For he's a jolly good fellow... for he's a jolly good fellow

For he's a jolly good fellow... and so say all of us

And so say all of us... and so say all of us

Cheers erupted, and General James Ironwood managed to contort his expression into some semblance of a smile, accepting the back-slapping and raised glasses with as much bonhomie as he could muster. The restaurant they'd rented out for the night was chock-full of well-wishers he barely knew and best friends he'd never heard of. Politicians, officers, businessmen - over two hundred members of Atlas’ elite, eager for some face-time with the General in one of the rare opportunities to catch him out-of-uniform.

The first hour was purgatory disguised as networking. Lobbyists looking to push contracts. Elected officials seeking pork. Retired officers who had nothing better to do than command wars from their armchairs. People he normally avoided like the plague, in other words, but was now damned by his date of birth to socialize with.

The crush finally let up enough that he could move about the restaurant with some small degree of freedom, a few minutes' small-talk the price for every step closer to the bar. He grinned at those who needed a smile, nodded sagely to those who offered counsel, and chuckled at what passed for humor in this crowd. Very little of it was relevant to his official duties, and even less was actually interesting. But he kept a leash on his emotions. James Ironwood was not a man prone to dramatic or flamboyant displays of his feelings - a lifetime on the battlefield had conditioned him to keep his expressions rigidly in check.

And when his eyes fell on Winter Schnee, he couldn't keep his jaw from dropping.

She was, without question, one of the most beautiful women he had ever witnessed. Tall and lithe, she had the build of a runway model and the poise to match. Winter stood perfectly at ease in a dress that caught the eye of every red-blooded male in the room, a sleeveless gown that blurred blue and black. Most of women under Ironwood's command came from relatively modest means, could never have hoped to match the aristocratic aura Winter so effortlessly projected. Not on those infrequent occasions when she felt like reminding the world that Schnees were Remnant's real nobility.

"General Ironwood," Winter's tone was sharp as ever, enunciation crisp as fresh snow. Martial and ballroom protocol waged a brief war in her mind - she didn't quite stand at attention before him, but only just. Then she dipped her head in a practiced bow, somehow able to make the gesture look natural rather than ostentatious. Straightening up, she deftly flagged down a nearby waiter, grabbing two flutes of champagne from his tray and handing one to the General. "Congratulations, sir. Many healthy returns."

Ironwood accepted the glass with a short nod and a small but endearing smile. It wasn't Winter’s body that made her so special to the General, no, but the mind within it. She was his protégé - even if neither had ever used the term - smart and driven and growing more experienced by the day. Here was a woman who'd forgone a comfortable life of luxury to be of service to her people. Someone who had shot straight to the top of every class when everyone had expected her to wash out at the first chipped nail.

"Thank you, Specialist," Ironwood replied, mirroring his subordinate's sip. He'd never been one for wines - sparkling or otherwise - but the high-society socialization his job entailed necessitated a modicum of familiarity. He was no connoisseur, but he knew enough to know that this was very good champagne. Suspiciously good, even. "I suppose I have you to thank for the vintage being served, Schnee?"

"We're off duty, sir, Winter is fine," his top Specialist insisted, a blush already creeping to her face. "And... consider it a birthday present. Sir."

Ironwood said nothing, simply raising a quizzical eyebrow and taking another sip of the decadent drink. Even disowned by her father, Winter still had access to considerable financial resources, though for her to spend them on something as frivolously as bubbly beverages was slightly out of character.

"A subordinate buying gifts for her commanding officer..." Ironwood mused, noting with distant amusement the rare, nervous fidget he’d elicited. "Certainly skirting the edges of propriety, aren't we, Miss... Winter."

She seemed to perk up slightly at the use of her birth name. "I simply paid for a few bottles to be shared equitably among the officers of this event, sir," Winter replied, regaining the composure in her posture and voice. "That this event happened to be a birthday celebration for my commanding officer is, officially, immaterial."

Ironwood could've gotten bogged down in what exactly the regs would say about that, but (a) there was no doubt that Winter already knew and (b) she had a rather wry smirk on her face which he couldn't quite bring himself to wipe off.

He briefly considered that he was going soft.

"I suppose that, given the circumstances, we can skip the disciplinary review hearing, Winter," he teased.

