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Qrow could always remember the moment his dark red eyes first fell upon the most breathtaking sight he had ever seen — as if the very heavens had conspired to haunt him with beauty. It carved itself into his memory like a name etched into stone, unforgettable, unyielding, a vision that clung to his mind the way a curse clings to the soul of a dying man. No matter how many bottles he emptied or battles he survived, that single moment remained — vibrant, vivid, venomous.

It had been a night meant for triumph — a celebration of Team STRQ's victory at the Vytal Festival, held within the glittering heights of Atlas, where cold elegance kissed every marble floor and golden chandelier. Ozpin himself, ever the careful architect of moments, had arranged the gathering, co-hosted by none other than Nicholas Schnee, the imposing patriarch of the SDC.

Qrow, for his part, felt suffocated. His tie itched. The champagne tasted like ash. The politeness of the elite grated on him like a blade across stone. He and Raven, kindred in their shared contempt for high society, had exchanged weary glances from opposite ends of the ballroom, both aching to escape into the comfort of noise and neon — a bar, a brawl, anything real. Summer had insisted they stay, her voice sugar-sweet but firm as steel, promising a true celebration once they returned to Vale.

Qrow didn't quite believe her. He loved Summer—or at least respected her enough to stay—but she was too straight-laced for his kind of fun. She played by rules even when she bent them. She smiled too much, forgave too easily, and drank far too little.

But then — gods, then — his world shifted.

She appeared on the grand staircase like something out of a dream—no, a vision. A myth given form. An angel descending not with fanfare, but with grace so effortless it stole the breath from his lungs. The idle noise of the party dulled to a low hum, as though the world itself held its breath to watch her descend.

Her dress was starlight woven into silk, flowing with each step, catching the crystal light and bending it around her like a spell. Her hair was free, curled softly, a few wayward strands brushing her cheeks in a way that felt deliberately imperfect—perfectly human. Her face, sharp yet delicate, bore the kind of beauty that hurt to look at for too long. Black eyeshadow framed those brilliant, ice-blue eyes, cold yet kind, distant yet dangerously close to pulling him under. And her lips, glossed and glistening, curved into a smile that was not meant for him, and yet pierced him like it was.

Her attire that night was nothing short of ethereal. The bodice she wore was pale blue, strapless and elegant, revealing her slender neck and bare shoulders, so pale and delicate they might've been carved from porcelain. There was a fragility to her, not of weakness, but of something rare, something that should not be touched without reverence.

Her skirt flowed endlessly from her waist, so long it swept the floor like a whisper, trailing behind her, and it was crafted, it seemed, not from silk or satin, but from layer upon layer of white feathers, like the wings of a thousand swans gathered at her feet. And when she moved, they rustled in harmony, giving the illusion of flight, as though she were a creature not meant for the ground.

Wrapped around her arms, rising to nearly her elbows, were fingerless white opera gloves, adorned with tiny blue jewels that caught the light like frozen tears. Her nails, painted the softest shade of blue, mirrored the hue of her bodice, as if she had dipped each fingertip in ice and left them to sparkle.

Willow Schnee.

That was her name.

And to Qrow, it echoed like a song, a melody he would never forget, even if he tried. It became a part of him, etched into the fabric of his memory, as permanent as scars and far more beautiful.

When the music began and hesitant dancers clung to the edges of the ballroom, uncertain and shy, Qrow felt none of their fear.

For once, the young cynic troublemaker, had purpose.

He stepped forward, each footfall steady despite the thunder in his chest, and extended a hand toward her with as much grace as he could summon. He asked her to dance — politely, almost nervously — hoping to leave an impression on the woman who looked like winter come to life, like snow delicately resting on the branch of a tree.

Willow's expression shifted the moment he asked. Surprise danced across her delicate features, her lips parting into a soft "O" of astonishment, as though the very thought of someone like him, rough-edged and out of place in such gilded halls, stepping forward to ask her to dance had caught her entirely off guard. But the moment passed, and in its place bloomed a smile — gentle, warm, and lovely.

She nodded slowly, a quiet grace in the motion, and extended her hand to him. Qrow took it — perhaps a little too eagerly, but his calloused fingers closed around hers with a care that betrayed the wildness of his reputation.

He helped her to her feet with all the ceremony of a knight raising a queen, and together they made their way, slowly, deliberately, to the heart of the dance floor, where music and candlelight met like old lovers.

Though the room had once felt like a prison of etiquette and false smiles, now, in her presence, it felt almost... sacred.

To his great relief, Qrow found his body remembering the steps he'd begrudgingly learned during the Vytal Ball — stiff lessons pressed into muscle memory, now softened by the rhythm of the strings and the woman in his arms. He matched her step for step, his movements careful, measured, while hers were effortless, flowing with an elegance that made her appear as though she floated rather than danced.

They moved in harmony, the distance between them narrowing, not in inches but in something deeper—something unspoken. Crimson eyes, storm-tossed and shadowed by years of blood and dust, gazed into eyes as blue as glacier light, untouched by the ugliness of the world yet brimming with silent understanding.

A bandit's stare met a noblewoman's gaze, and for those brief, golden minutes, nothing else existed.

It was as though they were bewitched by one another, held in place by a spell only their eyes could cast — too entranced to look away, too drawn to break the moment. But all things, even the beautiful ones, must end.

The final note of the song drifted into silence, and the spell broke gently, like a dream stirring into wakefulness. They slowed, then stopped, the moment suspended between them like dust in candlelight. Without a word, they walked together toward a small, round table nearby — empty, waiting, as if it had known they would need it.

Willow sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, her smile still present, still soft — the kind of smile that didn't fade with silence. She tilted her head slightly, her voice light and just a touch unsure, as though she feared offense.

"I didn't expect someone like you to be, well... quite so familiar with ballroom dancing," she said, her words tinged with hesitation, not cruelty.

