Work Text:
Hot and dry.
Raven expects nothing less from Vacuo’s desert wasteland. Even under a moonlit sky the scattered stab of sand against her wings burns with the day’s residual heat, stoking her annoyance the longer she stays airborne and lets herself get pelted.
From this high up, the stacked tiers of Shade are more prominent as she circles its stillness, nighttime shadows a mirror to the academy’s hard angles and flat sandstone roofs. Her vision is sharp, sharper at night in this form than in her usual body, and those blocky silhouettes seem to glow from where she soars above it all.
Her third loop around the premises almost proves to be as uneventful as the first two—nothing but quiet and sand and more sand—until the window she’s been keeping in her sights finally reveals some passing movement.
She considers doing one more lap before diving down, to collect thoughts she’s barely begun to attach any meaning to, then remembers how the past few nights ended with her never making a landing at all. Because the weather was too rough, because there were too many people around, because she could've been doing literally anything else. There was always a reason to delay. To retreat.
Feeling her annoyance spike, Raven banks a hard left and pulls in closer to the dorms.
She swoops down onto the windowsill. The cover of night hides her feathers well as she scans the inside of the room. No movement, no daughter shaped shadows, she must’ve spotted Yang getting up to use the bathroom.
Which makes it all the more easy to shift back into her regular body, ease open the window, and climb inside. Better to catch Yang when she’s alert rather than startle her awake. Surely, she’ll recognize the thoughtfulness.
In the meantime, Raven can wait here and narrow down her talking points—
“Yang?”
She bites the surprised curse on her tongue. Her hand flies to Omen’s hilt. She was certain there was only one bed—there is—then why—
A figure sits up in the bed—Yang’s partner, she recognizes immediately—rubbing her eyes with a yawn.
“Why were you outside? Come back to…” The girl opens her eyes. “...bed.”
A groggy, confused blink aimed at Raven. Who is positive that she’s returning some bafflement of her own.
It doesn’t take long to put the pieces together. Whatever closeness she noticed between this girl and Yang after portalling their team back to Shade stopped short of a full thought. Since then she hasn’t spared the time to draw any concrete conclusions. Sue her for having more important things to focus on than some kiddy romance.
(Still reeling, days after the fact, from the way her semblance had detonated in her chest. The reappearance of Yang’s link sharp and sudden enough to double her over like she’d taken a hit with no aura.)
And yet it’s no surprise. Qrow always said Yang took after her father. Apparently lusting after your teammates also ran in the family.
Raven is about to capitalize on this little stalled moment their having by flying back out the window, when—
“What the hell?”
Yang returns. Wide-eyed yet indignant where she stands in the doorway.
Her daughter’s apparent bedmate looks to Raven, then to Yang, then back to Raven again—
“Oh.”
—and tugs the blanket in her lap up over her exposed bra. If Raven had to guess, it’s probably one of two pieces of clothing she’s still got on. She bites down a smirk at the way the girl’s cheeks burn like they’re thinking the same thing.
The amusement is short-lived, flattened under Yang’s heavy stomps as she heads straight for Raven and gets in her face.
“Leave. Now.”
Raven lifts her chin and stands her ground. “I just wanna talk.” About what, exactly, she hasn’t settled on.
Yang scoffs. “Really? You wanna talk to me now?”
Raven takes a wild shot in the dark that she isn’t referring to the late hour.
“We have unfinished business.”
“Don’t care.”
“I—”
“Bye,” is what Yang says, but it sounds a lot more like fuck off.
Raven feels a crack in her already thin veneer of civility. She slips into a scowl. “A little hospitality wouldn’t kill you.”
Yang’s fists clench at her sides. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think—”
“Yang?”
They both turn. The source of the interruption is still sat up in bed clutching sheets to her chest, but any embarrassment from before seems to have passed.
She shoots Yang a look. It makes Yang flex her fingers straight and take a step back from Raven. The fire in her eyes extinguishes, traded for something neutral, unreadable; but the tension slipping loose from her shoulders tells Raven enough.
It’s like a trip down memory lane she didn’t buy a ticket for, emphasis on trip, as she stumbles into a flash of familiar visions. One of Tai, soft yet stubborn, staring her down in patient silence until she’d relent her temper; one of Summer, her placating hand on Raven’s shoulder, the underlying steadiness she’d bring as surprising as it was unwelcome.
(Because steadiness breeds complacency, comfort, a dropped guard. And armor is useless if you don’t keep it on.
Apparently, Yang cared very little about protecting herself.)
Yang nods at the window, stiff and stone faced, and Raven takes the hint. As she ducks back out onto the roof of the dorm below, a snippet of their hushed conversation follows her.
Yang’s voice, affectionate and reassuring, “You should go back to sleep. This won’t take long.”
Her partner, just as nauseatingly soft, “I’ll wait up for you.”
Raven could barf.
Well, she supposes, kids will be kids.
They’ll learn eventually.
(She’s certainly not going to hold anyone’s hand to the truth.)
Once Yang joins her outside and shuts the window, Raven hazards an attempt at breaking the ice.
She tilts her head at their room with a smirk. “She’s cute.”