Winter smiled at that. Too many people thought General Ironwood was nothing but a toy soldier, an automaton, humorless and heartless. She considered herself one of the few privileged enough to see more, to see the man beneath the General’s public persona.

"Thank you, sir," Winter replied, with mock relief.

"On one condition," the General appended, between sips. "You stop calling me 'sir' for the rest of the night." Winter was halfway between swapping out her emptied glass for a new one, and wasn't able to keep the expression of discomfort from her face. "This is, after all, a social event. Isn't it, Winter?"

"Of course," Winter hastily agreed, taking a larger sip of her champagne than strict social decorum allowed for. He looked at her, expectantly. "We’re just two friends celebrating your birthday... James."

She stumbled over his name, hesitating and halting, her lips seemingly unwilling or unable to breach years of rigid protocol. Ironwood tried to recall her ever using his given name before, but drew a blank. She must have, at some point, but it still sounded exotic on her tongue and to his ears. He could count on one hand the number of people who called him 'James' nowadays, and that was including certain individuals he didn't particularly care for.

Before he could pick up the thread of their conversation a pair of elderly officers intruded, paying Winter not a whit of attention as they toasted the man of the hour. She withdrew a short distance, polishing off a second glass and moving onto a third, catching Ironwood's eye whenever he could steal a glance. And there she hovered, just outside the ring of glad-handers and sycophants eager to inflate his ego and curry his favor.

It was an hour and twenty minutes before the General, for all his valiance, could hold the line no longer. He was not what one would call a people person, and his introverted tendencies made ample fuel for many jokes about his robotics projects. A certain degree of networking and politicking was inevitable, a necessity of the job, but one he'd grown to resent more and more over the years. Every hour he wasted humoring fossilized superiors and armchair generals was an hour not spent in the service of Atlas. And it gnawed at him, in the back of his mind, where he tortured himself with lists of tasks he would have to delegate, abridge or abandon because he was wasting his time with frivolities.

Winter, he’d discovered, understood the feeling quite well.

He managed to catch her eye, through a forest of grey and balding heads, holding her gaze just long enough to run a hand to his ear. Then to his earlobe, which he - very discretely but very decidedly - tugged.

Winter spotted the cue immediately, springing into action like she'd been waiting on edge for the signal. She might very well have been. In one fluid motion she whipped out a Scroll - from where in her dress the General hadn't the faintest idea - and pressed it tight against her ear. Winter was not much of a thespian, Ironwood knew, but her performance didn't have to be riveting to be plausible.

She cleared her throat. "General Ironwood, sir," said Winter, managing to make the throng of old men part before her. "There's a call from-" she abruptly cut herself off, glaring suspiciously at the mass of curious onlookers. "You're requested on a conference call, secure hardline only." She opted against a more melodramatic route, as amusing as that would’ve been. "Nothing dire, sir, just sensitive."

The General nodded understandingly at that, a gesture soon mirrored by those around him who wanted to look knowing. "Very well. Inform them I'll be at the Academy by twenty-three-hundred."

Winter dutifully repeated his instructions into her Scroll, while the General flashed a regretful smile and murmured polite excuses, making his way through the crowd towards the door. Winter snapped her Scroll shut and caught up to him a moment later, shooting an icy glare at anyone who dared interpose themselves between the General and the exit.

Ironwood let out a deep sigh as soon as they were clear, his breath misting in the air before him. It was cold, but then, when wasn't it in Atlas? He found the brisk evening air refreshing after hours in a stifling restaurant, the wind nipping at exposed skin. Ironwood tugged at his coat, allowing Winter to catch up with him.

"Music getting too loud for you, sir?" Winter teased, once they'd put half a block between them and the restaurant.

"It's James," the General reminded her, already suspecting it was an exercise in futility. "And keep calling me old, Winter. See what it does for your career."

She snickered at that, a most unladylike sound that only a few glasses of bubbly could've elicited. The General's hearing, she knew, was fine - better than fine. His eardrums were just one of many, many parts of his body he'd sacrificed in the line of duty, but their synthetic replacements were superior in every way. Both his ears were artificial, in fact, though it would have been difficult for anyone but an otolaryngologist to tell. The music would never be too loud, if only because he could always mute it with a thought.