Qrow didn't bristle. He heard no malice, only curiosity — and perhaps a hint of amusement. He smirked, the expression crooked and half-shy in spite of itself. "What can I say?" he replied, leaning back in his seat. "I'm just full of surprises,"

Willow let out a soft giggle, hand rising gently to her chest. "Indeed," she said, voice like bells wrapped in velvet.

Then, as if remembering something important, she straightened ever so slightly.

"Ah, forgive me," she said. "I should've introduced myself sooner... I'm Willow Schnee,"

"I'm Qrow Branwen," he said, his voice low but steady.

Willow tilted her head, a knowing smile dancing on her lips. "Yes, I know," she said softly, her eyes sparkled with a quiet amusement as she went on, "I watched you fight during the team and duo rounds of the tournament,"

The words caught Qrow off guard — not because they were bold, but because they were hers. She had seen him, not just seen someone, but him. His posture shifted, just slightly, his confidence dipping into something sheepish. "O-oh? Really? That's... uh... cool," he managed, the words tumbling out more awkwardly than he intended, betraying the rare flutter in his chest.

Willow laughed — a little louder this time, sounding like chimes in a soft breeze. "Yes, cool indeed," she echoed, teasing. Her smile deepened, her eyes narrowing playfully. "In fact, I've heard a bit about you,"

Qrow groaned internally, already sensing the direction. He leaned back a bit, lifting a hand as if to defend himself from whatever was coming next. "Just so you know, most of them are rumors, especially the ones about me wearing a skirt, those photos are doctored,"

Willow raised a brow, intrigued, clearly enjoying this far more than he was. "Truly?" she asked, voice laced with mischief. "So even the tale of you killing a Nevermore mid-air with a lit Molotov to the beak is false?"

Qrow blinked, then gave her a sidelong glance and a smirk. "No, that one's real, damn bird ruined a perfectly good bottle of booze," he muttered, the last part under his breath.

But Willow heard him—and her smile only grew. She leaned in just slightly, curiosity gleaming like starlight in her eyes. "Tell me... what's it like? Being a Huntsman?"

What's it like?" Qrow echoed.

He glanced away, eyes flicking toward the grand ballroom windows — but he wasn't looking at the lights or the snow beyond. He was looking inward, remembering.

"Well," he began, voice softening with a fondness not even he knew he had, "To be honest... it's a little fun, y'know? There's something wild and good about it. Roaming from town to town, forest to desert, mountain to shore... Fighting Grimm, saving lives, doing the whole "hero" thing, it's messy, it's dangerous, but it feels... right, especially when it's all over and you see the faces of the people you've saved, the relief, the gratitude, that flicker of hope that wasn't there before,"

He smiled faintly, eyes warming.

"Yeah, that's the part that stays with you,"

Willow tilted her head, resting her chin lightly in her hand, her gaze never leaving his. "That does sound exciting," she said, her voice delicate, dreamlike. "But... doesn't it get frightening? To walk through so much danger... doesn't it ever feel like too much?"

Qrow let out a breath and nodded, slow and solemn. "Yeah," he admitted. "It does, there've been times I thought it was the end—times I was sure I'd be nothing more than a Grimm's next meal, times I felt small, and tired, and scared in a way I can't even put into words,"

Willow leaned in just a little, as if afraid his honesty might break if she moved too suddenly. "But?" she asked gently.

"But I still wouldn't trade it for anything," he said, his voice resolute, almost reverent. "Because when I think about all the people I've helped... the friends I've fought beside, laughed with, bled with — it makes every scar, every ache, every sleepless night worth it, I don't think I could ever do anything else, or be anything else... This life, for all its rough edges... it fits me,"

His words caught her off guard — not for their meaning, but for their sincerity. She had expected charm, maybe even bravado... but not this. Not this raw and honest man who stared danger in the face and smiled, not because he was fearless, but because he had purpose.

"I've always wondered what it would be like," Willow murmured, a wistfulness slipping into her tone like a sigh beneath her words. "To live a life like that... to see the world, to meet new people, to feel the wind of a different country on your face, to taste food made by hands you've never met... To choose where you go, what you do, who you become, it must be... wonderful... To be free,"

Qrow's brow furrowed slightly, her words ringing with something he hadn't expected — not envy, not longing... but sadness. "You've never left Atlas?" he asked, the question simple, but weighted.

Willow shook her head gently, the soft curls of her hair swaying like silk. "Never," she admitted, her voice laced with a fragility that brushed against something deep in Qrow. "I've lived in Atlas my entire life, not once have I set foot beyond its walls, never seen the other kingdoms, never breathed the air of another land, my world ends where these icy streets fade into snow,"

Qrow's brows knit together, a quiet astonishment stirring in his chest. "That sounds... awful," he said, blunt and unfiltered, but honest. "I can't imagine being stuck in a place like this, not that there's anything wrong with it, exactly! It's... it's nice, sure! But everyone here just seems-!"

"Fake," The word slid from Willow's lips like a dagger made of glass.

Qrow stopped mid-sentence, his rambling silenced by the sharp cut of her voice. He looked at her, truly looked — and for a heartbeat, the noise of the ballroom faded into nothing.

Willow met his gaze, her expression no longer clouded with charm or polite amusement, but something more vulnerable—more real.

"I know what you were trying to say," she said softly, her hands resting atop one another, fingers curling slightly. "My mother and father, they love me, they check in, they ask questions, but always behind a polished smile or through a secretary," She looked down, her voice quiet but steady. "And everyone else? The guests, the suitors, the so-called friends? They're not here for me, they're here for my last name, for my father's favor,"

She lifted her head, her gaze like winter sky—cold but clear.

"It's lonely, Qrow, truly... I feel like I've never known what it means to have real friends—just courtiers in disguise,"

Qrow felt something shift in him — a kind of quiet fury, not at her, but for her, and without overthinking, without hesitating, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table as his voice dropped low and warm. "Well," he said, plainspoken as ever, "if it's a friend you're looking for... I can be one,"

The words weren't polished, but they didn't need to be.

