassed to admit it later, but she listened to it a few times, trying to figure out what he wanted, why his voice sounded rougher and much more tired than usual.
She'd tried calling him back. No response. She left him a voicemail. A simple, impolitely familiar, “What do you want.” No response. She tried calling him again. Still, no response.
Winter gave him three hours before she strapped Edelweiss to her belt and looked up the coordinates. Fortunately, he was in Mantle — just within the slums somewhere. Knowing Qrow, he was probably drunk in one of the seedy taverns bordering the city proper. Pushing down the small kernel of worry in her stomach, Winter packed a few essentials (painkillers, painkillers, and more painkillers) and took her small transport Manta down to Mantle.
Whatever Qrow wanted, she'd find out. And she'd kick his ass for it.
ii.
As it turned out, Qrow wasn’t drunk. For once. The barkeep had basically begged her to take Qrow and go, because he was taking up space without buying any alcohol. Much to her chagrin, the barkeep didn’t even bother helping her drag Qrow’s tall and lanky body all the way to the ship. He was much heavier than he looked.
Not that she really needed it. She conjured up a row of glyphs and floated Qrow into the loading bay and onto a fold-up bed. Winter tossed the appropriate amount of lien to the barkeep — enough to buy his silence, and to forgive Qrow’s mere presence. Happy barkeep, happy town.
Once Qrow was buckled in, Winter took the time to force one tablet of a strong painkiller down his throat. He was already turning green, so Winter figured this was a good preemptive measure and buckled herself in for the flight back.
Along the way, she heard him groan once or twice. “You better not be dying back there,” she muttered. “Or I’ll drop you in General Ironwood’s office and he’ll straighten you out.”
She meant it as a threat to get Qrow to shut up; the hospital was objectively a better spot to drop him. Against everything commanding her to leave him at the nearest medical care centre, Winter took him to her apartment on the outskirts of Atlas City. Mantle was certainly not safe enough, and here she could at least keep an eye on him.
Her glyphs supported Qrow as she brought him into her apartment. For a moment she considered leaving him on the couch with a thick blanket, but decided that would be too cruel for a sick man. Sure, she delighted in breaking his pride, but she wasn’t a monster. Instead, she took him to her bed. Pulling back the covers, she lowered him onto the soft mattress and slid him a safe distance from the edge before considering her handiwork. His skin, already green with sickness, had developed a faint sheen as well, and his hand twitched at his collar.
Sighing, Winter padded over to her closet and pulled out the largest shirt she had –– her Atlas Academy training shirt, old and worn, and with little sentimental value. Perfect to give to a sick old bird. With some difficulty, she propped Qrow up against the pillows and shimmied him out of his dress shirt, softly cursing at the reversed buttons. She chucked his shirt over towards the bathroom.
She cast a glance at his torso and frowned. The scars marking his chest and stomach were to be expected. The man was a Hunter, after all. But he looked...thin. Emaciated. The ridges of muscle were there, but they were far too stark against the stretch of his skin. Winter knew for a fact that Qrow would not go hungry if he could help it. He’d stolen too many bites from her fridge for her to think otherwise, and quite honestly, she didn’t care anymore. This was worrying.
Qrow shifted, puffing out a strained breath. Winter grabbed her shirt and gently leaned him against her. As she pulled her academy training shirt over his head, his stubbled cheek brushing her shoulder, he grunted — a low, involuntary noise, voice rusty with disuse.
“Shut up,” she told him.
“Mmmrgh,” he argued.
Winter rolled her eyes and properly tucked the shirt behind him so it wouldn’t bunch up uncomfortably when he slept. Leaning back, she considered his pants. Her academy sweatpants would probably fit. He was only a few inches taller, so the pants would ride up the ankles, but he probably wouldn’t care. Better that, than his current dress slacks. Why he wore casual dress in the first place, Winter didn’t know.
