There was a distinct and huge difference between seeing things on a screen and seeing them with your own eyes.
This was something Jaune was getting pretty familiar with, whether he liked it or not.
Like, take Huntsmen.
When he was a kid, he thought they were all these larger-than-life heroes who struck dramatic poses and said cool one-liners while explosions happened behind them.
Seeing them in real life at Beacon, though?
Most of them just looked tired.
Tired, hungry, and sometimes in desperate need of a shower after sparring practice. Also, weird. Huntsmen were very weird.
And the one-liners? Half the time, it was just someone yelling "Ow, my knee!" or arguing about cafeteria schedules.
Or training.
Jaune had watched a bunch of old Holoflix specials where Huntsman students gracefully flipped through the air, disarmed opponents with surgical precision, and landed like cats. In reality, they were very much like that. The exception was Jaune himself.
His first attempt at a "combat roll" had ended with him skidding face-first across the dirt like a clumsy mop. His next dozen attempts were somehow even worse. In his defence, he was a student, and students were meant to improve, so it really shouldn't count.
Luckily, after nearly nine months of Ren's gentle corrections, Nora's enthusiastic threats to break his legs "for an authentic feel and mood of combat," and his nightly lessons with Pyrrha (that sometimes involved her gently patting him on the head like he was a lost duckling), Jaune was finally — finally — on his way to beating those fraud allegations.
And considering the fact that Jaune was, in fact, legally speaking, very much a Fraud, he thought he was doing spectacularly.
He could block a hit without immediately falling over now!
He could actually parry instead of just panicking and swinging wildly like he was trying to fight off a particularly aggressive wasp!
He could even pull off a halfway decent "gritty determined hero" face in the mirror if he squinted, tilted his head a little to the left, and ignored the part where he sometimes accidentally flexed too hard and threw out his shoulder.
Really, if you squinted hard enough, turned the lights off, and maybe put on some heroic background music, he was basically a real Huntsman!
Wait, where was he going with this again?
Aww, darn it, he got lost in his own mind again.
Focus, Jaune!
This was a big day!
Right. Right! Right!
The Vytal Festival!
This week was the Vytal Festival, and Jaune, as any person who had ever had cable access, a functioning scroll, or ears should, totally, absolutely knew what the Vytal Festival was.
(Despite Nora's very vocal, and honestly pretty hurtful, claims that he lived under a rock. Which was technically untrue. He lived under a roof. Like a normal person. It wasn't his fault that he didn't know all the tiny details about Grimm and Aura! His dad and sisters didn't really talk about that stuff.)
It was practically an international holiday and a giant party rolled into one.
He used to watch it with his sisters when he was little, back when being small enough to ride on shoulders made you the undisputed king of crowds, and everyone gathered to watch it on the town hall's big screen, a huge, dusty old projector that made everything look a little fuzzy around the edges and a lot more magical because of it.
But like he said:
Seeing something on a screen and being a part of it were very different.
The Vytal Festival was everything Jaune dreamed it would be... and about three times louder and six times more confusing. The entire city basically turned into a war zone made of shopping stands, random concerts, and food carts selling things that might've been legally edible. There was so much happening that Jaune's brain was doing laps inside his skull just trying to keep up.
And, somehow, against all odds, fake papers, and definitely with a little bit of Pyrrha-shaped miracle assistance, Jaune Arc was officially part of the Vytal Festival.
Not just in the crowd.
Not just as a flag-waver or a popcorn enthusiast.
But as a proud Valean Huntsman-in-training representing his Kingdo—
He turned to glance at his team as they walked down the bustling street.
...
He thought back to Team RWBY.
...
Huh.
"You know, for teams supposedly representing Vale, there aren't actually that many first-year Valeans between us."
Nora slung an arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking the air out of him.
"Don't worry, Jauney!" she said cheerfully through a mouthful of fried batter. "You're Valean enough for all of us! You've got that hometown hillbilly charm! That's probably why they made you team leader, to stop filthy foreigners like us from taking jobs and overthrowing the Kingdom and replacing it with, I dunno, carnival rides and pancake holidays!"
"That's—! That's not—! —what—That doesn't even—!" Jaune spluttered."No one's overthrowing anything! And the Government of Vale would never do that!"
Ren leaned closer to him, dangling a skewer dangerously close to his neck. "That's exactly what a government plant would say, Jaune."
Pyrrha politely covered her mouth to hide her laugh, but the way her shoulders shook gave her away completely.
