Chapter Text
Clover climbed to his feet, voice rough and anguished as he called to Qrow. “Sometimes the right decision is the hardest to make. I trust James with my life! I wanted to trust you.”
Behind him, a liquid flutter of movement, moonlight gleaming off a blade that didn’t belong there. “No!” Qrow cried, torn out of his throat as he lunged forward too slowly to matter. But Clover moved faster, wrenching to the side just enough that Harbinger sliced vest and skin instead of slotting through the ribs. Enough to make the blood on the snow a spring-blossom spray, not a torrent. Clover dropped to one knee and Qrow hurtled over him, catching Tyrian mid-chest and rolling in a bundle of flying fists and elbows. By the time they broke apart, Clover was up again, holding seeping red at his side but with a grimly determined set to his jaw.
Searchlights splashed across all of them, another transport coming in to land. Things went even more chaotic—soldiers piling out, weapons arrayed, Qrow gritting his teeth but finally raising his empty hands in surrender. Robyn, still woozy from the crash, being loaded back on. Tyrian vanished in the chaos, slipping away like a shadow seeking a darker corner. And Qrow spent the trip back to Atlas with his hands cuffed tightly behind him, staring holes in the back of Clover’s head. Clover, who was on his radio in between being bandaged up, and Qrow could only hear half the conversation, but he was furious and yet so glad that Clover was alive. A couple of inches to the side, and everything would have been over.
Unloading again at Atlas, Clover hung back, sending the other soldiers off briskly. It left him alone in the transport with Qrow, who was counting his own set of singing aches and trying to judge the cut on Clover’s side by eye. Clover turned back toward him, and with the hangar lights behind him, Qrow couldn’t make out his expression. Just that determined set to his shoulders, soldier boy all the way. “It’s not too late," Qrow said quietly, tired but trying to push the truth into his voice so Clover would hear it. “Let’s go to James—together we can talk sense into him.”
Clover came closer, looking down at Qrow. Then he crouched with a wince, favoring one side, and the changing angle of the light showed Qrow his face but no more clues to the thoughts behind it. “It was a good day when you came to Atlas,” Clover said, resting a hand on Qrow’s knee. “You belong here with us.”
His hand was warm, but there was an edge under that smooth voice—did the brush with death bring it out, or had it always been there? “Clover…” Qrow started, uncertain. There had been something growing between them these last weeks, tentative and fragile. They’d had all of one date, a bit stilted but a promise of a second time, right before everything went to hell.
Clover’s grip tightened. “You belong here, but I’d do anything for James, and for Atlas. It would be a mistake for you to forget that.”
Qrow leaned back, sick feeling pooling in his stomach. “He needs a friend who will tell him when he’s wrong. Not a bootlicker.”
Something flashed in Clover’s eyes, gone too fast to identify. “You’ll get with the program. Until then, it’s not safe to have you running around.”
He straightened, and Qrow stood too, but Clover pushed his chest sharply and sent him sprawling back on the seat. Side by side with the cold edge, there was still a kind of softness in Clover’s eyes, and he reached down to grasp Qrow’s chin. Qrow turned his head and bit, teeth sinking into the meat of Clover’s hand before Clover grunted and cracked his other fist across Qrow’s face in a backhand. It knocked him sideways, unable to catch himself, and he spat upward as Clover leaned down. Brought a knee up and hit Clover’s bad side, the savage flare of satisfaction lasting only a moment before Clover snapped a hard elbow down onto Qrow’s temple.
Things went woozy for a couple of seconds, a lurch and roll and scrape that ended with Qrow’s chest against the thin padding, the rest of the air kicked out of him as Clover leaned a knee into his back. “Fuck you,” Qrow wheezed, blinking his vision clear and tasting copper.