They reached Ironwood's vehicle a few blocks later, a nondescript SUV distinguished only by the military license plates it flashed. Should anyone try to take a shot at them they'd find it was about as durable as a light tank, though no one had been idiotic enough to do that in many years.

That didn't stop Winter from making her usual sweep of the vehicle, though, crouching low in her dress and heels to check for anything suspicious. She was as meticulous as ever in her search for bombs and other sabotage, but Ironwood couldn't help but notice the way she wobbled slightly.

"It's clear, s- James. Would you like to get in?"

He shook his head, gently. "I'll drive, Winter," he said, doing his best to keep his tone casual. "It's just a few minutes to the Academy." Winter furrowed her brow, opening her mouth as if to protest, but Ironwood cut her off. "You're not supposed to be driving me, anyways, Schnee."

Winter's scowl wasn't going anywhere, but by then the General had already opened the door for her, gesturing her inwards like the world's highest-ranking chauffeur. Winter found herself reddening slightly, but she grabbed the hem of her dress, climbing into the SUV with as much elegance as she could muster.

The ride was comfortably quiet, wordless except for a few idle comments on politics or schedules. The streets around the Academy weren't busy in the best of times, and by night they were practically deserted. Winter leaned back in the leather cushioning, allowing herself a moment of rest in the climate-controlled interior. She was usually the one chauffeuring Ironwood, pulling double-duty as a driver in addition to her formal responsibilities as his aide-de-camp. It was technically against regulations, but Winter trusted herself behind the wheel more than anyone else, and Ironwood had opted to save his breath.

The car rolled to a gentle stop, causing Winter to jolt, surprised to have found that she'd drifted off. The General smiled softly but knew better than to comment. He killed the ignition, handing her the key fob. Winter accepted it wordlessly, then hurriedly stepped out of the car, relishing the refreshing sting of the night air.

They reached the General's quarters a few minutes later, an apartment nested deep in the heart of the Academy, behind two rings of security which Ironwood waved them through. Winter's own quarters were a floor below, the Specialist having traded off more spacious housing in the adjacent building in favor of proximity to Ironwood’s. The corridor was empty, and the two lingered about the door, atypically idle.

"Well, Winter, you have my thanks for an enjoyable night out. Your organizational skills are as exemplary as always. And as birthdays go, that one was markedly less... painful... than usual."

Winter beamed at the compliment. "Thank you, sir. James." She consciously relaxed her posture from the parade rest she’d reverted to. "It was my pleasure."

Ironwood rested his hand on the doorknob, the lock unbolting as sensors picked up the RFID signals from the chip within his cybernetics. He let the door swing open, inwards, pausing at the absence of a farewell from Winter. Instead of a curt reminder of his first appointment tomorrow morning, his Specialist was swaying slightly on the threshold, one hand slowly rubbing the other. Nervousness was not an emotion Schnee displayed very frequently, but her body language was unmistakable.

"...James." Her voice surprised both of them. "Could I possibly discuss a few orders of business with you?" She raised her head, doing her best to affix a mask of resolve to her face. "About... personnel issues."

Any other night, he would've said no. Or simply suggested anything non-urgent be addressed tomorrow. But tonight there was something different in Winter's tone, in her expression. He hesitated to call it vulnerability, but she was extending herself, pushing past the safe and familiar confines of the rulebook. For reasons he would never be able to explain to his own satisfaction, he held the door open for her.

His quarters were spacious enough - positively cavernous by the standards of military housing - but still no larger than a modest apartment anywhere in Atlas. He followed Winter over the threshold and shut the door behind them, belatedly flipping on the lights, providing much-needed illumination.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Ironwood said, slipping past Winter into the living room. "I have guests very rarely, so you must excuse the state it's in."

Winter took a few, tentative steps forward, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his words. She'd never before been beyond the threshold of the General’s quarters, but if this was his idea of 'messy'...

The furnishings were tasteful but understated, not quite spartan but still miles away from homey. It felt, at least to Winter, like an upscale hotel room, with only the barest of personal effects. Several bookshelves filled with tomes on military and political history, on subjects too esoteric for all but scholars and practitioners. A few displays of antiquated weapons - cavalry officers' swords and flintlock rifles, arranged like museum pieces. A chessboard in the middle of a game.