They were real, like wind against the skin, like laughter after sorrow.

And for Willow Schnee, who had spent her life behind masks and mirrors, it was perhaps the first thing in a long time that felt utterly, painfully genuine.

She gave him a smile—not the rehearsed, practiced kind she wore for photographs and galas, but something softer, more vulnerable. It touched her eyes, warmed her cheeks, and for a fleeting second, she looked like a girl unburdened by expectation. "I'd love that, Qrow," she said, her voice a feather on the air.

Qrow felt his own smile pull at his lips, unbidden and easy. "Good, because I'd love to be your friend," he said. A beat passed, then his grin turned a little sly. "Heh, who knows, maybe I'll even teach you how to have fun, my kind of fun!"

Willow tilted her head, amusement lighting up her features like moonlight on snow. "Why wait?" she asked, eyes gleaming with a sudden, mischievous fire.

Qrow blinked. "Huh?"

She giggled, a melodic sound that made his heart stumble in his chest. "I said, why wait? We could sneak out of here right now, I doubt anyone would even notice,"

Qrow leaned back slightly, an eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I dunno... I think people might notice if someone as stunning as you suddenly vanished into the night,"

Willow's lips curved into a cat-like grin, teasing and full of amusement. "Oh? So I'm stunning, am I?"

Realizing the compliment he'd accidentally let slip, Qrow flushed — a faint pink rising into his cheeks despite the confident air he usually wore like armor. "I–! You know what I meant...!" he muttered, scratching the back of his neck and glancing away with a sheepish half-smile.

"I do," Willow said, her voice velvet-soft and amused. "But it's still nice to hear."

She leaned forward, her fingers brushing gently along the rim of her empty glass.

"Still, I meant it, let's leave! :et them all keep dancing in circles while we find something real, take me down to Mantle, Qrow, show me how you live, how you laugh! Let me see the world through your eyes, just for a night!"

Qrow stared at her, stunned by her boldness and the quiet hope beneath it. He saw in her something brave and fragile all at once — a girl who had lived a life of glass towers and gilded cages, asking him to help her steal a taste of freedom.

And Qrow Branwen had never been good at saying no to a little chaos.

Qrow glanced around the glittering ballroom, idle chatter floating like perfume through the air, and realized, to his amusement, that not a soul was watching them. They were invisible in a room full of eyes.

He turned back to Willow, a smirk tugging at his lips like a secret waiting to be shared. "Well then... Milady," he said with a mock bow and a glint in his eye, "Let's do this!"

Without another word, the two rose from their seats like whispers slipping past velvet curtains. They moved swiftly, quietly, ghosts in fine clothing. Qrow took Willow's hand in his — warm and delicate — and led her through corridors of marble and silk, out into the night, where the real world waited.

The cold air bit at their cheeks as they raced down the stairs, laughter trailing behind them like sparks from a fire. A nearby taxi screeched to a stop as Qrow waved it down, and soon they were on their way to the trams — their carriage into the underworld below Atlas: the city of Mantle.

Once the tram hissed to a halt and the doors slid open, the cold, honest air of Mantle greeted them like a long-lost friend. Gone were the gold-trimmed walls and frozen smiles. Here, the city was alive.

Gritty, loud, and real.

They made their way to a club that pulsed with neon veins and music like thunder. Inside, it was all heat and heartbeats, bass vibrating in their bones, colored lights painting their skin with shades of wild freedom.

Qrow stayed close, always keeping her within arm's reach, not out of duty, but out of quiet reverence. He didn't drink like he used to, not tonight. Tonight wasn't about dulling his edges; it was about sharpening her joy.

He wanted her to feel everything.

And she did.

Willow danced like the world had finally loosened its grip on her spine. She cursed freely with a grin splitting her lips as she spun with abandon, no longer a porcelain doll meant for display, but a wildfire in high heels.

She ordered greasy food from a cart outside the club and devoured it with joyful carelessness, sauce on her lips, laughter in her throat. She tasted cocktails with sugar-rimmed glasses and burning whiskey that made her eyes water — the kind of drinks she'd only heard whispers of in the halls of private schools.

And all the while, Qrow watched. Not as a hunter, not as a warrior, not even as a man with a past. But as a friend who had given a girl a night to remember — and fallen just a little more for the light that bloomed inside her because of it.

In a single night, Willow Schnee was free. Not the kind of freedom sold in stories, but something raw, something earned. And Qrow, a boy who had known cages of his own, saw it in her. That fragile, fierce joy.

She didn't want to let it go.

And deep down, he didn't want her to, either. Because in that flickering moment, under club lights and starlit streets, Willow wasn't just beautiful...

She was alive.

No longer was sheWillow Schnee,the daughter of Nicholas Schnee — no longer the prized gem encased in frost, no longer the heiress groomed for perfection beneath chandeliers and silver-spooned expectations.

The weight of her name, her lineage, her legacy — all of it melted beneath the warmth of laughter, the pulse of music, and the wild, golden glimmer of freedom.

No longer did she wear the porcelain mask of poise and practiced grace. No longer did she have to walk like a whisper or speak like a songbird taught by tutors.

Tonight, she was not an image, not an emblem.

She was simply... Willow.

Willow, who danced barefoot in a club with aching feet and a drink in her hand.

Willow, whose laugh wasn't polite but loud, and real, and reckless.

Willow, whose joy was no longer painted on, but bursting through her like light through stained glass.

And Qrow saw it — not the Schnee heiress, but the woman beneath it all. A girl no longer perched in a gilded cage, but flying.

He couldn't look away... And maybe that's where it began. Not in the grand halls of Atlas or the pages of a fairytale, but in a dirty club in Mantle.