Clover laughed, and the sound ratcheted up the dread plucking at Qrow’s instincts. He tried to wriggle out of the pin, but his ribcage was compressed against the seat, and he was weakening fast as he failed to draw air. His head was spinning, but not enough to miss the feeling of his pants being jerked downward. He opened his mouth to yell, desperately trying to fill his lungs, and got a mouthful of red cloth instead. Then down against the seat again, panting for breath, losing it all in a rush as red-hot pain drove a choked cry out of him. Face shoved against the seat and gagged, he couldn’t get enough oxygen, losing moments but yanked back every time by the searing pain in his ass. He’d missed the signs, fucked up his chance to get away…
A pause, burning/clawing air into his lungs, desperate whining inhale in his ears. Clover had stopped, his own breathing harsh, still forced all the way inside Qrow. He was talking. “Yes, sir. I’m with him now.”
He was taking a fucking call, from James fucking Ironwood, in the middle of raping Qrow. If unconsciousness wasn’t so close, Qrow might’ve laughed. He missed the rest of the words, only knew it was over because Clover leaned down to crank his arms up harder behind his back. “Don’t make either of us regret keeping you alive,” Clover said. Qrow cursed in reply.
More time that Qrow wished would slide by faster. Clover finished. Pulled Qrow’s clothes back up, dragged him to the cellblock and left him there. Qrow lay on his side, rolled away from the others, ignoring the babble of their conversation and heaving on a red sea of rage with no outlet. He had to get through this, had to escape and find the kids. Get them out, get the Relic out, regroup and find allies who could be trusted against Salem.
That thought kept him barely tethered through the night, something to cling to instead of the torn-open feeling of betrayal and the wounds that nobody was going to check. He stared sleepless into the green-tinged prison until very early, when guards came and took him to a small interrogation room where James was waiting.
That one hurt worse than what Clover had done. But James wasn’t cruel about it, only methodical. He didn’t say a word. Afterward, they took Qrow back to the cell and left him there, and that was it for nearly a week before they moved him again.
The apartment was clean, white, sterile. Very Atlas. Qrow could walk through the rooms, he could push around the blandly comfortable furniture, he could stretch out his arms and pretend that someday he’d be able to fly again.
There was no window, no clock, and no one to talk to.
He still hurt, but he was healing, and he’d survived worse. After a day or so, he started to miss the brig. He paced around, broke a couple of utensils trying to pry out the lock panel on the door, started sharpening a butter knife because what the fuck else was he going to do. He slept fitfully, tossed by nightmares where a tide of Grimm swept over the world. Where Clover’s face loomed above him, that pleasant mask cracking and falling away with nothing but ocean-deep drowning behind it.
He couldn’t hear the fighting outside anymore. Was it over, or had they just buried him too deep to notice?
He thought about being entombed forever, forgotten in an Atlas file drawer, and lost a while talking himself out of a panic attack.
He went to bird form to see if he could catch anything with those senses. Mistake: the claustrophobia clenched a metal fist around him, the world went blurry and it was only dull pain that made him realize he was flapping around madly beating himself into the walls. He collapsed back into human form and decided not to do that again, because fucked if he was going to take himself apart for them.
When the door clicked open after several days—he thought—he bolted up from where he’d been sitting in a corner, methodically working on his ridiculous butter knife project. He jammed that under the mattress on his way out, and emerged from the bedroom to find Clover letting himself in. For a wild second, Qrow almost hurled himself at the door. But it was already sliding shut, and Clover was looking him over.
“How are you doing?” Clover asked, as cordial as if it was Qrow’s second day in Atlas and Clover had just bought him that sorry-for-arresting-you coffee.
Qrow’s stomach curdled. “Fuck you.”
Clover frowned slightly, went over and opened the refrigerator to inspect the contents. It was all bland, nutrient-rich and perfectly-balanced bullshit, and Qrow choked it down because starving would be a dumb way to lose his edge. “You’re still angry,” Clover noted as he closed the door again.
Qrow’s fists curled so tight his knuckles ached. He throttled down the wild thread of helplessness; his hands weren’t tied this time. “I’m going to kill both of you.”
“No, you aren’t. At this rate, you’re never going to learn what’s going on outside.” Clover sounded disappointed, and Qrow was so ready for a fight that it took him a second to realize Clover was heading for the exit.
When he left, and the lock clicked behind him, the apartment echoed with silence. Qrow stared at the closed door, hands clenching and unclenching, trying to ignore the whisper of panic breathing in his ear.