Jaune threw his hands up. "Oh, come on, not you too!"
Pyrrha smiled patiently at him, the same way you'd smile at a puppy trying to climb stairs for the first time. "Well," she said gently, "it's good to be proud of where you come from. But it's also good to appreciate the cultures around you, too."
"See, Jauney? Even Miss Honor-and-Glory says you gotta stop being a racist!" she said way too loudly, making more people glance their way.
"I'm not a racist!!" Jaune hissed, going red.
"Yes, the correct term would be Xenophobic." Ren corrected with a nod.
He waved his arms around frantically. "I love other cultures! I love Mistral! And... and Atlas! And whatever Vacuo has! Sand! I love sand!"
"...You are not helping your case," Ren said with a shake of his head.
"Just...try to look around you," Pyrrha said softly.
Around them, the street continued to buzz with life.
A cluster of Haven students in bright silks darted past, laughing and tossing skewered dumplings between each other like a juggling act. A Vacuan merchant hollered over the crowd, trying to sell "genuine hand-forged Sandwurm leather boots!" to a pair of unimpressed Atlesian students. Somewhere in the distance, a band was hammering out an uneven rhythm that made it feel like the whole ground was dancing.
"Yeah," Jaune admitted, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "I guess this is culture. I don't think I've ever seen so many different people in one place before."
"Culture tastes awesome!" Nora exclaimed while chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a candied meatball.
"It kinda makes the world feel a lot bigger. But also a lot closer, too. If that makes any sense."
Ren simply raised an eyebrow. "The entire point of the Vytal Festival is international cooperation," he said, in the tone of someone explaining how doors work to a confused cat. "Students from any Kingdom are allowed to attend any academy. You're not just representing your hometown. You're representing the ideals of unity, tolerance, and friendship." He paused, then added flatly, "Agent Arc."
Jaune groaned into his hands. "Please don't call me that."
"Don't listen to him, Imperial Jaune!" Nora said, shoving her elbow into his side. "Protect our sacred borders from the foreign menace! No Vacuans allowed unless they wipe their feet at the door! Long live Vale!"
She bellowed it loud enough that half the street turned to stare at them, weirded out. A Vacuan family on the corner actually crossed to the other side of the road.
"I'm not—what?!" Jaune yelped, clutching his side. "I'm not a nationalist! Hell, now that I think about it, I'm not even from Vale proper. I'm from like, rural Vale. Way out in the sticks. Like, our biggest landmark was a rock shaped kind of like a wolf."
He paused, thinking about it. Ren grabbed his hoodie and yanked him sideways just in time to avoid getting run over by a unicycle troupe. "...Actually, it didn't really even look like a wolf. You had to squint. And imagine a lot."
Nora gasped in mock outrage. "How dare you insult Wolf Rock, the proud beating heart of Vale's glorious rural culture!"
"I heard they hold their council meetings around it. Legend says if you stare at it long enough, it stares back." Ren added dryly. "If only we had one back in Mistral. Maybe we would've been worthy of representing Vale alongside Jaune."
Pyrrha, trying very hard to stay supportive, managed a wobbly smile. "I think it sounds... charming?"
"It's a rock," Jaune said flatly. "It's a dumb lumpy rock. I once watched my cousin try to propose to his girlfriend on top of it, and he slipped off and broke his ankle. He had to finish proposing from the ground. It was kinda sad, too."
There was a heavy beat of silence.
Then Nora doubled over laughing, almost dropping her snack.
"That's the most Vale thing I've ever heard!" she cackled. "No wonder you turned out like this!"
"I don't even know what that means!" Jaune protested, stumbling after Nora as she yanked him back into the flow of the crowd.
After that, they wandered through the festival streets for a while, half sightseeing, half just trying not to get separated by the river of people. Everywhere Jaune looked, there was something new. He tried to play it cool, but his neck was starting to hurt from how much he kept whipping his head around like an overeager tourist.
"This is insane," Jaune muttered, mostly to himself.
Ren nodded, somehow managing to look dignified even while balancing a ridiculous pink dessert on a stick. "Festivals are typically chaotic."
"I still say we should've gotten matching jackets," Nora said, elbowing him again in the ribs as they navigated through the jam-packed merchant quarter. "JNPR Pride! Pow pow pow!"
"We're not getting jackets," Ren said, managing to dodge a kid with cotton candy without missing a step. "Or shirts. Or hats. Or tattoos."
