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When he wakes, the sharp ache between James’ spine and titanium shoulder blade heralds the impending flare-up. The muscle spasms, ripping a tremor through his metal hand as he extricates himself from the lanky limbs tangled around him.
Qrow makes a sleepy noise of protest. He’s barely left the bed since he arrived yesterday morning, riding out his post-mission crash. James brushes Qrow’s feathery hair out of his eyes, and Qrow blinks blearily.
“See you, soldier boy,” he says through a yawn. “Don’t freeze out there.”
Qrow burrows his nose back beneath the blankets. James takes a mental snapshot of him, down to his dark lashes and contented brow. All James needs to do is make it through the day; even if he’s laid up on his weekend off, at least he won't have to spend it alone.
James drops a kiss on Qrow’s temple. “See you tonight.”
He takes two pills with breakfast and rolls his arm in cautious circles as he brushes his teeth, despite knowing it won't do much good. The pain spreads throughout the morning, burning along his scapula until it has nowhere else to go but shooting down his arm’s synthetic nerves.
On days like these, Mettle keeps him sane, hyperfocus dulling the pinching twinges that splinter up his wrist and forearm. With that small relief and heavy reliance on his left hand, he avoids compromising his station. By the time he crosses back over his apartment threshold, his aura sparks and wavers, barely fending off the black-spotted pain creeping in at the edges of his awareness.
“—definitely getting voted off next.” Qrow’s voice floats in from the kitchen. A good sign that he’s up and moving and, apparently, binging a show with a lot of names, none of which stick in James’ brain.
James undoes his boot laces one-handed and tries to focus on making the affirmative noises of an active listener. When not asleep, Qrow’s been distracted since arriving in Atlas, his mouth downturned when he thinks James isn't looking. James suspects it has to do with Qrow’s last mission, but he couldn't get a straight answer when he asked for details, just noncommittal grunts and hand-waving.
The microwave rattles, beeps, and starts. “I mean,” Qrow snorts, “he told Rosa and Clair he's ‘serious’ about both of them, and then during the last mingle, he was also, like, dry humping Danny—”
Getting the coat off presents a greater challenge. James straightens his elbow to peel the sleeve down and lets out a tight hiss between his teeth.
“—it going?” Qrow stands in front of him, leaning forward on his tiptoes.
James blinks. “Oh. Uh, fine.”
Numb, he accepts Qrow's kiss. When they pull apart, James presses his lips together, trying to flush some feeling back into them. He tastes ginger and whiskey, but Mettle discards the extraneous information.
Qrow takes James by the jaw and angles his face down, searching. “What's the target?” he asks after a beat.
“Not dropping Due Process again,” James says, voice tinny and far away to his own ears. With difficulty, he disentangles himself from his coat. “Or shooting my own foot off.”
You go kinda dead in the eyes, Qrow said when James asked how he always knows when Mettle is up. Just—not all the way there. Might be scary, if I didn’t know you’re you.
Qrow slips James’ greatcoat out of his grip. It wrinkles when Qrow shoves it into the closet on a hanger. This should annoy James more. Irrelevant.
“Kinda bullshit that you lost the arm and kept the pain, if you ask me.” Qrow nudges him toward the couch and turns toward the bathroom. “Hot or cold?”
“Hot, please.” James eases into the cushions and scrubs a hand down his face. “And yes, but I preferred it to having no sensation at all. I knew the risks.”
Muffled by rustling in the cabinets, Qrow says: “Just sucks is all I’m sayin’, Jimmy.”
“Yes,” James agrees, gritting his teeth as he undoes his shirt. “It also sucks.”
Qrow dumps his cargo onto the coffee table. He swats James’ fingers away from his collar and makes shorter work of the buttons. James bites back a groan as Qrow helps him ease his arm out of the sleeve and into the immobilizer sling. As Qrow straps the heating pad around his shoulder, a familiar, warning chirp sounds from his pocket. It takes an extra second to get through Mettle’s filter, but a slow smile creeps across James’ face.
“Did you set up low aura notifications for me?”
Qrow’s cheeks turn slightly pink. “So?” Voice gruff, he shakes the bottle too hard in James’ hand, sending painkillers scattering into his lap. “You have ‘em for me, don’t you?”
“Well, sure, but…” James downs the pills with the water Qrow hands him, hiding his smile in his palm. But that’s me.
“You’re gonna break soon if you keep it up,” Qrow says, which feels like changing the subject. He accepts the empty glass from James and sets it on the coffee table, just missing a coaster. It’s not deemed important enough to correct.
James curls his good arm around the backs of Qrow’s thighs, holding him where he stands between James’ open knees. He’s wearing a pair of James’ sweats, rolled at the waist. His own clothes are stuffed in a drawer James emptied specifically for him, but he prefers to scavenge his outfits from James’ wardrobe when he stays. James doesn’t mind it so much, even if he does have to scour his apartment for the forgotten corners where Qrow stows his favorite shirts. It's hard to complain with Qrow smelling like familiar detergent, clad in James from head to toe.