It was at least a day, maybe more, before anyone returned. The food was starting to run low, and Qrow told himself they weren’t going to let him starve. But he started cutting back anyway, falling back on habits from darker years.
When the door opened this time, Qrow was stretched out on the couch, staring at the white ceiling and wondering how many cameras were hidden in this place. He rolled to his feet as James came in, carrying a couple of bulky bags that he deposited on the kitchen counter.
Qrow didn’t think about it too hard, just let his feet carry him forward and his arm haul back for the punch and swing, catching James in the jaw just as he turned toward Qrow. James’s head snapped to one side but he had his arm up to block the second punch, and after a brief struggle Qrow’s back was slammed against the wall, both of them breathing hard. No broken bones on either side, but James’s eyes were cold and furious as he leaned all of his weight against Qrow, forearm across his throat. Qrow clawed for James’s eyes and James muscled Qrow around, cranking an arm up behind his back. Qrow hissed and went up on his toes, and knew he was a finger-tap of pressure away from dislocation.
“Qrow,” James said coldly in his ear, “you’re being childish.”
“Fuck you, Jimmy,” Qrow spat. Despite himself, the panic hooked in his throat, because any second now he was going to feel James’s hands pulling at him, taking what he wanted just like last time.
But that didn’t happen, only implacable silence and bruising pressure. “Tell me when you’re ready to be reasonable,” James said. “Or I can come back in a month.”
And that was what did it: the thought of hundreds of hours of silence and staring, walls closing in and air and sunlight some never away outside. Qrow went rigid, teeth grating together. He choked on it a moment longer, then finally spit it out: “All right.”
When James released him and stepped back, Qrow turned and rubbed his wrists, but didn’t go for him again. “How long are you going to keep me in here?” He wasn’t going to ask. It popped out anyway.
James straightened his tie, still breathing a little fast. “As long as it takes.” He looked—not terrible, Qrow sized up, but not great. His left hand was replaced by a high-tech prosthetic, and there was a wild edge lurking in the back of his eyes, but it was contained.
“What’s happening out there?” Qrow tried to keep his voice from climbing, faces of the kids flashing through his mind. He couldn’t help them until he was out.
James looked at him for a moment, impassive. “The war continues. If you want more than that, you’ll need to pick a side.”
“We were on the same side, until you went crazy. What about the kids and the Lamp?”
“Not your concern, at the moment.” James took a step toward him, and Qrow slid away, circling so his back wasn’t against the wall and moving to keep the counter island between the two of them. Mild annoyance flashed across James’s face. “I can see you’re not ready to talk.”
“What do we talk about? You were willing to throw over a whole city to Salem, you fucking rapist.” His voice cracked between them, and James scowled for a moment before it vanished.
“We’ve been friends for years, Qrow. Don’t throw that away for the sake of one bad night.”
Bile climbed Qrow’s throat and his vision hazed, but James saw him coming this time. He caught the first punch, hand tightening enough to leave bone-deep bruises, and bodily flung Qrow away from him with that ferocious augmented strength. Qrow tumbled over the couch and sprang back to his feet, but the door closed an instant before he reached it. He pounded his fist against it until the pain stopped him and then slid down to sag against the wall, shaking with rage and that growing sense of horror.
It lapped around in his head like waves, muddled and polluted, until finally the intensity faded and he was just exhausted and hurting. And then he went to put the food away, like this was a normal fucking kitchen and he was just the guy who lived here, because he still needed to eat.
He lay awake for hours that night in the bed—bigger than one person needed, and he refused to think about that. It took everything he had not to turn back into a bird and let the panic devour him whole, slam him into hollow-boned oblivion.
The dreams started a few days later. He’d slept like shit for as long as he could remember, fitful insomnia woven through with nightmares and bursts of exhausted oblivion. This time, he dreamed that he was sucking James’s cock.
It came into half-focus like surfacing from underwater, a gradual awareness of intrusion into his mouth, hands in his hair steering his head to take slow but deepening thrusts. He tried to pull away but there were arms wrapped around him, a familiar voice murmuring soothing nonsense in his ear. Everything was hazed-out and hard to move. It was easier to subside into that embrace that pinned his arms gently to his sides, to relax his jaw and swallow more of that gleaming metal length. It was pleasantly warm, and as his tongue flicked curiously at the texture, there was a gasp from above him and a tug at his hair.