Getting his pants off was much harder than his shirt. Qrow’s legs were long and lanky. Muscular, of course, but Winter refused to appreciate that fact. She rolled her sweatpants up his legs, inch by inch, using a few glyphs to hold his hips up. His pants joined his shirt on the floor.
Thoroughly satisfied with her work, Winter pushed Qrow back into a comfortable position, on his side, so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit if he did throw up. To be safe, she kept a trash can by the side of the bed. Nausea was evident on his face, and she was not keen on letting her carpets get soiled.
The next order of business was washing his clothes. They stank of mud, and the stains of dirt were enough to tell Winter when the last time he washed his clothes was. Evidently, Qrow hadn’t been around proper civilization in a while. To say she was concerned was an understatement, and she tossed his clothes into the washer with a hefty amount of soap.
Winter stopped to consider the night so far, mentally checking items off her list. Qrow was in bed, changed, his clothes in for washing... His weapon. She took a minute to grab Harbinger from the cockpit of her Manta, admiring the feel of the weapon in its greatsword form. Had she and Qrow been proper friends, she might’ve asked to learn from him and incorporate his designs into her own saber. Alas, her only barrier was her own pride. She could admit that much.
She kept Harbinger in her room, leaning the greatsword against her wall, resting on its pommel, since Qrow neglected to design a scabbard. The blade left a tiny mark on her paint job, but she could deal with that another time. For some reason, Qrow always slept better with Harbinger nearby. Winter made the mistake of moving it once without telling him, on a joint mission. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
iii.
Despite her best efforts, Winter couldn’t fall asleep. Her couch was comfortable enough, and she’d poured herself a peg of whiskey, just enough to soothe her irritation and make her eyes droop. But even the slightest shifting from her bedroom had her awake and alert.
Sighing, she stood and brought her glass to the sink. She stuck it under the light spray, swirling the water around to remove any remaining dregs of whiskey, and had a little think.
The way things were looking right now, there were three possibilities. If Qrow woke up before she did, he’d leave long before she’d notice, but he’d at least be out of her apartment (and if she was really lucky, he’d make her coffee). This was the most likely possibility, and he’d drag himself out regardless of his recovery. In past meetings with Ironwood concerning the placement of Atlesian forces, the rare few times Winter was allowed to attend put her in close proximity with Qrow, and despite her best efforts, she appreciated his work ethic in the war room. It was that work ethic that kept him studying maps and plans late into the night, long after she’d bid him good night. But he was never there the next morning.
The second possibility was unlikely. If Qrow woke up and decided to stay, she’d have to deal with him. She wouldn’t be happy about it, and neither would he, but in his state, they probably wouldn’t come to blows so quickly. He wouldn’t leave right away, but he would certainly try.
If Qrow didn’t wake up… Well, Winter wouldn’t be surprised. She’d call up Pietro and ask for his strongest hangover cure. Chances were, Qrow was just suffering from an extended hangover. This was a worrying possibility. Qrow rarely got hangovers, because he never stopped drinking long enough. It wasn’t unfixable though.
As Winter set her glass on the drying rack above the sink, she realized there was a fourth possibility — one she did not want to consider. She could keep him here.
Without a doubt, Qrow would object. Verbally and physically. But that man was not well, and Winter could do without chaos in his wake for once. She grabbed a small hand towel and ran it under warm water, soaking it and squeezing out the excess, then folded it and placed it in a bowl.
Her bedroom door didn’t make a sound when she opened it, and she crept in, settling at Qrow’s side. With gentle hands, she pressed the damp towel to Qrow’s forehead, patting away the sweat.
His brows, furrowed at the beginning of the night, were relaxed now. He looked...younger. High cheekbones collected shadows in the moonlight, but he still had a little bit of fat around them. Smile lines graced the corners of his lips. Winter couldn’t think of a time she had seen him angry. It seemed like he was constantly bursting with energy. Even when he fought. Sure, she’d seen him irritated, but never genuinely upset. Anger was an impossible emotion for Qrow Branwen, she was certain of it.
