Work Text:
EIGHTEEN
Six months feels longer than it should.
Those first few days after she left had been spent in something like denial. His mind hadn't caught up to the fact that Inej wasn't around, that she'd sailed out to sea with supplies, a crew, and a determined look on her face. He'd gotten phantom senses, sometimes turning the corner and feeling like she'd be close behind as always. Firmly out of sight, just like her moniker, wraith. Eventually, he'd shaken off that particular itch between his shoulder blades, slowly gotten used to her not being there.
Soon enough, days pass into weeks, weeks into months, and he ends up so busy he feels like he's drowning in paperwork. Where one thing is finished, four more crop up in its place like weeds.
Business is on an upswing, Dreg numbers steadily filling in where there'd been gaps after he had thrown Haskell out. It's all good news, but even he begins to feel the pinch on his time; everything starts running on tight schedules. His mornings are for catching up on the mid-night activity, rival gang moves, filing the final numbers from the Club the evening before. The afternoons become a blur of planning, expansion, overseeing construction of the latter, and generally being pulled in every direction by various Dregs. When the sky darkens, he's at the Club, watching over the new dealers and patrons alike.
By the time he makes it upstairs to his room in the attic, he's exhausted himself enough to fall right into bed.
All this, he knows, is self-inflicted. Knows he's doing it to avoid the one thing his mind wants to come back to: Inej.
Because even though it's been five months and three weeks since she left, there's a rattle in his ribs that aches with her gone. He hates it, how much he misses her. It feels like a weakness, one he keeps thinking someone will find out if they look in his direction for too long. As though he's become as transparent as glass between her being here and her leaving.
None seem to be the wiser, despite the worry that gnaws at the back of his mind. He wants to stop thinking about it– the way he's constantly fighting himself. Because while he stares at his ceiling, watching the early morning light creep across the surface, there's that restless struggle flickering under his skin. Survival says to bury it all, that no one could ever find out or he'll be ripped apart like someone tossed to starving wolves. Confidence–or stupidity, perhaps, the line is so thin–wants to throw caution to the wind. Let them all know. Let it all spill out as ink from a tipped bottle. Who cares? He's the Bastard of the Barrel and she's the Wraith. No one in their right mind would do a single thing about it.
(And yet, and yet, and yet).
When the sun light finally reaches its shimmering fingers to his doorway, he gets up, pulls his suit on, and makes the trek three stories down. Anika greets him at the foot of the stairs, beaming enough to be mistaken for a lamp. Kaz doesn't need to hear her words to know what she's going to say, though he patiently ignores the skip beat of his heart when she tells him sails have been seen on the horizon. There's no doubt whose.
Coolly, he thanks her for the information, walks into the downstairs office, and closes the door. Somehow, he makes himself get through a stack of work, eyes darting from the watch on his wrist to the nearby window. Time muddies, sticky and slow as molasses, and sooner than expected, his ability to wait runs out. When he exits the office, he leaves Anika in charge and starts his walk to the docks, attempting to keep his pace measured and unhurried; a direct contrast to the whirlwind of his mind.
Six months is a long time and he feels every minute of it keenly, suddenly.
Will she even want to see him? She's been free, truly free, for all that time. A despairing part of him is shocked she's back at all. Ketterdam had always been a cage for her, even if she'd gone out on a good note, and he'd been part of that enclosure. Still, he'd hate himself more if he didn't find out for certain, so he makes the effort and remains at berth 22, standing a careful distance away from where the crew is just starting to disembark. They're lively, happy to be on land and for a few of them, to be in a familiar place. He catches sight of Specht's sunburnt face and nods when the other man waves before heading off on his way. There's a few new members, which isn't surprising, and they cluster together like a group of birds, hands and expressions animated as they come down the gangplank.
He's so focused on finding out who they are that he nearly misses her. It's like that first time being snuck up on, all over again. Only this time, he isn't thinking about how useful her skill is, or the hammering of his heart from surprise. This time, he isn't thinking anything at all as she stands right in front of him, head tilted curiously.
"Kaz."
"Inej." I've missed you, I've missed you so much. He can't say it, words lodged where they are. Nor can he lean down to kiss her like he wants to, like he almost did all those months ago. Instead, he slides his gloves off, holding one hand out in place of everything he wants to say. Her eyes flick from his palm to his face, a slow smile pulling at the corners of her mouth before she puts her hand in his.
"Welcome back." Welcome home.
--
NINETEEN
Some have said that absence makes the heart grow fonder. There's a masochistic truth to it, he thinks, eleven months and twenty eight days after he's seen her last. The early days following her departure had been easier than the first time. He hadn't felt that itch between his shoulder blades that indicated her presence, hadn't looked over his shoulder for weeks on end. There'd been a levity in the spaces between his ribs, along the line of his spine.
But as the time elongated into months, he had started to feel the acute lack. Worry had crept its way back in, the pitch black of it nestling in the marrow. This time, it had been a different beat of anxiety, the jangle along his nerves unfamiliar but just as discordant as always.
Was she alive? Would she come back whole? Or would the sea swallow her up? Would he ever know?
He'd once said he nursed his grudges, nurtured them; he's quickly found out that he does the same to his worries. Over time, he feels the plague of them like needles; one or two jabs isn't enough to hurt but months on end can wear someone down. Frustration takes over, nearly all consuming. It's an ugly thing, he knows, to keep it bottled, to let it show in the way he deals with reprimands, with the Dregs. But then, he's never claimed to be a good person, despite how much Inej believes. Inej, who is out there on the True Sea, whereabouts otherwise unknown. Inej, who has managed to terrify every slaver he's caught wind of in less than a year.