Where a Crow met a Swan.

And he didn't fall for the name, the title, or the elegance. He fell for her.

A tale born not of royalty and riches, but of rebellion and rhythm. Of feathers and flight. Of a man who drank shadows, and a woman who had never known what it meant to shine.

Thus began the tale of a Crow who loved a Swan.

Not for her song, but for the silence she broke when she finally learned how to sing her own.

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So funny enough, this Fic was inspired by a tumblr post I made in where I talked about tragic ships. My three biggest tragic ships were: QrowXWinter, MercuryXEmerald, and JauneXPenny... and that idea stuck with me for a while, so I decided why not make a story that contains all three? Now, Jaune and Penny will be the main focus, but remember, Qrow, Willow, Mercury, and Emerald are just as important, and eventually, at times, their stories will intersect.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story and are waiting to see what happens next because trust me, it's going to be good~!

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She didn't know why the boy made something in her hum louder — why the quiet mechanisms inside her whirred faster whenever he looked her way — but he did.

Every time Jaune Arc smiled at her, it was like her very core spun with a fervor beyond calibration, a silent rhythm that pulsed through wires and steel like a heartbeat... if she'd truly had one.

Penny Polendina was far from a normal girl. Her reflection had always reminded her of that. Skin that never bruised. Limbs that never tired. A body forged, not born.

And yet... she lived.

Not because of the pistons and circuits, nor the coding that charted her every movement —
But because of the soul her father had gifted her. A fragment of something eternal and incandescent, nestled deep within her synthetic chest.

And it was that soul — real, undeniable, hers — that allowed her to feel.

She had known happiness, bright and bursting, when she first wandered the streets of Vale and watched the world unfold in colors and chaos.

She had tasted sorrow, quiet and heavy, when she left her father behind in Atlas, his goodbye a memory that echoed in her core.

She had been afraid — truly afraid — that if someone saw beneath her smile, they'd see the circuitry instead of the girl.

She had felt frustration — bubbling, fierce — whenever General Ironwood denied her even the smallest freedoms, as though her choices weren't her own.

These feelings, strange and overwhelming, were patiently explained by her dearest friend, Ruby Rose. Ruby had helped her name them — like stars mapped in a sky Penny never knew she longed for.

But now...

Now there was a new feeling.

It emerged the day she met Ruby's other best friend, Jaune Arc.

It was strange — how one feeling could hold so many opposites in its grasp.

Whenever Jaune Arc looked her way, Penny felt both elation and unease— A spark of joy that lit up her soul... And a surge of heat that left her processors fluttering, as if her entire system skipped a beat.

It made her smile in ways she didn't fully understand. It made her anxious, like some part of her was on the edge of a software crash, and yet, it also made her feel more human than ever.

But when his gaze drifted elsewhere... When it landed not on her, but on someone else.

She felt something sharp, not a physical wound, but something just as real. A flicker of frustration and A bloom of something... bitter.

And that emotion, strange and new, always seemed to surface whenever he looked at Weiss Schnee.

Penny didn't hate Weiss. She didn't believe she was capable of true hatred. That emotion felt too corrosive, too heavy for the soul her father had given her.

But dislike? Yes. That felt accurate.

She didn't understand it completely, but it was there. In the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly when Weiss turned her back on Jaune, in the way her grip tightened when she saw the girl dismiss his earnest compliments with cold precision.

Weiss was sharp with him. Curt. Sometimes even cruel.

And Penny... didn't like that.

Not just because Jaune was her friend, but because she saw something in him that perhaps no one else did.

She saw a boy who reminded her of Ruby, clumsy in his charm, unrefined in his approach, but filled with a kindness so genuine it almost shimmered. Jaune wasn't smooth or graceful, but he was honest, and he wasn't fearless, but he stood tall even when his knees trembled.

She had watched him in combat class, awkward at first, yet growing, always growing. She saw how he threw himself in front of Grimm with the trembling resolve of someone who refused to let fear rule him.

She had heard his laughter, goofy, uneven, but full of warmth. He joked too often, tripped over his words, and flushed like a furnace when teased.

And yet... that was part of his charm.

He could banter, especially when the timing was right — when his confidence caught up with his heart. But when the teasing turned on him, when Ruby, Yang, Nora, or even Ren joined in, his face would go red, his shoulders would rise, and Penny couldn't help but find it... endearing.

Jaune Arc... he treated her like no one else had.

Not as an experiment.

Not as a machine.

Not even as something special or other.

But simply... as Penny.

He didn't know what Ruby knew. He hadn't been told about the wires beneath her skin, the circuits that pulsed where blood should flow. He had no knowledge of her synthetic origins, of the countless lines of code that made up her existence.

And yet... none of that mattered to him.

Even when her words came out too precise, too analytical. Even when she recited data like a walking textbook, even when her excitement took the form of facts instead of feelings, Jaune would only grin, laugh a little, and say:

"That's so cool, Penny. You're like a treasure chest of fun trivia."

And in that moment, that simple, sincere moment... He made her feel less like a machine trying to understand humanity, and more like a girl simply enjoying it.

It was this kindness, this effortless acceptance, that made her smile brighter whenever he entered a room. It made her gears hum softer, like a lullaby only her soul could hear, and over time... it made her notice things.

Not facts, not numbers, but details.

Details that didn't come from data, but from something deeper.

She liked his eyes, that brilliant cobalt blue, the color of ocean waves when sunlight danced across them. They were always so expressive, bright when he laughed, soft when he listened, stormy when he doubted himself.

She liked his smile, crooked, a little uncertain, but real. There was something undeniably endearing in the way it pulled slightly more to one side, like he was always holding back a joke or a thought he didn't know how to say out loud.

She liked his hair, that unruly mop of golden strands that always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after dreaming of heroism. It was wild, disheveled, soft-looking—like silk spun from sunlight.