She glanced at Harbinger. Though she had seen him practice in the Atlas Command training room, he rarely ever transformed his weapon. He had never needed to use the full extent of his skill — though Winter could appreciate a tactical decision. Not all weapons are useful for all situations. Regardless, Qrow could rip through the Grimm holograms like they were butter. And they were Atlesian holograms –– they packed a hell of a punch.
Their fight on the Beacon landing pad was just a warm-up to him. He wasn’t even trying, he was drunk . But then again, he did have about ten years of experience over her. Alone in the field.
Qrow’s forehead was no longer warm to the touch. His hair was matted with drying sweat, and it seemed as though his light fever had broken. Colour was coming back into his cheeks. In her slightly inebriated state, Winter decided it would be best to climb into bed, Qrow’s presence be damned. So she kicked off her slippers and did just that. Qrow didn’t stir.
iv.
The cool scent of pine and snow blanketed him, and a warm presence pressed against his back. Qrow inhaled, chasing that soft scent. It caught in his lungs, bubbling up his throat in a dry cough. The warm presence rubbed a hand up his back. Then he was heaving.
Panic seized him by the lungs, squeezing the air out and choking him. His legs — it was too hot — he fought the covers and fell off the bed, smacking his nose on a trash can as he went down.
Vaguely, he heard someone say his name, but he couldn’t tell who it was or where the voice came from, and he needed air.
“Wait,” said the voice. A woman. “Just stay there, I’m opening a window.” A nice woman, apparently. Lucky him.
“M’not goin’ anywhere,” he slurred.
The woman opened a window, letting a cool dawn breeze sweep through the room. “Qrow, breathe.” She knelt beside him, supporting him by his shoulders, with a warm arm around his back.
Qrow felt kind of pathetic. He retched and heaved into the trash can, his breath catching in his lungs every few inhales and making it impossible for him to calm down. To make matters worse, his panic attack was blinding him, giving him tunnel vision. If he couldn’t touch something, he couldn’t see it, and that always terrified him beyond his wits’ end.
The arm around his back slid up and down, and the woman’s voice — firm, but soft — guided him through a cooldown. She counted to four and back down, moving her arm with the counts. One, two, three, four, arm up. Four, three, two, one, arm down. Her other hand slipped into his own and gently squeezed.
It took Qrow a few minutes to settle down long enough and get back into bed, to sink against massive downy pillows and feel the exhaustion. It took him a few more minutes to realize he wasn’t in the bar.
“Where am I?” He cringed at his own voice. It was gravelly and hoarse, his sore throat threatening to give way to another coughing fit.
To his surprise, Winter Schnee pushed a glass of water into his hand. “You’re in my apartment. We need to talk.”
If Qrow was in his bird form, his feathers would puff up. He wasn’t sure his hair wasn’t doing exactly that. “I didn’t call you.”
“Yes, you did.” Winter showed him her scroll. Indeed, there was one missed call from him, and apparently one saved voicemail. “You called and left coordinates. I wasn’t sure why, but I found you at that bar and you didn’t look too good, so I brought you here.”
Qrow shifted, feeling rather uncomfortable that it was Winter who found him. That he’d sent an SOS to her. “You didn’t have to do–”
“Save it,” she snapped, cutting him off. “We may not get along, but I’m not a monster, Qrow.” Her expression softened into something like concern. It was weird. “We’ll talk more later. For now, you’re staying here and resting. Which means I’m keeping Harbinger with me.”
Qrow bristled and instinctively looked to where Harbinger leaned against the wall. “You can’t do that.”
Winter laughed softly. “And you’re going to stop me?”
She had a point. His head was swimming, his vision was barely functional, and as much as her breathing exercise helped, Qrow could still feel the panic residing in his lungs. He settled back against her pillows.
“Fine,” he conceded. “But only until I get better.”
She smirked. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”