“I am feeling a lot better,” James says.
“You liar.”
James rests his forehead on Qrow’s hip. “There's just a report I need to finish, and then—”
“Nothing the Atlas military needs is worth doing”—James suspects Qrow would prefer ending the sentence there—“while you're two steps away from an open grave.”
James tries to look up, but a bolt of pain lances down his neck. He can’t completely hide his wince against Qrow’s thieved pants. “You're being hyperbolic.”
“‘Kay, well,” Qrow says, with an audible scowl, “you’re being a—whatever you call it when you know I’m right, and you don’t listen to me.” He snaps his fingers. “Ah—stubborn ass.”
James’ mouth opens, but Qrow’s hands push into his hair, mussing the neat wave as he scrapes his nails over James’ scalp. On impulse, James’ eyes flutter shut, brain buzzing pleasantly as Qrow presses gently at the base of his skull. Qrow works his fingers along either side of James’ spine, chasing off some of the stiffness. He moves the heating pad aside and slides, vertebrae by vertebrae, until he reaches that damned spot, the source. A groan slips out of James, and Qrow stills.
“It’s alright,” James murmurs. “Feels nice.”
Here, his skin is tough with jagged scar tissue, the muscle a permanent knot that’s always a muted ache, even on good days. Qrow works the flesh in careful circles, exploring with slowly increased pressure to find the spots that make James sigh and sag further against him. Massaging the unyielding metal is pointless, but Qrow kneads at the prosthetic anyway. James’ aura, artificial nerves, and several decades of advancements in neuroscience collaborate to convince James he can feel it all, down to the battle-born callouses on Qrow’s nimble hands.
It's a damned good trick. James wouldn’t trade it for a million painless days.
Qrow’s scroll lets out another insistent warning, and electric blue sparks snap across James’ shoulders. The ministrations pause.
James grumbles against Qrow’s leg.
“Screw the report,” Qrow says. “I’m not above holding your scroll hostage.”
“It won’t take long.” A spiky tingle threads his shoulder blades when James leans back. He reaches for his pocket before Qrow can argue, but it’s empty. “You—”
“I did tell you.” Qrow dangles his scroll between two fingers, not quite out of reach of James’ good arm. He wears the crooked smile of the younger man who wore James down until he agreed to sneak into Atlas’ observatory tower after hours. For a moment, James catches a red sliver of something sad in his eyes when Qrow adds, “C’mon, it’s not really the end of the world if it waits, is it?”
James holds his gaze, but the strange grief is gone.
“I suppose not,” James sighs. He drags in a deep breath, holds for two counts, then releases, and Mettle fades. Forefront and fresh, the pain rolls through him in a white-hot wave and washes out to a violent prickle in the tips of his artificial fingers.
Qrow repositions the heating pad. “Good boy,” he says, just a bit smug.
“You’re a sore winner,” James grunts.
“Gotta take ‘em when I get ‘em.” Qrow grins, carding his fingers through James’ hair. “You want something to eat? I’m makin’ soup.”
James considers him warily.
“Fine,” Qrow says and rolls his eyes, “I’m warming up soup. Whatever you had in the freezer.”
“Chicken noodle,” James says, more in reminder to himself. “That’d be nice.”
Before Qrow can turn away, James catches his wrist. Partly to get the last word and entirely because he means it, he places a kiss against Qrow’s palm.
“Thank you.”
Qrow looks away, playing with one of the rings on the hand James hasn’t captured. “Yeah, sure, Jim,” he says, but the tips of his ears darken. “No big deal.”
By the time Qrow returns with two bowls of soup and crackers, the painkillers have fuzzed the corners of James’ world. Normally, he would make them go to the dining room, but fully relaxed on the couch, he can’t imagine moving more than is necessary to eat over the coffee table.
“Your visit is going to be uneventful, I’m afraid,” he says, stirring his soup.
“Oh, no.” Qrow fiddles with the TV remote. “You’re telling me I don’t have to shiver my ass off out there?” He hooks a thumb at the window, where pea-sized hailstones batter the glass. “Darn. Shit.”
“It is not that—”
James stops, spoon halfway to his mouth, and squints at the TV screen. An animated introduction plays, accompanied by bass-y, pop fanfare. Two puzzle pieces snap together and form a heart, which ignites and burns to reveal the title.
“What in the world is The Click?”
“It’s garbage,” Qrow says. “Pure trash. But entertaining as hell—I’ll catch you up.”
James swallows another spoonful of broth. The wide smile lighting up Qrow’s face is all the convincing James needs to accept this is what his weekend is now.
“Fine,” he sighs. “But let it be said that I oppose this on a moral level.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever.” Qrow flaps his hand. With his gaze glued to the establishing shots of a lush island, he doesn't notice James' eyes aren't on the TV. “Alright, first things first: right now, everyone fuckin’ hates Sal…”