It reminded her of a Golden Retriever, warm, loyal, slightly chaotic, and very pettable.

Penny discovered, to her surprise and delight, that running her fingers through his hair brought a strange satisfaction, a tactile joy that made her internal systems flutter and her cheeks glow with that faint simulated blush her father had programmed for moments of heightened emotion.

And so, every chance she got, she would gently smooth his locks with playful curiosity, claiming it was data gathering but deep down, she knew it was just her heart wanting to feel a little closer to his.

Jaune didn't seem to mind, he would grin and roll his eyes, maybe laugh nervously, but he never pulled away, and that, more than anything, made her feel accepted.

Not as a machine pretending to be human... But as a girl learning what it meant to be seen.

In time, the strange warmth that bloomed in Penny's chest could no longer be ignored. It buzzed beneath her synthetic skin like static electricity, soft and persistent. It lit up her mind with questions she couldn't answer, sensations she couldn't file away into neat, logical boxes.

So she did what any good friend would do, she went to Ruby.

With a tilt of her head and bright curiosity in her emerald eyes, Penny asked. "What is this... feeling?"

Ruby blinked, surprised at first—then smiled. A soft, knowing smile that curled with affection and a spark of joy. And gently, with all the patience of someone who cherished her deeply, Ruby told her.

The emotion she was feeling... was Love.

At the sound of that word, something inside Penny stirred, not a whirring motor or a ticking processor, but something deeper, more delicate.

Love.

The word alone felt like poetry. It wrapped around her like sunlight after rain, frightening in its vulnerability, and yet, it was beautiful in its boundless wonder.

Love was a storm and a lullaby. It made her core spin with impossible speed. It made her feel alive in a way circuits could never fully replicate. And Penny—brilliant, curious Penny—liked this emotion.

How could she not?

Love was vast.

Love was vivid.

Love was a universe contained within the beat of a single artificial heart.

To ignore it felt like denying herself the very thing she'd been built to seek—connection, understanding, life.

And so, a new directive formed within her mind, not coded in by her father, not instilled by Ironwood or any engineer, but born from her very own soul:

Ask Jaune Arc to the Vytal Dance.

Ruby, ever the romantic, had suggested it with giddy encouragement: "If you like him, Penny... you should tell him. Ask him to the dance. It's the perfect time."

Penny had nodded, her smile wide and eyes gleaming. Yes. That made perfect sense. In stories, when one person liked another, they invited them to special events.
It was a declaration of intent.

So now, guided by logic and heart, the ginger-haired girl marched forward with purpose and excitement, her steps light, almost like a dance of anticipation.

She stood now at the door of Team JNPR's dormitory—just across the hall from her beloved friends in Team RWBY. Her hands trembled with nervous energy, the feeling strange and exhilarating.

She raised one hand and knocked—softly, politely.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Seconds passed—then the door swung open with a flourish, and there stood Nora Valkyrie, vibrant, excitable, and smiling with the brightness of ten suns.

"Hey there, Penny!" she beamed, her voice like a firecracker of joy.

"Greetings, Nora!" Penny replied, mirroring her excitement with a sparkle in her emerald eyes and a cheerfulness that seemed to light the hallway.

Nora tilted her head, grin widening. "So, what brings my ginger-sister here, huh?"

Penny let out a soft, melodic laugh at the affectionate nickname, her synthetic heart ticking just a little faster. "I was wondering if Jaune was here," she said, hands politely clasped in front of her. "I'd like to speak to him... privately."

Nora's smile turned impish. "Jaune-Jaune? Oh, he's here all right!" And with zero hesitation, she turned her head and shouted like a cannon blast across a calm sea: "JAUNE! IT'S PENNY! SHE'S HERE FOR YA!"

From just beyond the doorway, Jaune stepped into view, rubbing his ear with a mild glare aimed at his overly enthusiastic teammate. "Nora," he deadpanned, gesturing to the desk a few feet away, "I was literally right there. Sitting next to the door. I heard everything. You really didn't need to yell."

Nora gave a sheepish laugh, rocking back on her heels. "Oops... Sorry, fearless leader."

Jaune sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's fine." Then his eyes landed on Penny, and that small smile bloomed into something brighter. "Hey, what's up, Penny?"

Penny's face lit up like circuitry brought to life. "The ceiling," she quipped.

A laugh escaped Jaune, rolling his eyes with mock exasperation. "You've been spending too much time with Yang."

Penny nodded proudly. "So I've been told," she said. Then her voice softened, sincerity slipping in like a whispered promise. "Anyway... I wished to speak to you in private, if that's okay?"

Jaune nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting with an easy smile. "Yeah, no problem," he said, voice calm and warm like a summer breeze.

He stepped out into the hallway, the soft click of his boots tapping lightly against the floor. Reaching for the door, he moved to close it behind him—but paused. A knowing look crossed his face as he turned back toward the room like a knight eyeing his mischievous squire.

"No eavesdropping," he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at Nora.

"I wasn't gonna!" she replied, far too quickly to be believed.

A quieter voice chimed in from deeper within the room. "She was," Ren stated flatly.

"Ren!" Nora gasped, betrayed.

Jaune couldn't help the laugh that slipped from his throat, light and genuine. He shook his head and finally shut the door with a soft click, leaving behind the noise and mischief of the room.

Now, in the quiet stretch of hallway where time seemed to slow just a little, he stood alone with Penny. The air felt still, like the world had politely stepped aside to give them space.

And Penny, feeling something electric stir in her soul, knew this moment mattered.

"So, uh... what did you wanna talk to me about?" Jaune asked, brow lifted with quiet curiosity, his voice light but sincere.

It was a simple question—gentle, harmless—but to Penny, it hit like a jolt of static across delicate wires. Suddenly, the hallway felt smaller, warmer, and strangely louder, as if her thoughts were echoing off every wall.

Words caught in her throat like a glitch in her coding. "Well, I... um..." she began.