Yang apparently doesn’t see the humor. Her voice drops low and dangerous. “Don’t.”
The ever-present sand in Raven’s mouth—stupid fucking Vacuo, it had to be Vacuo of all places—grinds finer between the clench of her ired teeth. She looks away from Yang to take in the glow of the night sky instead, intimately aware of how much easier it’d be to traverse the distance between here and the moon than that of mother and daughter.
“You know,” she starts, “for all it’s lesser qualities, I’ll admit Vacuo’s view of the stars—”
“You have three minutes.”
Raven swallows the rest of her words. When she turns back to Yang, she finds a solid, uncaring wall staring back at her.
“So we’re doing away with all niceties, then?” The sarcastic, almost bored, question rolls off Raven’s tongue. She finds comfort in the familiar taste of it.
Yang’s eyes narrow. “Two minutes.” Now it’s her turn to look away. “And you’ve never been good at being nice.”
Raven scoffs. “Forgive me for not babying everyone I have a conversation with.”
Yang whips back, her stare dead on and unflinching.
“I don’t need to be here,” she states fiercely.
The unspoken ‘Do you?’ hangs in the dry desert air. Dry enough to choke.
“Stop wasting my time,” she adds. “We both have better things we could be doing.”
Omen’s weathered grip finds its way back to Raven’s palm, grounding her instinct to bite back, to take the two steps necessary off this roof and let her wings do the rest. She allows herself a few more seconds of contact before calmly releasing her weapon to place her hands on her hips.
“I don’t go anywhere I don’t want to be,” she says at last, refusing to dwell on how the words feel like a retreat from a question never asked.
Yang lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, I got that memo a long time ago.”
Always like pulling teeth with this one. In fact, Raven is certain she’s had more success with pulling actual teeth than with this.
“Well, since you’re so in the know,” she snarks back, “I’m sure you’ve noticed my status as a maiden isn’t exactly a secret nowadays.”
Whatever pass Yang gave her in Haven’s vault has been used up. She’s here now—notwithstanding the pesky little detail of impending doom at the hands of Salem’s forces—and she owes no one.
Which is partially why she expected at least a little bit of a reaction to that reveal, she even gave it up freely, at her own behest, and yet Yang remains expressionless.
“So,” she continues, in the hopes that Yang will see what she’s getting at, “No need to keep that one to yourself anymore.”
Except she’s keeping everything to herself, Raven doesn’t catch a single twitch in Yang’s face let alone some meaning in anything she’d say. Which she’s yet to do, but Raven has already said enough of her own volition. A warm breeze passes through as they stare each other down in tense silence.
Eyes hard and voice hollow, Yang finally breaks it. “Was there ever a need?”
What kind of a stupid question is that?
“Not unless you wanted to deliver my head on a platter to Salem,” she says back, injecting as much sarcasm as she can into the obvious answer.
Yang laughs. It rings bitter and caustic in Raven’s ears.
“You know, I’ve actually met Salem. Touched her. Talked to her.” Yang’s terse, fearless retelling spikes cold through her heart. “Funnily enough, your name never came up.”
Raven lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She clears her throat. “I’m not surprised. I’ve spent years cultivating a low profile.”
“You mean running and hiding.”
“Call it what you want. Clearly it was effective.” Until Yang’s link snapped and Raven burst through a portal to Qrow for answers, unable to snuff the fire erupting from her eyes and the unmistakable identity attached to it.
“Clearly.” Yang makes for the window.
Raven jolts into a step forward. She says the first thing she can think of. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“What?” Yang’s sharp glare almost makes her reach for the comfort of Omen again.
“For the free ride back to Shade. You and your friends would’ve been stranded without me.”
Yang crosses her arms defiantly. “I know you didn’t barge into my room in the middle of the night for a thank you.”
Raven doesn’t know why she's here anymore. Why she even bothers trying with this kid. “Well, I’ve yet to receive one.”
She couldn’t care less about a damn thank you. But at least Yang is staying put.
Much like her firm glare. “Family. Always wanting praise for doing the bare minimum,” she says mockingly. “Oh no, wait, I’m sorry. That’s rude to literally everyone else in our family.”
As much guff as Raven is willing to take from her, there are some things that just aren’t true.
“I’ve done you more favors than you’ll ever know.”
It burns on Raven’s tongue. All the things she could say, all the secrets Yang would beg her to put back in the vault if she ever found out.
“And you want thanks for all those, too?” Yang shakes her head like she’s had enough. Like she’s accepting something and Raven’s got about two seconds before her time is up.
And this—this isn’t what Raven wanted. Why won’t Yang just let her say her piece?
Nevermind the fact that she still hasn’t left. Still stands here and argues with Raven while they collect sand in their teeth together. Her three minutes are undoubtedly up and yet, they’re both still here.
Raven takes her in. How tall she stands, taller than Raven has ever been. The broad of her shoulders unflinching, back straight and chin up, like there’s nothing left in the world that could buckle her resolve.
Qrow watched Atlas burn to the ground and said Yang had been right there in the middle of it. Felt the weight of a city fall down around her with nowhere to go.