There was only on piece of conventional art on display, but it was decidedly breathtaking: an oil-on-canvas painting wider than Winter's arm span. It was a battlefield scene, the soldiers on both sides carpeted in snow, almost invisible but for splashes of sanguine red. She was so captivated by it that she didn't notice the General sliding up beside her, not until he gently nudged her elbow, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Winter accepted it with grateful nod.

"The Second Battle of Kuchinashi," he noted, swirling his own glass lazily as he spoke. "It doesn't get as much attention in the history books as the Siege of Mantle or the Vale Campaign, but some consider it the turning point in the Great War."

His glass was already raised to his lips when he felt her, felt Winter's hand on his arm, the gentle pressure so unexpected it almost caused him to choke. He managed to swallow, but just barely. "It's beautiful, sir," Winter mused, steel blue eyes never leaving the canvas. "The soldiers are all anonymous and faceless, except for the ones who've bled." Her expression sounded almost sorrowful.

"It was a gift," replied Ironwood, using the pause as an excuse to detach himself from Winter.

They settled in the living room, the General seating himself on a couch opposite two armchairs. He'd expected Winter to take one or the other, but she chose to seat herself on the cushion next to him, smoothing her dress out as she did. They clinked glasses and drank, enjoying the hearty warmth of alcohol older than either of them.

Winter's eyes drifted across the room, before settling on a photograph neatly framed on the coffee table. A young woman, who couldn't have been out of her twenties, smiling gaily in a forest, the love and adoration in her eyes so plainly visible even frozen in time. "A relative of yours, sir?" Winter asked, doing her best to make the question sound casual.

Something crossed Ironwood's face, too fleeting for the Specialist to parse. "My fiancée," he finally answered, after a pause that was a moment too long to be comfortable.

"Oh." And what worlds of emotion she packed into that single syllable.

"My former fiancée, I should correct," Ironwood amended, shuffling slightly on the couch. The leather creaked softly beneath his weight.

"Sir?"

Ironwood made an airy gesture with his free hand. "We were engaged to be married, shortly before my promotion to General. I’m sure you remember how chaotic things were back then: the riots, the insurgents, the never-ending constitutional crises..." His sentence trailed off, and his gaze rested on nothing.

Winter remained silent, waiting patiently for her commanding officer to compose his thoughts. "After I lost... after I lost..." he couldn't seem to find the words, but instead made a vague gesture with his cybernetic arm. Winter nodded in wordless understanding. "She wanted me to quit. Said I had done my duty. Said it was too taxing on our relationship. On her. She gave me an ultimatum."

"I... I had no idea, sir," said Winter, fingers lacing together around her glass, the ice cubes within clinking gently.

"I hope you understand why I don't talk about it very much, Schnee," the General answered, though there was no annoyance in his tone. He took another sip, and then his voice shifted back to its nostalgic tone. "I spoke with Headmaster Ozpin of Vale about it. A few others, too, I suppose. He said... he said that she was right. That I'd 'done enough'."

"And?" Winter was too engrossed in the story to consider the impoliteness of her urging. "What did you choose?"

"I never had to," Ironwood said, staring into his glass like it was a bottomless abyss.

"Sir?"

"She was supposed to meet me... I was out on the frontiers, then, but I'd arranged for her to visit and..." His eyes drifted shut. "It was a freak accident. A murder of Nevermore managed to slip the defenses, hit her airship just out of our security envelope. Nevermore had gotten past us maybe once or twice in the last decade, and then a dozen of them in a single day."

He shook his head, leaning back into the couch. "So I took the coward's way out, Winter. I never had to tell her that I was choosing Atlas over her." The fingers of his free hand curled into a fist, the strained whirs of mechanical servos deafening in the silence of the apartment.

"James..."

By the time he turned his head, Winter's hands were cradling it. His breaths were deep, almost shuddering. There were no tears on his cheeks, but his eyes were blurred by moisture. Winter felt her own heart break, just a little, as she took in his tortured expression, remorse and self-loathing barely held in check by a lifetime of discipline.