Penny fingers began fidgeting at her sides, eyes flickering down to the floor for half a second before bouncing back to his.

"I wanted to ask if you would... uh..." She laughed awkwardly, her voice dipping into a register that felt foreign even to her. "I was wondering if you'd be my, um... date to the dance?" she finally said, cheeks glowing with shy circuitry, her voice soft but earnest.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Jaune blinked, his eyes going wide, surprise dancing in their ocean-blue depths. And as he stood there stunned, Penny felt her core stutter—like her very heartbeat had skipped.

This moment, this question, this uncertainty... it pressed against her like a pause before a song's next note, delicate and infinite. She waited, still and breathless, hoping his answer might set her soul in motion again.

“I–I’m sorry, Penny… I think I misheard you,” Jaune said, scratching the back of his head, his words stumbling over themselves like they were afraid to be spoken aloud. “Did you just say… you wanted me to be your date to the dance?” His voice carried equal parts confusion and disbelief, as if the idea itself was too surprising to process at once.

Quickly, Penny nodded, no hesitation in the movement. “I did,” she replied simply, the certainty in her tone standing in stark contrast to the rush of warmth in her cheeks.

“Why?” Jaune asked, the question tumbling out before he could stop it. “I–I don’t mean it’s a no! I just—uh… why me?”

Penny’s lips curved into a small, awkward smirk, though her eyes held a sincerity that made her words feel weighty. “Because I… like you, Jaune,” she said softly. “I really like you. And I wish to take you to the dance so that I can… pursue you romantically.”

For a moment, the world between them stilled.

Jaune Arc was, by all accounts, notoriously dense when it came to these kinds of things—missing signs, overlooking hints, and often tripping over his own feelings before he could even name them. But Penny’s words were not a hint; they were a direct strike, clear as sunlight through glass, impossible to ignore.

A part of him, the old part still nursing a stubborn dream, wanted to hesitate—wanted to say no because of Weiss. But that dream had been fading with every gentle rejection, each one chipping away at the pedestal he’d built for her. The truth was, it had become exhausting, even a little disheartening, to keep chasing something that was never going to be his.

And now… here was Penny.

Penny, whose laughter felt like it could reboot a bad day. Penny, whose quirks and kindness wrapped around him like sunlight. Penny, who was standing here, looking at him like she meant every word. A really cute girl. A genuinely good girl.

And for once, Jaune decided he wouldn’t let an opportunity like this slip away.

“I… I’d love to, Penny,” Jaune said, a smile breaking across his face like sunlight through clouds.

Penny’s eyes went wide, her whole expression lighting up as if he’d just handed her the stars. “Really!?” she asked, almost breathless.

Jaune nodded with certainty, his grin widening. “Really.”

“Sensational!” Penny exclaimed, her voice bursting with unfiltered joy.

Before he could even brace himself, Penny leaned forward and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. It was brief—like the flicker of a candle flame—but it left a lingering heat that stunned him into stillness. She pulled back, wearing a smile so bright it could have outshone the hallway lights.

“Now, excuse me, Boyfriend Jaune, but I need to pick out a dress for the dance!” she declared, her voice lilting with glee before she spun on her heel and darted down the hallway, her steps as buoyant as her mood.

Jaune stood frozen where she’d left him, the world around him muffled and distant. His lips still held the ghost of her warmth, a fleeting trace of something electric that slowly faded but refused to be forgotten.

In that moment—right there, in a quiet hallway with nothing but the echo of her laughter—Jaune Arc felt like the king of the world. Not because of crowns or conquests… but because a girl like Penny had chosen him.

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A/N :

Take that, Pyrrha! Cuck chair for you!

Chapter Text

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Emerald didn't know why he did it. He was a complete idiot for doing it, too. Her fault, really—she hadn't been paying attention. He should've just let the damn thing sink its fangs into her and be done with it.

Instead, here she was, sitting cross-legged in the dirt beside Mercury, who lay wrapped in a sleeping bag. His head rested against a lumpy pillow propped by a log, his body trembling and slick with fever-sweat. All thanks to the bite of a young King Taijitu.

They'd set camp too close to a nest, and though they'd cut down most of the Grimm, one slipped through the chaos—slithering in the shadows, jaws snapping. It lunged for her throat, and before Emerald could react, Mercury had shoved himself in the way. Its fangs sank into him instead.

Stupid. Reckless. So him.

It wasn't lethal—the venom of a baby wasn't nearly as catastrophic as a full-grown serpent's—but it still burned its way through his body, leaving him feverish, trapped in the half-light between dreams and delirium. So now it was her turn to sit and wait, to watch over him while he sweated, shivered, and groaned.

Normally, she'd mock him for being so pathetic, so helpless. She'd twist the knife just to see that irritated spark flare in his eyes. But not this time. Not when she knew damn well it should've been her in that bag instead of him.

Mercury stirred with a shudder, lids fluttering as his grey eyes cracked open halfway. They were glassy, confused, unfocused—but they still sought her out.

Emerald leaned forward, arms draped loosely over her knees, and met his gaze. "You awake?" she asked, her voice quieter than she expected, almost reluctant.

"M-Mama...?" Mercury's voice rasped, weak and trembling, breaking through the quiet like a ghost of someone else entirely.

Emerald's brow furrowed, her lips parting as her head tilted. "What the—?" she muttered, not sure if she'd heard him right.

"I-I don't feel good... I'm scared..." he whispered, before breaking into a rattling cough.

Emerald leaned back slightly, folding her arms like a shield. "Yeah, I bet," she said flatly, choosing to ignore the strange plea. "You're an idiot for doing that."

Her words landed heavier than she meant them to, and she saw it—his face, twisted with hurt, eyes clouding like a child who'd been struck.

"I-I... I'm sorry, I-I just didn't want him to hit you anymore... Mama..." Mercury croaked, his voice cracking like old glass.