Jaune gave a weak laugh. "Definitely no tattoos."
"Temporary tattoos?" Nora tried.
"Still no."
Pyrrha walked a little ahead of them, a polite smile in place as she fielded the occasional fan trying to snap pictures of her. She handled it like a pro, nodding, giving a little wave, even posing when someone actually had the guts to ask. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to be treated like a celebrity on a casual afternoon stroll.
Was it creepy that Jaune thought she looked really, really cool?
Jaune was about to head over to her when he saw Pyrrha pause, her gaze shifting sharply to the side. Before he could even wonder what she was looking at, Nora yanked the back of his hoodie like a mom catching a toddler about to sprint into traffic. He nearly folded backward over himself with a strangled yelp.
"Hold up, Cadet," she hissed, dragging him to a stop beside Ren, who, for once, looked vaguely concerned too. Pyrrha came to join them.
Jaune squinted in the direction Pyrrha was staring
There, tucked halfway into the shadow of an alley, like she was trying to be invisible but also totally not pulling it off, was—
"Blake?" he said before he could stop himself.
It definitely looked like Blake.
Same bow, same weird "please don't perceive me" energy, same general vibe of someone who absolutely did not want to be caught loitering suspiciously during a major international festival where security was tighter than a crab faunus' wallet.
Jaune felt Ren nudge his arm.
"Don't stare," he said under his breath.
Jaune hissed back. "You're literally all staring,"
"Well, do it discreetly then," Ren said back.
Nora shrugged. "If she didn't want people to stare, maybe she shouldn't be doing ninja cosplay in broad daylight."
Pyrrha, ever the nice and polite one, gently stepped in front of them before the whole group looked even more like a pack of weirdos rubbernecking a car crash.
"...Maybe we should give her some privacy," she said softly.
Her three teammates looked at her. They looked at each other. A silent agreement passed between them, as stupid and powerful as any ancient oath.
"Let's get closer," Nora whispered immediately.
"Guys!" Pyrrha whisper-yelled, flailing her arms in exasperation as Jaune and Ren immediately started sneaking forward. Nora was ahead of them, not even trying to be subtle. Then, with a sigh, and because she was just as nosy, Pyrrha went with them.
They pressed up against a nearby stall selling novelty dust crystals shaped like cartoon characters, half-hiding behind a rack of glittering pink grenades.("Totally safe! 87% guaranteed!" said the handwritten sign.)
From their new vantage point, they could see Blake more clearly.
She was standing across from a man. It was clearly a man. He stood with a casual sort of slouch.
At first, all Jaune could see was his back. He had broad shoulders, a crisp dark jacket, and dark slacks way too nice. Not Beacon-nice, not teacher-nice. Money nice. Like the kind of nice that said, "I don't need to run; I pay people to run for me."
Didn't even seem like he was talking much. Blake was saying something quick and low, and the man just tilted his head slightly.
And that's when the man moved.
Quick. Not violent, but fast enough to make Jaune's stomach clench. He grabbed her lightly right at the elbow. Casual. Gentle. But not the kind of gentle you trusted.
"...Uh. Is that normal?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Pyrrha was already frowning. "No."
Jaune hissed. "Should we do something?"
"YES." Nora whisper-yelled, vibrating like a soda can about to explode.
"Wait, wait, we don't even know what's happening yet—" Jaune said, panic rising fast.
Across the way, Blake said something else, sharper this time.
The man didn't let go.
Yeah, that was clear enough.
"Okay, serious question," Jaune said. "On a scale of one to 'about to get arrested,' how bad would it be if we, like, tackled that guy right now?"
Ren's posture had shifted. "It doesn't matter," he said quietly.
Pyrrha and Nora were already moving before Jaune even processed it. He scrambled after them. They were halfway across the street, looking ready to absolutely throw hands, when Blake suddenly yanked her arm free.
The man let go, stepping back easily and almost like he'd expected it. Then he turned, and he finally got a good look at him.
He was older than Jaune expected — sharp, icy blue eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a smile like one of those shiny movie stars his sisters wouldn't shut up about. The kind they called a "silver fox" before giggling for fifteen minutes straight.
Jaune blinked. "Hold up!"
"Isn't that—?" Ren muttered, but whatever he was about to say was drowned by Nora's yell.
"Holy stuff, it's God!" she said. Loudly.
Loud enough for everyone to hear.