The kiss came surprisingly naturally, considering all the inhibitions it’d had to overcome. Winter pressed her lips against his, taking and giving solace in equal measure. And he was kissing back. His breath was hot on her skin, and smelled of whiskey, and she loved it. Lost herself in it, in the feel of his chiseled jaw and his short black hair, of the sensation of his hands making their way to her sides...

He pushed her back, gently but firmly, Winter's last kiss aborted with a wet pop. They sat in silence for several long seconds, an eternity by any other name, until James ran a hand over his face, and Winter reached for the tumbler she'd set down on the floor, slamming it back in a single swallow.

"Winter... we can't..." Ironwood began. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Of course we can," Winter rebutted, her throat still burning from the drink. She set the glass down again, one hand finding his shoulder, squeezing it hard. "You know I can keep a secret, sir." Her hand fell, and anger flashed over her face. "So give me one good reason why not?"

"Why not? Do I start with the regulations, or the fact that you've had seven drinks tonight?"

"So you were watching me," Winter declared, almost proudly, her hand now coming to rest on his thigh. Ironwood felt his body respond unthinkingly to her touch, hormones beginning to war with reasoning. "If you're worried about my constitution... don't." Winter's hand swept up and down his leg. For a moment the temptation was almost absolute. "...And it's your birthday, James."

They were both adults, friends and comrades-in-arms, in the privacy of his own quarters...

And he was lonely. He commanded thousands, but the number of individuals he counted as his friends was small, and seemed to be growing smaller with each passing month. His rank and his responsibilities distanced him from those around him. And that wasn't even getting into the burden Ozpin had laid on his shoulders, the secret knowledge that only alienated him further from his fellow man.

Winter slid up beside him.

Perhaps it would have been easier if he'd never known love, if he couldn't remember a time before his heart was cold and metal. But he could, and he did. He knew what it was like having someone you could confide in completely, one you could share any thought or worry or hope. Having someone you could kiss in the predawn hours of the morning, someone whose happiness filled your heart with warmth. What it was like to have another soul beside you, brightening the most mundane moments of existence...

His hand clasped Winter's.

"...I don't want either of us to do anything we'll regret in the morning," he said, doing his best to ignore the wounded expression on Winter's face. "And I don't want you doing something just because you've had too much to drink."

Winter shook her head, violently and defiantly. "Respectfully, sir, you've got it backwards," she insisted. "This isn't drunk love. This is... me needing a little liquid courage. To do what I always wanted to do."

"Don't be absurd, Schnee. I'm old enough to be your father."

That seemed to have an effect, Winter visibly recoiling at his words, her hand now clutching her elbow. Her expression darkened by magnitudes. "Do you ever think I'm going to find love, sir?"

Ironwood blinked at that, a sentence that was almost a non-sequitur. Never in all their years had Winter brought up her (evidently non-existent) love life, and she had a way of freezing the blood of anyone who tried with her. "Winter, I..."

"I won't make you choose, sir," Winter declared, a few loose hairs drifting in front of her eyes. "Between me and your job. I won't resent you if you're gone for weeks or months at a time. If you bring your work home with you. If you... if you have to make the hard calls that nobody else can understand." In the dim light of the apartment it was hard to be sure, but Ironwood thought she was tearing up. "And I know you'll treat me the same, sir. That’s all I need."

There was a history behind those words, he knew without asking. Choices Winter had had to make, and she'd chosen the same as he had. In that moment of realization he felt a kinship, a bond forged through a shared experience, a common pain.

He wrapped an arm around Winter's shoulders, and she leaned into him, but this time there was nothing sensuous to her touch. Like him, Winter was too proud to cry, at least openly, but not to take solace in his arms. And even if he couldn't articulate it, James needed it just as bad. Needed that bond, that connection, that shared moment of oh-so-human weakness. So there he sat, comforting Winter with wordless touches, and being comforted just as much in turn...

An unknowable amount of time later, Winter straightened up, sniffling so loudly it seemed to echo in the apartment. Then she exhaled, one hand rubbing at the moisture still pooled around her eyes.

"I... I understand if you need to re-assign me, sir," she said, neither of them looking up from the floor. "I can request a transfer in the morning. Somewhere in the provinces."