Except she did go somewhere. Somewhere fantastical and terrifying enough to make Raven’s semblance think she’d been dead. Raven hasn’t felt fear like that in a long time, close as it always is to her heart.
She looks at her daughter and realizes that maybe she didn’t have anything to say after all.
Yang stands tall and alive. Raven loses all her words in the relief.
It spreads, heavy and saturating, all throughout her body. Her spine hunches the slightest bit as she lets the fight or flight instinct rest for a moment, always forgetful of how load-bearing it is until the support is gone.
Exhaustion coats her next words. “I’ve been talking with Qrow. And with the—” she rolls her eyes at what she’s about to say, quoting her twin, “—the inner circle.”
Yang, looking just as tired, gestures at her to speed it up. And?
“There’s no plan.” Raven takes a steadying breath. “No strategy. Not even one of Oz’s hat tricks to fall back on.”
There’s no winning.
A fact she’d known deep down, but confirmation of it made obvious by a striking lack of good ideas during their little inner circle meetings was still a hard pill to swallow no matter how long ago she’d accepted the truth.
But Yang’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t reflect any surprise or lost hope. She takes the news like Raven just told her the forecast for the week holds more dry heat and sandstorms.
“I don’t care about whatever magic Ozpin is still hiding,” Yang says eventually. A heavy sigh leaves her body as she rubs a hand down her face. “We’ve done more without his help than with it.”
She says help like it’s been anything but, and Raven can’t fault her for that, all too familiar with the desperate machinations born of that delusional, ancient man.
“And now?” Raven asks. Yang just raises her brow in question. “What do you plan on doing?”
The final pieces are falling into place. There aren’t any moves left. Surely she hasn’t fooled herself into thinking otherwise.
Unlike that sister of hers. None of Raven’s blood, none of the good sense that came with it. Only Summer’s empty promises and childish hopes.
“The plan hasn’t changed,” Yang says. She reaches for the window and offers Raven a parting nod. “Goodnight.”
Her first instinct is to question whether she heard that right, because there’s no way Yang and her team would withhold a secret strategy that'll aid everyone in the fight, which means they also have no plan, which Raven just informed her of, so—
“You still think you can beat her.”
Incredulous as it comes out of her mouth even as she has no trouble believing the validity of it.
“I’m starting to think there’s no beating anyone,” Yang says. Her stern gaze bores her conviction. Her voice doesn’t waver. “But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying to save who we can.”
Raven hears it in a memory. She half expected the words to come out Yang’s mouth with all the inflection of her real mom.
“You sound just like her.”
You sound like Summer.
And that seems to be the last straw. Yang tenses up for the first time since this conversation started, eyes flashing danger, then something indiscernible once more.
“Your three minutes are up.” She turns away again. “We’re done here.”
Raven doesn’t try to stop her this time. This all becomes much harder to deal with when there’s no fight left in either of them.
(She wants to go back. Back to when she could breathe in the animosity like fresh air for hungry lungs and exhale her own poison.)
“Goodnight, Yang,” Raven says, wrung out and weary. She goes to make her own leave.
The sound of shifting sand underfoot behind her, then—
“Raven.”
Yang’s tone makes her stop before she can take off. For some reason, hearing her own name instead of mom—even if it'd been in that sarcastic surliness Yang couldn’t have picked up from anyone other than her uncle—settles jagged and heavy in her chest, a harrow of vines overgrown around a heart no longer visible, just to lacerate her ribs.
“I know the code you live by. One save, and that’s it. I know I already used mine. But just this once… I need you to listen to me.”
Family. They always need something.
“Then I’ll never ask you for anything ever again, I promise. You have my word.”
As far as Raven is concerned, they live in a world where one’s word means next to nothing. You either make yourself the strongest or yield to someone stronger.
Still, she turns back around to face Yang.
(A yield in and of itself.)
“Don’t think of me.”
She’s gotta hand it to the kid, usually people get more intelligible with age, but Yang seems to be regressing. That’s the only explanation for why Raven has no clue what she’s talking about.
Until—
“When Salem finds you, or whoever wants the maiden powers next finds you…”
Yang looks at her. Not how Raven always assumed daughters look at their mothers—begging and desperate and longing, like a mother is someone who can simply snap her fingers and grant her child any wish—but like an equal, someone else that’s been hardened by the world’s unrelenting fists.
“Do. Not. Think of me.”
Oh.
“I’ve had enough of this war. I don’t want another target on my back. Not when I…”
Her voice goes sodden and soft as she looks back into her shared room.
“…Not when I have people who love me.”
Her gaze shifts to Raven again. The violet of her eyes holds steel. “Can you do this one thing for me?”
Family. It never ends.
(It never ends.)
Yang finally opens the window to go back inside. There’s a flash of something across her face that only the moon sees fully, leaving Raven in the shadow cast by her upturned cheek.
“It should be easy, you’ve been doing it for most of my life anyways.”
And even after the window clicks shut with Yang on the other side, Raven can’t help the dry, empty chuckle that escapes.
Because just like always—Yang has no idea what she’s talking about.