Blake's head snapped toward them. Jacques turned his eyes to them and smiled. His hand settled on Blake's shoulder, a casual gesture that, in any other context, might've been comforting. But there was something else in his smile, something too calculating, too cold.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the two of them were gone.
Sunk into the ground. Vanished. Just like that.
"...Well," Nora said, sounding way too unsure to be reassuring, "at least he wasn't, like, a creepy stranger?"
"I think… that's better?" Jaune offered weakly. "Maybe he just wanted to talk to his daughter's teammates. Make sure we're good people?"
He sure hoped that was the case. Jaune really didn't want to assume things about the man--or even worse, pick a fight with him-- because of a misunderstanding.
Also, because that man would absolutely fold them. No question. Jaune had seen him fight. If something looked like it hurt on-screen, he knew it probably hurt a hundred times more in person. And he was not about to test that theory. He didn't want to get punted across the city.
Also, minor detail—he just happened to be the father of the girl he was very quietly and very desperately trying to impress. And honestly? He thought he'd been doing a pretty solid job despite what Nora said. Weiss was playing hard to get. His dad did say that girls love a chase.
"I don't know," Ren said, not looking too convinced. "We should probably tell someone about this."
Jaune nodded slowly, glancing at Pyrrha—
—and immediately did a double-take.
She was standing weirdly stiff, staring at the spot where Blake and Mister Schnee had disappeared. Her mouth was moving, just barely, whispering something to herself.
Jaune leaned in closer.
"...Her friend's father... rich guy... young girl... secluded alley... skinship... scandalous... so scandalous...!" Pyrrha was muttering under her breath, horror creeping into her voice. "Not even a chaperone...not even engaged!"
Jaune blinked.
"Uh... Pyrrha?" Jaune asked carefully.
Pyrrha jumped like he'd zapped her with a cattle prod. She whirled around, face burning bright red, her hands flapping uselessly at her sides.
"Networking!" she blurted out, way too loudly. "Blake's networking! It's a perfectly normal thing that normal people do at festivals! Meeting respectable adults! Shaking hands! Maybe...maybe even holding hands!"
Her voice cracked.
"Completely normal! Nothing at all like the—like the b-books!"
She laughed. It sounded like she was dying inside.
Jaune nodded earnestly. "O-oh yeah. Totally normal. Happens all the time." Did it?
Pyrrha, still red as a tomato, gasped. "Y-Yes! Exactly!"
Ren kept staring at Pyrrha as, mentally, he re-evaluated his opinion of her.
Nora put her hand on Pyrrha's shoulder.
"Pervert."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will she actually come?
The thought coiled in Willow's chest. She shook her head. Of course, she would. Weiss was far braver than her.
Her son kicked his foot against the couch arm impatiently, earning a soft look from Winter that was more fond than reprimanding.
Willow closed her eyes for a moment.
Inhaled.
Exhaled.
She opened them again.
The hotel suite-- Jacques' hotel now, because her husband would never be above throwing cash around if only to prove a point only he seemed to grasp-- was, expectedly, beautiful in a way that felt faintly unreal. All polished dark woods, muted gold fixtures, and heavy velvet drapes pulled half-open to let in the afternoon light Vale never seemed to run out of.
The suite was clean. Too clean. It was also quieter than it should have been.
The walls were too thick. The windows were too high. Even with the Vytal Festival roaring just streets away, music, voices, the distant screech of airships, in here, it only trickled through in soft, muffled waves. Like the world had been wrapped in cotton.
Where did all this flowery language come from? She thought. Give her five minutes of nerves, and suddenly she's a second-rate poet.
It was still comforting, in a way, that she could still embody the mannerism of a highborn classy lady and be as articulate as the Matriarch of the Schnee household ought to be, even if it was in the comfort of her own mind.
So, Willow sat perched on the edge of a chaise near the window. She folded her hands primly and neatly in her lap.
Her heart wasn't so neat. She adjusted the sleeves of her jacket for what felt like the hundredth time and immediately regretted it. Now the cuff sat wrong. She tugged it again. Somehow, it got worse.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room. Pale, prim, and stiff as the wine bottle she dearly missed. A breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh left her lips.
"Perfect," Willow muttered under her breath. "All I need now is to faint dramatically into the nearest chaise lounge and the transformation into a full-blown caricature will be complete."
She was too old to be nervous like this. Too old, and too much to blame.