Emerald froze. Her eyes widened, shock rippling through her chest like someone had yanked a cord she didn't know existed.

He coughed again, thinner this time, before forcing out, "I... I didn't make things worse, did I?"

For once, Emerald didn't have a sharp tongue at the ready. Silence stretched, heavy and awkward, while she searched for something—anything—to say.

"...M-Mama?" Mercury called again, weak and lost.

Finally, she swallowed down the knot in her throat and answered his fever-dream. "...No. You didn't make it worse, Mercury."

A faint smirk tugged at his cracked lips, fragile but genuine. "Heh... that's good," he breathed. His eyes fluttered, wet and unfocused, before he asked, voice trembling like a broken wire, "Are you... gonna leave again?"

The question hit harder than any Grimm ever could.

Are you gonna leave again?

Emerald's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to laugh it off, shove it aside with some biting remark about how he was delirious, how he didn't know what the hell he was saying. That would've been easier.

Safer.

But the way he looked at her, half-conscious, eyes glassy, body trembling, he didn't look like Mercury the smartass, or Mercury the killer, or even Mercury her partner. He looked like a kid. A scared kid.

Her chest ached in a way she hated.

"...No, dummy," she said finally, her voice softer than she meant it to be. "I'm not gonna leave."

She reached out, hesitated, then set her hand gently against his forehead, brushing back a few sweat-soaked strands of silver hair.

"You're stuck with me, remember?" she added, forcing a lopsided smirk, but her eyes betrayed her.

Mercury let out a weak breath that almost sounded like a laugh, then closed his eyes, leaning just slightly into her touch like it was the only anchor he had left.

His hand slipped free from the cocoon of the sleeping bag, trembling as it reached for hers. Almost before she realized what she was doing, Emerald caught it. Her fingers wrapped around his, gentle but firm, as if to say: "I'm here, I'm not letting go."

"I'm sorry..." he croaked, his voice frayed at the edges.

Emerald frowned, brow lifting. "For what, baby?"

Mercury sniffled, his grip tightening weakly on her hand. "For not being strong enough to stop him... for not protecting you. I was weak..." He dragged in a shaky breath that rattled in his chest. "That's why you left, Mama. That's why you left me alone with him... because I was a bad son."

The words punched through her like glass. Her throat burned, but she forced her voice steady. "No, baby, you weren't a terrible son..."

"But I—"

"I was supposed to protect you," Emerald cut in, firmer this time, though her own chest clenched like a fist. "You were a good boy. You were a brave boy."

Mercury's head shifted side to side in the faintest, fevered denial. "I-I'm not brave... I... I don't think I'm anything like the Rusted Knight, Mama."

Emerald tilted her head, eyes softening despite herself. "Why's that?" she asked, her tone caught somewhere between curious and coaxing, like she was pulling the truth out of a wound.

"I... I'm not good, Mama, I... I joined some bad people, I've done... bad things," Mercury began, each word a shard he forced past trembling teeth. He swallowed, exhaled like steam, and pushed on. "B-But I saved someone today, Mama... I-I didn't let someone get hurt, Mama."

Emerald's body went taut, a wire pulled tight. She could hear how the sentence stumbled, feel the jagged edges of whatever memory dragged him back. Still, she kept silent—let him speak. She wanted the truth, even through fevered lips.

"Who did you save?" she asked, voice low and even, careful as a hand reaching into cold water.

Mercury let out a weak, breathy chuckle that sounded almost like a sob. "A girl... Her name's Emerald... She... She's my partner," he said, voice fragile as porcelain. "I... I didn't want her getting hurt, even though she hates me."

The last clause landed like a thrown stone. For a moment, Emerald could only stare at the sky above the campsite, while the memory of her own past raked across her. Faces, goodbyes, friends turned strangers, hands that promised and then let go. She had been left so many times her skin had learned to expect the cold.

"Why do you think she hates you?" she asked, because she needed to hear him say it, to see the shape of his fear.

"'Cause everyone hates me, Mama..." Mercury replied, voice small. "I-I'm his son, remember... Everyone hates me, everyone leaves me..."

His confession cracked something open in her.

It was the same hollow she'd lived inside—a hollow of abandonment and bitterness that made trust feel like a luxury she couldn't afford. Emerald remembered the nights she'd braided her anger into armor, the times she'd watched people walk away and learned to make no sound when they left.

But looking at him now, thin, fevered, holding on to her hand like it was the last warm thing left... something softened. Not because his words washed away the past, but because she knew what it meant to be the one left behind.

She knew how hollow the world could feel.

But she had Cinder now.

Cinder had reached into the gutter and pulled her out, brushed the dirt off her face, and told her she was worth more than scraps. She gave Emerald a roof, a reason, a purpose. She gave her a place to belong. For the first time in her life, Emerald wasn't just surviving—she was living. And because of that, she wasn't alone anymore.

Neither was Mercury. Because now, whether she admitted it out loud or not, she was here for him. And she wasn't going anywhere.

"Mama?" Mercury's weak voice pulled her back, rough and trembling like it had to fight through fire to reach her.

Emerald looked down at him, her eyes soft despite the tension in her shoulders. "Yeah, baby?" she asked quietly.

His lips quivered as though he wasn't sure he should say it, but then it came, fragile as glass: "Can you sing to me... like you used to?"

The words hit her harder than she expected. A crack in the wall she'd built around herself, jagged and raw. Emerald didn't answer right away; her throat felt tight. She dragged in a slow breath, let it out, then nodded.

"Of course, baby," she said gently, brushing his damp bangs from his fever-warmed forehead. "What do you want to hear?"

Mercury's eyelids fluttered halfway shut. "A-Anything..." he croaked, his voice smaller than ever.

