Chapter Text
The first time he sees James Ironwood, he doesn't pay very close attention. It's the Vytal Festival, and all Qrow can bring himself to care about is reading rosters, watching battle montages, and learning the histories of the other huntsmen in training he's going up against. Leaning on Raven as they eat on the festival grounds, he could hardly give a damn about what the rest of his team is going on about-- until Raven jabs him in the side.
His head tips up to see a group of men and women in white, dressed to kill in every sense. Atlesian military. They're here as a show of goodwill-- soldiers available should there be an outbreak of Grimm, a free trip to the festival for a bunch of graduated huntsman in the military. They’re all older than team STRQ, gathered by a vendor selling something deep fried and on a stick. Qrow’s eyes follow the four of them. Likely their team from their time in Atlas Academy. Two girls, two boys. One of them, taller than most any man Qrow’s seen in his life-- as tall as Priam from team PYRE, from Vacuo-- and yeah, he’s been reading too many files. They’ve got their weapons, always prepared for battle and nowhere to store them.
What catches his eye is the rifle strapped to the big guy’s back. It’s a sturdy silver monster, almost at a height with Qrow, slung effortlessly over shoulders twice as broad as his own. Surely a guy that size can’t be a ranged fighter, can he? What good is all that mass if he’s gonna stick to the rear?
The Atlesian soldiers are gone just like that, being dragged along by an energetic girl at the front and the bear of a man at the back. Qrow’s eyes fall back to the scroll in his hands, flipping through PYRE’s list. “You think we’re gonna get the big guy and the swordsman, or the girl with the bow? I’m ruling out the short one.”
“No idea,” Raven chimes in, sipping at her drink and staring off into the sky. They’re the pair for the doubles match, agreed upon resoundingly by the rest of the team. Taiyang may be their leader, but Qrow and Raven have grown up back to back-- they make a formidable team. He flicks a french fry at her and she just rolls her eyes in return, the epitome of unamused teenage angst. “At least pretend to be interested. We’re in it to win it, sis.”
“I can think of a hundred things I’d rather be doing,” she hums, closing her eyes and ignoring th task at hand. Summer laughs, a rich, round sound that has all of them grinning, and regardless of the outcome of the fight they all know it’s going to be a good day.
The fight is a rush-- it’s the tall one and the girl with the sword, and they’re a damn menace-- darting around the stage in tandem. Not unlike team Branwen themselves. It’s a rush, and when a swiftly delivered backswing sends the girl flying from the ring, Qrow feels a wave of satisfaction at a match well won.
The crowd is on fire-- they’re cheering and shouting, everyone’s on their feet, most of the people in the stands from Vale. Qrow’s grinning ear to ear, and Raven has that little smirk on her face that says she’s pleased with herself, stupidly huge sword stuck in the stadium at her side. They wave to the crowd, basking in it all and turning to get a good look at their teammates. Summer and Tai are halfway out the box, arms in the air, and Qrow can’t help but preen like the bird he is.
His eyes settle on the little patch of white in the stands, drawn to it like a glimmer off metal when he’s using his semblance. There’s one head taller than the rest, the stern face he can barely make out from where he’s standing, but he’s staring right at Qrow. The huntsman in training gives a flash of a smile, a broader glint of teeth from his usual smirk, and--
And they make eye contact. He’s distracted for a moment, doesn’t hear the announcer cue them offstage, stuck staring at some guy in white he’s seen a grand total of twice. Something turns over in his stomach, and oh hell no. Not during the damn Vytal Festival.
Before he has a clue what’s happening, Raven has a hand around his arm, dragging him off stage. He’s still waving furiously, playing it up like he can’t get enough of the crowd, and when he glances back at the patch of white the tall guy’s staring intently off into space, focused on nothing.
Qrow isn’t yet a betting man, but he’d put down money the guy’s face got a little redder.
Huh.
--
They’re filing out of the stadium, Cobalt ahead of them bouncing on the balls of her feet. James is the only one who has no trouble keeping up with her-- his strides are long and easy, taller than the rest of the team. The crush of people in on them makes him only slightly jittery, but they make their way out of the crowd and into fresh air just in time for a siren to cut the air like a knife. The soldiers set off at a dead sprint, moving as a team before their minds can catch up. Their sergeant barks orders, the only one with foresight to check his scroll and guide them to the gates of the city.
Grimm.
James climbs a stairway three steps at a time, rifle slung low over his back to offset the full-tilt run he’s set at. He hears the shouts and roars, feels the ground shake under his feet. It’s not a massive flock of them-- the largest is a Taijitu class that’s slipping through lines of the rest. His boots skid across the stone as he fits a short-range headset over his ear, unloads the stand on his rifle, and drops to his belly to set the end of the gun on the edge of the wall. There’s an archer beside him, some huntress from Vale who doesn’t even question his presence.
Outside of the wall, huntsmen, huntresses, students and teachers flood the grounds to hold back the oncoming tide of Grimm. He sees the combatants from the festival, professors he recognizes from Beacon, the soldiers of Atlas. It takes a short scan to find his own team, picking off a griffon as it dives for Sergeant Ross. He feels his blood start to pump hotter, pulse in his ears almost drowning out the sound of his teammates relaying plans through the headset. It’s easy work-- they’re made for this. Trained and tested, hardened like steel to keep humanity safe from the darkest monsters on the face of Remnant.
He doesn’t like fighting. But he has a skill, and he’s steady-- Steady like iron, his team likes to say. One of the surest shots in Atlas. He presses his cheek to the side of his rifle and breathes, focuses. A team from Vale-- the team from today’s match, and why are they even out there?-- makes its way to his own squadron.
The students of Vale fight like a tornado-- he’s never seen someone fight with a scythe before, and the team is just as in tune and talented as they were on the stage. He’s distracted, eye pressed tight to the sight of his scope to watch the two clad in black and red fight side by side. Something grips his chest when a griffon dives for the young man-- he must be years James’ junior but fights off Grimm like an old hat.
One quick shot drops it, and he sees the head of dusty black hair whip around and search for the source of the shot. His eyes lock on James’ through the scope and James feels frozen, rooted to the spot. His stomach is a pit of writhing snakes, caught in a trap by bright red eyes and a dangerous, foolhardy smirk. It makes his hand go cold and squeeze the grip of his rifle hard.
“--wood? Ironwood! Report, we’re clear.”
“I’m clear. Heading down immediately,” he responds, hauling himself to his feet. The rifle slings back over his shoulder, and he sees them there on the field. White uniforms amidst two in black, one in white, one in yellow. He remembers the name now-- team STRQ. He’ll have to keep an eye out for them. And for that strange feeling in his stomach-- intimidation? Respect? He’s never felt that for another huntsman. It has James uneasy, hair on the back of his neck standing up as he watches the small black figures move towards the wall in tandem.
--
A griffon dropped to the ground two feet from him, dead as a doornail before it dissolved into nothingness. Qrow actually jumped, caught off guard, looking around wildly for what could’ve knocked something out of the air. He sees a glint of silver on top of the wall around the city, a man with a rifle. Not just a man with a rifle-- the soldier from before. A grin cracks across his face as he stares up at the wall, the sounds of the battle quieting, dissipating, leaving him in quiet for a long moment. Just staring. Enjoying the moment. There are butterflies in his stomach and he knows, Qrow is positive they’re not just from the fight.
They make their way back to safety, the wave of Grimm gone and the night quieter than before the fight broke out. Atlesian military, huh? He’ll have to keep an eye out for tall men in white suits.