Across the room, Whitley lounged on the couch, one ankle tossed over the other like he owned the place. He flipped through a travel magazine without really reading it, just turning pages to kill time. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie hung loose. His hair stuck up in the back, like he had run a hand through it and called it good, even if he had probably spent half an hour making it look that way.
Just like Jacques. It should have made Willow twitch. It used to back when Jacques was all stiff collars and razor-straight posture, when Whitley had been trying so hard to match every inch of him.
Now... now it was just cute.
Whitley was still copying his father. It was just that Jacques had decided he was "too cool" for the old way.
The old goofball strutted around in long black dusters and threw out stupid one-liners that he clearly practiced in front of the mirror. Like he was trying to age backward through sheer stubbornness. She did not know what was scarier, the fact that she thought it was kind of adorable, the way people bought his antics, or the fact that it might, in fact, actually be working in making him younger.
And Whitley, the sharp little thing that he was, had picked up right where the idiot had left off. She supposed there were worse things for a boy to inherit than a bit of bad fashion sense. There were worse people. People like her—
Willow stood fast enough to send the chair to the floor. Holy shit, woman, pull it together. Have some self respect, goddamn. Even she was getting bored with her own self-pity. It was starting to feel like a bad rerun.
She rolled her eyes at herself so hard it gave her a headache. What was this, her dramatic arc? Was she going to start narrating her feelings in third person next?
This stupid narration was all Jacques' influence!
"Mother?" Winter asked her from the side as she stood up. Her brows drew together in open concern.
Willow startled like she'd been caught doing something illegal. "I'm fine!" she said too quickly, sitting up straight with the twitchy poise of someone failing to pretend they hadn't just been having a dramatic meltdown in an armchair. "Just—just thinking. Reflecting. You know. Maternal things."
Winter didn't look convinced.
"She was monologuing again." Whitley didn't even look up at first. "Just like you probably were. And just like me, now that I think about it…" He blinked, lowered the magazine, and stared ahead with a dawning, almost horrified realization. "Wait. Is this a sub-semblance thing? A hereditary mental illness? Are we all crazy?"
Winter gave him a flat look. "You're not crazy, Whitley."
"Ah," he said slowly, tapping the magazine against his knee. "Denial. First stage."
"I'm serious."
"So am I! I mean—look at us." He waved vaguely at the room. "She's having an existential spiral in luxury housing, you're in full First Lieutenant mode, muttering about kidnapping priests, and I've started counting how many synonyms I can find for the word 'decadent.' I'm at, like, fourteen."
Winter wrinkled her nose. "I don't mutter. I contemplate and conceptualize." Her daughter said, focusing on the entirely wrong part.
Willow tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.
"I'm… not spiraling," she said weakly, her hands folded too neatly in her lap. "I'm just… warming up. Emotionally."
Winter softened. "You're doing fine."
Willow gave her a faint, incredulous look. "I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and my most coherent thought was about the curtains."
"They are very plush," Whitley offered helpfully.
Willow pressed her fingers to her temples. "This was supposed to be a reunion, not a family therapy session."
Winter gave a small smile, trying to bring calm to the chaos. "It's okay, Mother. We'll take it slow. No need to rush anything."
Whitley raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Because if you're waiting for Weiss to show up and not start some dramatic emotional collapse, I think we're all in for a very long evening." A smile grew on his face. "Can I interest you in a bridge?"
Winter threw a pillow at him. He caught it with his face. "Ack!"
Willow couldn't help it. A soft laugh slipped out, and her tension lessened just a little. Winter looked pleased with herself. Whitley, on the other hand, adjusted his glasses with a scowl.
"Seriously, though," he muttered, tossing the pillow back, "Is there some kind of hidden competition for who can be the most dramatic in this family? Because I think I'm winning."
"Not even close," Winter said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've still got a long way to go before you reach Father's level of theatricality."
Whitley sighed dramatically, throwing himself back on the couch. "I guess I'll just have to try harder."
The knock came at last.
Three firm raps. No hesitation, no fumbling. It was Weiss, of course it was. Right on time. Willow flinched anyway.
Across from her, Whitley straightened up with surprising speed, smoothing his shirt down and patting his hair without quite realizing he was doing it.
Winter rose as if she'd been expecting it. Spine straight-er and steps smoother. But even she hesitated just a moment at the door.
Willow didn't move. Her heart was doing something ridiculous in her chest. She stared at the door as if it might change its mind.
Winter opened it.