He shouldn’t be having this dream, or enjoying it. But he’d been so tired, and there was something simple about kneeling there, James’s fingers running through his hair and cradling his skull, the hard length of his shaft filling Qrow’s throat and then receding in a slow rhythm that let him breathe.
As he got used to it, James sped up. One of the arms around him loosened and slipped away, and a few moments later a warm slick hand wrapped around his cock. Qrow moaned and his hips jerked forward, and Clover—he’d recognized the voice at some point—laughed a little and nibbled his ear, even as James’s hand stroked down his face.
Before long Qrow was burning, squirming, held fast while Clover’s hand pumped with expert finesse, and James groaned as Qrow’s moans vibrated around him. Qrow whimpered and shuddered when he came, Clover dropping praises in his ear and kissing the back of Qrow’s neck even as his hands coaxed every bit of seed out of Qrow’s body. And James had paused, but now he resumed, fucking into Qrow’s lax mouth with messy strokes. Finally his grip clenched tight and he spilled, and Qrow swallowed, throat working as he drank down everything he could.
Then there were hands on him, caressing his still-filled throat, wiping the mess from his face as James withdrew. They cleaned him and tucked him in and told him he was perfect, wonderful. Qrow woke in the morning with dried tears at the corners of his eyes and not a trace that anything had really happened.
He spent the day circling between fury and shame, and finally stopped thinking about it because he kept getting hard. And he was not going to think about that, so he did as many training drills as he could in the confines of those white walls, trying to push himself to exhaustion and remember that his body belonged to him and did what he wanted.
(But years of drinking had proved that was a lie, hadn’t it?)
That evening, both James and Clover came to dinner. Qrow hadn’t been consciously expecting it, but he realized when the door opened that he’d kept it in sight all day. They were carrying containers of food with warm spicy smells that drew an audible gurgle from his stomach, and he hated the way that Clover laughed, so ready and free like back when Qrow thought they were friends.
“Well, come on,” James said to him as Clover set out the food, so reasonably that Qrow was thrown. And he had to eat something, and he didn’t want them to leave again just yet, so he sat and stuffed his face while part of him clenched tight around the hate. James and Clover didn’t seem to mind his sullen silence, exchanging bits of chatter about the weather and a movie they’d all seen recently. Qrow watched them with a growing surreal sense that maybe he was the person doing things wrong here. He shook it off and kept listening, hungry for any scraps of information they might drop, until Clover broke off and looked at him curiously.
“Something you want to add?”
Qrow’s hands clenched. “Were you in my room last night?”
Dead stop to the conversation, both James and Clover looking at him like he’d grown a second head. Clover set down his fork carefully. “Why would you think that?”
Dinner hardened to stone in his stomach, and Qrow pushed his chair back with a scrape. “Because you’re both rapist assholes and I don’t trust you.”
They exchanged a look, like they were worried about him, and James shook his head. “I’m sorry you think that way. We would never do that—we’re keeping you here for your safety, not to be cruel. You and your team almost handed the war to Salem, and it’s going to take time for people to get over that.”
Qrow’s mouth was dry, his hands itching with the desire to hit something. “Get out.”
Another glance between the two of them, and Clover said, “Yes, I think we’d better leave. If there’s anything we can bring to make you more comfortable—”
“Get out,” Qrow spat, and they went, leaving the smell of a ruined meal fading through a lattice of silence.
That night, Qrow dreamed that they came to bed with him—nothing sexual this time, just snuggling in beside him and bracketing his weary and sleep-heavy body with theirs. He wanted to pull away, but couldn’t quite connect the urge to his limbs. When he finally stopped trying he was spooned between them, Clover cradling him from behind while he breathed in the metal-and-skin scent at the back of James’s neck. He drifted back to sleep feeling warm and cherished, and woke up feeling groggy and hating himself.