Ironwood shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Winter." He collected the two empty tumblers from the floor, the ice cubes within having melted to golden water. "Like you said, we're both off-duty and out of uniform. We both had too much to drink, and then we both broke some regs."

He didn't miss the relief on Winter's face. "Thank you, sir. James."

"Don't mention it," he replied, making his way to the kitchen. He heard Winter falling in step behind him. "Seriously, don't mention it, Schnee. Consider that an order."

He set the tumblers down in the sink, catching a grin from Winter out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, sir."

They stood silently in the kitchen for several seconds, Ironwood mechanically washing out the glasses, Winter waiting for some cue to exit, neither sure what to say next...

...The General closed the faucet's tap. "It wouldn't have worked, Schnee," he finally said, eliciting an upturned eyebrow. "The relationship dynamic would be fatally unequal, even if it somehow didn’t compromise our work. I'm old enough to have seen it play out enough times for one life."

"Sir?"

"That's it," he said, nodding. "You couldn't drop the 'sir' even in my apartment, on my couch." He sighed with a weariness that showed his years. “Believe it or not, there’s some institutional wisdom behind the regs on fraternization.”

Winter shrugged, almost infinitesimally. "For of all sad words of tongue or pen..."

"...the saddest are these: it might have been."

Winter blinked, surprised at the General's interjection. And then she gave him a small smile.

"It's getting late, I should go," she said, taking a few small steps towards the door. "I've imposed on your time enough as it is."

"If it wasn't for you, I'd still be having my ass kissed at the restaurant," Ironwood answered. An easy smile came to his face. "Thank you for your help tonight, Miss Schnee. All of it."

Winter nodded, then spun on her heel, strolling to the door with a reassuringly confident spring in her step. "My pleasure, sir," she replied, a familiar strength in her throat. "Remember, we have an all-hands meeting in..." she glanced at her Scroll, "six hours, thirty-five minutes."

The General opened the door for Winter, shooting her a mock glare as he did. "Thank you for the reminder, Specialist," he growled. If his body could even metabolize all the alcohol he'd consumed in the next six hours it would constitute a medical miracle. "I expect to see you there as well."

"...Now regarding the defined-contribution pension plans for staffers who conduct the majority of their employment duties in regions classified as Grimm-II danger levels and above..."

When his alarm had sounded that morning, suicide by gunshot had never seemed so appealing. His head was pounding, his throat parched, and he'd fallen asleep both fully clothed and on the couch, which made him feel like some sort of vagabond. The freezing shower had done little to make him feel any more human, and Remnant was just going to have to live with his stubble today.

A uniformed steward entered the conference room, wheeling a silver trolley before him. One perk about being in the top brass was that the food finally started to get pretty good. Ironwood had eaten enough MREs and hospital food over the decades that he felt that, in some sense, the universe owed him at this point.

"Coffee, anyone?" the steward called out, already pouring black ambrosia into porcelain cups.

"Yes," Winter stated, from her seat to the General's right, her gaze not rising from the memorandum she was furiously annotating before her.

"Mmhm," Ironwood murmured in agreement, still not quite trusting himself to articulate real words.

"And how do you take it?" asked the steward.

"Black."

Schnee and Ironwood locked eyes, momentarily surprised by the stereo effect of their voices speaking in unison.

The steward paused for a second, before setting down two unaltered cups of coffee and continuing his way down the table. Winter and Ironwood took sips in harmony, neither paying much attention to the byzantine retirement plans being discussed at the other end of the table.

"It's very good," Winter declared, neatly setting the cup down on its saucer. "Chavái Islands brew, I believe."

"I couldn't say," the General confessed. Then he sighed, silently cursing the fact that there was no way to discreetly unscrew his flask in a room with this many eyes. "Though if it is, I think I have a few bags of it in my kitchen, actually."

"Oh?" Winter raised a quizzical eyebrow, but there was no missing the amusement in her eyes.

"And a thousand-lien espresso machine I've never broken in."

"Perhaps I could help with that," Winter offered. "I'm something of an aficionado."

“I don’t doubt it.” His gaze surreptitiously swept the room. "This weekend, perhaps, Schnee?"

Winter smiled, warmed by the quiet offer of friendship being extended before her.

“I just might have to take you up on that, sir.”