Weiss stood in the doorway, her hand frozen mid-knock, like she hadn't expected anyone to actually answer. Her scroll was clutched tight against her chest. Her eyes met Winter's, wide and blinking too fast, and for a second her mouth twitched like she was going to speak.
Then her lips wobbled.
"Winter!"
Weiss launched forward and practically barreled into her, throwing her arms around her older sister with enough force to make her boots scuff against the threshold. "I missed you so much."
Winter let out a soft oof as she caught her, arms instinctively wrapping around her little sister. For a second, she stood frozen, blinking down at the top of Weiss's head like she couldn't quite believe this was happening.
And then the rest of her caught up. Her shoulders relaxed, and she squeezed Weiss close as her eyes fluttered shut. When it came, her voice was warmer than Willow had ever heard.
And Willow felt something just as warm in her chest.
"I missed you, too, Weiss. So much." Winter said into the crown of her sister's head.
They pulled back just enough to look at each other, still half-wrapped in the hug. Weiss's eyes were a little glassy, and Winter finally let her down.
Weiss stepped back and tried to smooth her clothes. Whitley coughed loudly from the couch.
He stood up, brushed something invisible off his shirt, and walked over. He stopped just short of her, a precise two feet of Schnee-standard emotional distance.
"Weiss," he said, and his voice was steadier than she remembered.
Her smile softened again. "Whitely..."
He looked her over. And then, instead of moving in for a hug, he raised his hand.
It was a normal, serious motion. Like he wanted a real handshake. Like he was being grown up about it.
Weiss blinked.
Her smile twitched.
Then, just as she reached out to take his hand, Whitley jerked it upward, thumb and index finger forming a giant, smug L on his forehead.
He grinned widely.
"Well, if it isn't the former heir," he declared and seamlessly slipped into an almost scary pitch-perfect Jacques impression. "'Imagine not being the golden child. COULD. NEVER. BE. ME!'"
"You little—!" Weiss lunged and grabbed him by the collar. "Give me back all my worry!"
Whitley yelped, flailing a little as she shook him. "Unhand me, you brute!"
She held him there, nose to nose, pretending to be furious, but her arms were already pulling him into a hug. Tight and fast, like she was still mad. But she wasn't. Not really.
Whitley froze. Then he hugged her back with a scoff.
"I missed you, too, dummy," Weiss muttered into his shoulder.
He sniffed. "Don't get soft on me now."
"I'll smother you."
"Rude."
But he didn't let go.
Willow stood there, hand half-raised to announce herself. But she didn't speak. She just… watched. Watched her children laugh. She lowered her hand to her chest before it could shake too much.
And when Weiss turned, bright-cheeked, breathless, shining, Willow felt the breath leave her.
Their eyes met.
Her chest tightened when all those feelings she'd spent years trying to rein in, now rushed back, soaked in that old and familiar self-loathing.
She saw it. All of it. The full extent of her failure.
Her little girl, no, not so little anymore, stood there with her shoulders braced like she expected to be hurt. Like she always had to be ready. She was nearly a woman now. Grown too fast, hardened in ways Willow hadn't wanted to see. Because she hadn't been there. Because she'd looked away. Too busy wallowing in her own patheticness.
Weiss shifted awkwardly on her feet. She wasn't sure if she should come closer or back away. That same hesitance Willow knew too well.
She wanted to speak. To say something. To apologize, to beg, to explain, to tell her how sorry she was. For being so weak. For being so scared. For not standing up when it mattered. For leaving Weiss and Winter and even Jacques to pick up the pieces she had let shatter.
Her lips trembled.
But the words didn't come. They stuck like stones in her throat. She didn't allow them to leave her lips. Because she had no right to say them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Not after everything she'd let happen.
She wasn't the same coward anymore.
So she said nothing. Just stepped forward.
She took a step toward her daughter.
Then another.
And another.
Until Weiss blinked, surprised, as Willow finally reached her and pulled her into a tight, shaking hug. Her arms wrapped around her daughter, anchoring herself. She feared she might fall apart if she let go.
Willow buried her face in Weiss's shoulder and whispered with teary eyes, dripping snot, and a cracking voice.
"I'm here."
Weiss froze.
Then..slowly. Carefully.
Her hands curled into Willow's dress.
Her voice faltered.
"Please..."
A sniff, and Willow felt her shoulder grow wet.
"Don't go again..."
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Still feeling a bit under the weather, so a bit of low/setting up chapter.
BTW The Story's PFP is what Jacques looks like currently.