Inej, who he is deeply afraid to lose.
Because being on the ocean means communication is spotty at best, silent at worst, and when her sails are finally spotted twelve months and two days down the line, he feels like he wants to throw up from nerves. It's a saintsforsaken miracle he makes it to the docks without looking a complete fool, dark eyes raking over the already docked and unloaded group. She's in the midst of it all, directing people this way and that, chin lifted with a kind of gentle authority that every person snaps to. He feels weak at the knees, relief sweeping through him like a tide. And although he wants to greet her, he's glad for the time to put himself back together.
Soon enough, she's pulled herself away from her responsibilities, the crew dispersing. Then it's just them and the gulls overhead, the quiet flap of a sail. This time, he's shown up without the gloves; he's gone four months without them. They're safely tucked in a pocket when he nods his hello, mouth quirking at the elaborate hat on her head.
"Captain Ghafa."
"I understand why you wear things like this, now. It's really quite dramatic, isn't it?" She teases, though she holds her hand out, expectant. She's windswept and there's sunburn across her nose and cheeks. Her hair is coming out of its braid from under her hat. She's the most beautiful person he's ever seen.
"Sometimes people need to know who's in charge. A wardrobe helps." Kaz takes her proffered hand, fingers curling around hers gently. It's a warm shock, one that makes him want to tip the brim of her hat back, to lean in and press his mouth to hers. It's so much, too much, and he brings her hand up instead, brushes a kiss to the back of it, along the rough and chapped knuckles. When he looks up, there's a smile sparking in the dark of her eyes.
--
NINETEEN AND ONE HALF
In the intervening months, he learns to let his mind wander when it clings to the positives. It usually happens in the morning, with the first hazy rays of sun filtering in through the window. Here, he can think about the next time he sees her– which is approximately two weeks from now, she'd sent him a letter last month–and try to fool himself into having the courage to finally kiss her. He wonders if it'll be like the time in the hotel bathroom, fraught, like his heart was in his throat.
Or maybe it'll be easy as breathing. One beat in, one beat out.
Is she thinking of the same thing? Is it selfish of him to hope so?
(When he sees her, two weeks from now on the dot, she laughs and shakes her head, saying of course she thought of him, why was he so worried?)
--
TWENTY ONE
Sometimes, his gloves don't even make it to his pocket anymore. They certainly aren't here and now, where he's greeting her halfway between the Slat and berth 22. He'd run late on an appointment and he's out of breath by the time he catches her, face flushed with exertion. Habitually, he holds his hand out for hers and she takes it.
Though this time, she steps into his space closer than usual and the air seems to shift. Head already tipped down to meet her gaze, he tilts it, curious as the birds on his sill. In answer, she goes on tip toe and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Whatever he'd been about to say feels wholly unimportant.
--
TWENTY ONE AND ONE HALF
She's in a rush to leave this time, the chaos of packing a ship and heading out amplified by the thunder crack excitement of knowing there's a slaver ship to catch. They'd caught wind of one just off the edge of Kerch's northern coast and she's been anxious to get the jump on it before that crew figures out the dreaded Wraith is so nearby. Her face had lit up on the news and while he's loathe to see her go after three months of having her around Ketterdam, he knows this is what she has to do. So Kaz helps where he can, though he knows it's best to simply stay out of her way.
Amidst the fray, he catches her for a few precious seconds and kisses her on the cheek, her hand holding tightly to his. She gives it a squeeze before she lets go and disappears into the crew once more.
Be safe , he thinks, and stays to watch them sail off.
--
TWENTY THREE
Most of the time, he tries to greet her at the docks. It's become a habit, one that the upper level Dregs are familiar enough with to know he'll be gone when the ship comes in with the tide. Sometimes, there's still a niggling worry that it'll get used against him, a knife so easily pressed to his tender skin. But he's learned that attachment is only weakness where one allows it to be. Because nothing about Inej is weak. Never has been, even in her darkest moments.
She reminds him of it often, especially right now, as she climbs silently in through his window. The crows flutter and rearrange themselves at the intrusion, their small feet tap tap tapping along the sill. Inej swings the rest of the way in, perched as well as a bird, braid swaying with the motion. He pulls himself up from his desk, crossing the few feet to his window. Behind her, the sun shines in brightly, illuminating all of her edges in gold.
A crow cocks its head and caws, once, loudly, as if complaining they didn't get a hello.
"They've been like this since you left, demanding creatures." And so bold. One in particular has taken to sitting on his desk corner.
"Well, you did say they remember who's been kind to them."
"Your goodwill to them has transferred to me, then."
"Hm, I think someone's been feeding them while I've been gone." She laughs, and he's reminded of her from years before, of a smile tipped towards the sun. How much he'd wanted to bottle it and keep it close.
"Maybe, maybe not." Carefully, he tucks a stray hair behind her ear, a touch that would've shaken him to the bone previously. Now it feels natural, easy. Inej catches his hand where it rests near her cheek, turning her face towards his palm. His heart stutters in a familiar way, breath catching when she glances at him with a smile. He leans in to kiss her and she meets him halfway, mouth tipped towards his.
There's no cold or damp, no pull of an icy harbor or the ghostly fingers of frigid bodies. Just Inej and her smile pressed to his, the warmth of the sun, and between his ribs a beat of finally, finally.