Emerald swallowed, pressing her lips together as she searched her memory. She'd heard countless tunes in the streets—songs hummed by starving beggars for spare Lien, lullabies drifting from cracked windows, hymns whispered in alleys by those who still prayed. One of those melodies rose unbidden to her lips, the kind that carried sorrow and tenderness all at once.

And then, softly, she began to sing.

"Mama who bore me~ Mama who gave me~ No way to handle things~ Who made me so sad~" Her voice wavered at first, low and uncertain, but soon it steadied, wrapping around the boy like a thin blanket of sound. "Mama, the weeping~ Mama, the angels~ No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem~"

Her words weren't polished; she wasn't some trained singer. But in that moment, under the hush of the night, her voice was enough. Enough to remind him he wasn't alone. Enough to remind herself too.

Mercury's body, once tense and restless, slowly seemed to sink into stillness, lulled by the rhythm of Emerald's voice. It was soft, almost fragile, yet there was a strange warmth threaded through each note, something he couldn't quite place. It wasn't exactly how he remembered his mother's voice, but close enough that his weary mind clung to it desperately. Different, yes—but not wrong. Not bad. In fact, it was comforting in a way that made his chest ache.

The edges of his dull grey eyes grew wet, tears welling until they blurred Emerald's face into a haze of color and light.

"Some pray that one day~ Christ will come a'-callin'~ They light a candle~ And hope that it glows~!" Emerald sang, her voice quivering slightly as she tightened her hold on his hand. She didn't even realize she was squeezing until her own throat burned with rising emotion. "And some just lie there crying~ For Him to come and find them~ But when He comes they don't know how to go~!"

Her tears slipped free, rolling down her cheeks, but she didn't stop singing.

Mercury, meanwhile, drifted into memory.

He could see her—his real mother—in his mind as if the song itself was opening a door he had long kept locked.

He remembered the way her soft grey eyes used to look at him, full of gentleness and worry.

He remembered the short silver hair she kept in tiny braids, hair that shimmered like moonlight when she bent down to kiss his forehead.

He remembered her pale skin, delicate as snow, bruised sometimes but still radiant to him.

And most of all, he remembered the smile. That smile, so simple and warm, had the power to undo every cruel word and every brutal strike from his father.

And her laugh—gods, her laugh—it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard, a sound so rare and precious that it lived in his heart like a treasure he could never let go.

"Mama who bore me~! Mama who gave me~! No way to handle things~! Who made me so bad~" Emerald's voice carried the memory forward, her song weaving itself into his fragile vision, blurring the line between what was real and what was remembered.

Slowly, Mercury's eyelids began to droop, each blink lingering a little longer than the last. The fight to keep them open was one he was quickly losing, but he resisted, stubborn in his quiet fear. He wanted—no, needed—to stay awake just a little longer.

To hear her voice a little longer. To speak to her a little longer. Because a part of him believed that if he drifted into sleep, she might vanish, like she always did... and he would wake to find himself alone again.

"Mama, the weeping~! Mama, the angels~! No sleep in Heaven, or Bethlehem...~!" Emerald's voice trembled as she carried the last verse, and with it came fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. Her voice lingered in the air for a moment, like smoke curling from a snuffed-out flame.

At last, Mercury's lashes fluttered closed. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the sound of his breathing softening as he slipped into sleep. In his dreams, he saw her—the mother he longed for—her smile whole and unbroken, her laughter wrapping him in warmth.

In that fragile dream, he imagined what life could have been if she had stayed, if love had been stronger than cruelty.

Emerald sniffed softly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her gaze fell on Mercury's sleeping face, relaxed in a way she rarely saw, stripped of all his usual armor, no cocky grin, no sarcastic bite, no mask of indifference. For the first time, she wasn't looking at the sharp-tongued, insufferable partner who never knew when to shut up. She was looking at a boy, who had once wanted to be a knight, brave enough to protect his mother from the monster he was forced to call father.

A boy who had carried too much pain in a body too young to bear it.

And in seeing him like that, Emerald felt the wall around her own heart shift. Beneath all the steel and spite she wrapped herself in, she was still that orphaned girl: frightened, lonely, waiting for a love she thought would never come. The girl who had begged for connection only to be abandoned again and again.

But things had changed. She had Cinder now, Cinder who had pulled her off the streets, given her a place, given her purpose. Cinder, who made her believe she could be more than just a starving thief.

And now... now there was him. Mercury. The silver-haired idiot who infuriated her, who tested her patience at every turn, who made her roll her eyes until they hurt. And yet, even she couldn't deny it anymore—he was hers, too. She would never say it aloud, not to him, not to anyone, not even on her deathbed. But deep down, she knew.

It wasn't a perfect family. It wasn't stable or safe or whole.

But it was something.

Something worth more than the emptiness she once knew.

And for Emerald Sustrai, that was enough.

Slowly, almost against her own instincts, Emerald leaned over him. For a heartbeat she hesitated, walls whispering that she shouldn't, that tenderness wasn't for people like her. But something deeper urged her on.

She bent down and brushed the faintest of kisses against Mercury's fevered forehead, her lips lingering just long enough to leave behind a warmth no medicine could give. She pulled back, her hand still wrapped around his, and let her eyes soften in a way no one ever saw.

"Goodnight, Mercury," she whispered, her voice low and steady, as though the words themselves were a shield she was placing over him.

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A/N:

I always like the idea that Mercury was a bit of a Mama's boy. With how much his father abused him, I felt like his mother would've been the opposite. I plan on having Mercury's mom appear sometime in the future, but I'll also explain why she left him.

This chapter was a bit short in my opinion, but I felt like it was good, because unlike the last two chapters, this one wasn't as lovely or romantical like Qrow or Penny's chapter.

Also, yes, this takes place a bit earlier in the timeline of things.

The timeline of things goes like this: The Crow & Swan > The Thief & Assassin > The Puppet & Knight.

Also, next chapter, we'll be going back to Qrow and Willow~!