The weary tug-of-war went on for weeks. Every few days, Clover or James or both would drop by. It was hard to hold the line of bitter spite, when Clover told some joke or James made some weary grumble and Qrow started to react like it was the old days before he caught himself.
Most nights he slept lightly, restless dreams and scraps of nightmare, Grimm battles past or fresh terror cascading down Ruby’s frantic voice on the scroll. Some nights, he had more of those dreams that Clover or James came to visit him, settling in beside. He always rolled away, because in sleep-logic it wasn’t his fault if he didn’t turn into the embrace. And when they gathered him close despite that, in the dark cave of the room he was weak, and let himself pretend he was warm and sheltered.
When he woke and the bed was empty, it always hurt, a sharp pang of loss that he scrubbed out with self-loathing.
He heard himself fraying around the edges in conversation. He was irritable and they deserved that, deserved much worse, but he hated being out of control. He tried to stay silent or stick to single words, but it was so easy to lapse. Like the time James said something wrong about a fight with a Nevermore from years ago, and Qrow broke in to correct him before he caught himself. But James just blinked at him, said, “You’re right,” and continued on with what he was saying.
Or the time Clover mentioned sightings of a new kind of Grimm, and a question tumbled out of Qrow’s mouth. And this time there wasn’t even an awkward pause; Clover just answered, and they were three steps further into the conversation before Qrow remembered and shut up again. On the way out that evening, Clover paused. He searched Qrow’s face for a second, then said, “I miss talking to you.” Qrow sneered, but he felt the cardboard mask of the expression, knew that Clover could see through it too before he left.
More days trickled by. Scraps of dreams where James or Clover came to kiss him, touch him, pressing his wrists into the mattress and exploring him softly until he arched up into them… then departing without finishing, leaving a raw edge of desire behind. Sometimes he woke to sticky sheets and couldn’t even remember the dream.
He was fucking losing it. He considered the real possibility that they were putting something in his food. But as far as he could tell, they ate the same bland premixed meals as he did when they visited, and he knew that if he brought it up they’d just treat him like he was crazy again. He couldn’t prove anything.
One night, Clover carried in a couple of extra containers and unloaded real ingredients, chopping and washing and humming to himself as James asked Qrow how he was doing. Qrow mumbled his way through the conversation, distracted by the smells drifting out of the kitchen. When James laughed quietly, Qrow’s attention snapped back, and he realized he’d made some crack from an old joke. He clamped his jaw shut and pretended that neither of them heard his stomach growling.
He managed to stay surly through dinner, only grunting when Clover asked if he liked the food. But Clover grinned at him, as if he was being cute, and said, “Thought so.” Qrow’s heart squeezed so hard he was almost sick at the table.
At the end of the meal, James looked at him with concern. “You’ve been in a good mood tonight, but otherwise you’re getting listless. I’m concerned about you, Qrow.”
Qrow pushed his thoroughly cleaned plate away, taste going sour in his mouth as he stared back incredulously. “You’re bitching that I’m not more peppy about jail? That’s really what’s happening here?”
“You know why you’re here,” Clover said in that infuriatingly reasonable tone. “And we all know the accommodations could be much worse.”
Anger flashed behind Qrow’s eyes like a spring storm, sharper and stronger than he’d felt in weeks, and he welcomed it. “Fuck you,” he spat, pushing back from the table. “Don’t throw me in solitary and pretend you don’t know what it does. I haven’t seen sunlight in months.”
The last part slipped out, traitorous feather breaking off to fall out of his ribcage where the trapped wings never stopped beating. He stalked away but something about the silence behind him tugged him to glance over his shoulder, catching Clover and James exchanging worried frowns.
“What?” Qrow said. Mistake.
James said slowly, “Qrow, you’ve only been here for about two weeks.”
Qrow froze. That wasn’t right. Was it? He hadn’t been counting. Stupid. But he was sure they were lying. “It’s been more than that,” he said after a pause, hoarse through a suddenly dry throat.
Clover said, “If you’re losing track of time—”
Qrow fled and slammed the bedroom door behind him, whole body strung stiff with tension, ready to attack anyone who came after him. But there were only a few muted sounds from outside, and finally the click of the outer door closing, sending a flinch through him.