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No sun. It is dark, time of eyes-closed-rest, time of perch-high-stay-still, but crow hears snap-crunch, boot on leaf litter. crow hears man-voice call soft, call like bird missing nest. Man-call ruffles crow’s feathers. crow is sensible. crow is trying to sleep, to prepare for much flight tomorrow. crow is soft-shadow against shadow-tree, shadow-quiet. Man is loud and noisy. Man is too close.
“crow,” the man says, except he doesn't say that. He says long nights arguing in front of the fireplace, a cold hearth searching for heat. He says Crow like this-crow and the this-ness reaches for him, too loud.
“Crow.” The shiny man reaches back. A breath, not a squawk – flock found, flock safe. “Why didn't you check in? We’ve been searching for you for weeks.”
crow cocks his head. Shiny man looks more shiny than he likes. Shiny man’s metal is moon-bright against dark trees, against scuffed-snow cloth and thorn-scratch skin. Crow caws, guilty-soft.
“Never mind. This isn't the time.” Brightmetal-darkwood sighs with clipped wings. “We can argue about the necessity of communication when we're back at base, but we have to get there first. Do you have everything you need?”
Crow doesn't understand, doesn't really care. Flops down and huddles on Ironwood’s shoulder with a clacking-beak yawn and a floofing of feathers. It's warm. Flock is warm.
Ironwood stiffens, enough for crow to crack open an eye. Wasn't there something about moving? Crow clacks at him. His perch rumbles, shifts, and strokes a questioning finger along his throat. Crow nudges it to the side and leans in. “Alright,” Ironwood says. His confusion doesn't stop him from scritching, which crow appreciates. Military training. “I should warn you, my reserves are running a little low, and I'm not as good with a sword as you are. The Grimm may have kept Ochre from finding you, but they also made it a challenge for us. I'd rather not rely on luck to make it back to the ship.”
Crow doesn't like that thought much, either. Crow is tired, is tired, is tired, but crow can scout the way.
°°°
He's both more and less exhausted when they come home to roost. Some deep part of him is stirring, awareness stretching and knocking into corners like it hasn't had its coffee yet, and the more lights come on upstairs, the more his bones ache like a bruised shin. This is the part where I'd have a drink, something says, if I had hands to drink with.
“Good, you're back,” Goodglint says as they come in. “Where’s–”
Movement up, bright lights. Crow clacks irritably and nuzzles closer into Ironwood’s hands.
“Vitals seem steady,” Ironwood tells her. “I didn't see any signs of injury.”
“But he hasn't turned back yet?”
Ironwood shakes his head, his heartbeat a steady doom-doom counterpoint to Goodglint’s snowsharp snap of fear-movement. She nods, crisp. “I'll get Ozpin.”
Her beak-shoes clack off down the hall. Crow is grateful when Ironwood follows at a more sedate pace – relying on other wings is disorienting, and he doesn't need any more excuse to ache.
“Give him here.” Another voice, cinnamon-blunt compared to Glynda but just as firm. He's passed from iron to pine, cradled as if he were meant to fit in these ageworn boughs, the worldtree making a nest of itself for him.
“Crow,” the world says. It zips across his feathers like new growth, like the air before a storm, like a moment in the balance. “Do you understand me?”
Communication is a chasm too wide to cross. Crow shakes sparks out of his feathers and hunkers down against the weight of the world’s gaze.
The green narrows. “Qrow Branwen,” the world- his winggi v er – O z p i n says. “If you understand me, I need you to nod.”
He doesn't want to understand yet. He wants to exist in the comforting haze he's found, to drift without the weight seeping into his hollow bones, but Ozpin’s voice grips something primal at the base of his skull and he nods.
The vacuum tugging at his wings evaporates into healthy air – something he could fly in, if he had the strength. Glynda thaws with a deep exhale. Ozpin straightens, shrugging off years. James remains steel. “So why isn't he changing back, then?”
Ozpin peers at him. He ruffles his feathers, torn between preening under the attention and being mortified by their gazes. He doesn't have the energy for either, he decides. The desk is hard, but it's definitely not the worst place he's slept, and the ticking of the gears makes a powerful lullaby when he's this close to sleep.
“He's likely too tired to make the shift,” Ozpin concludes. “After how his mission went, I can't say that I blame him. The information he sent back was… troubling, to say the least.”
“At least we know Cam Ochre is working for her now.” James sighs. “I'll put out an order for their arrest immediately.”
“Let’s not be so hasty. We can discuss a plan of action in the morning, once Qrow has given us his full report.” A finger strokes over Qrow’s head, drawing a rusty coo for its efforts. “In the meantime, we should allow both him and ourselves some time to recover. I suggest we all get some sleep.”
Great idea, Oz. Way ahead of you.
Except he isn't, not really. Glynda and Ironwood are talking again, and as little as he wants to hear James return to ill-fated attempts at flirting he can't turn off his ears, too weak to override the directive to listen, to observe, to remember. More than that, the room feels cold-empty-wrong with them gone, like they're taking part of him with them. His heart pounds like a man in his chest: don't leave. Don't leave me.
“I'm right here,” Ozpin tells him. And he is the world when he scoops him up again, warm time pulsing through his veins, time ticking through the air currents of the room, time cupping him gently like a precious thing. Time, pressing the barest of kisses to his feathery head, like a reminder, like forgiveness, like a benediction. “You're home now, Qrow. You can rest.”
Rest. He can… rest.
°°°
Ozpin doesn't normally mind conversing with his students. However, it's 7:15, and he isn't alone. Mindless chatter makes for a poor wake up call after such a long night, and his guest has earned his rest. A stern glare and nod to his desk are thankfully enough to stem Ms. Argent’s babbling, though not enough to silence her questions.
“Um, professor? Is that your scarf?”
He ducks his head, an old reflex he only just manages to turn into a nod. Strange how exposed this neck feels without a strip of cloth. “It is.”
Sable twists her hands around her whip, following the spiraling black and white; a nervous tic, Ozpin notes, though, again, the discomfort doesn't stop her from indulging the desire to pry. “And, I'm sorry, but is that a bird in there?”
“A crow, to be precise.”
“Why?”
And there she goes, to the heart of the matter at last. He affords her a slight smile. “You might say I'm watching him for a friend.”
It answers both everything and nothing, of course. It would be cruel to find amusement in the girl’s confusion, but then cruelty is an old acquaintance of his, and as it goes, this is only a small one. She screws her face up, trying to puzzle out his words, and just as she grasps the shape of what they've left unsaid–
“How may I help you, Ms. Argent?”
Ozpin fancies he sees Qrow smile.