Work Text:
Crack.
The noise rings out like a gunshot and Kaz crumples. His assailant follows a moment later, one of the Wraith’s knives lodged in his throat, but it’s too late – the damage is done.
Stupid, Inej berates herself as she sprints forward. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d been so happy to see him again after the long months at sea that she’d let her guard drop – focusing on nothing but the man beside her. Given the disastrous outcome, she can only assume Kaz had been similarly distracted.
She runs towards him, of course, but he redirects her with a jerk of his head to where his cane lies trapped beneath the dead man’s bulk. By the time she turns, Kaz is hauling himself to his feet; back braced against the wall, face white and taut with pain. She doesn’t comment when he takes the cane in his left hand – just falls into step beside him, keeping the bloodied knife loose in her hand.
Kaz sets a punishing pace, breathing hard through his nose and jamming the cane down with enough force that a casual observer might not notice the heavier limp, or the fact that he’s bracing the wrong leg. By the time he slams through the door of the Slat, the line of his jaw is trembling with the effort of keeping silence behind gritted teeth. She keeps to the shadows as they climb to the last floor, unwilling to stop for pleasantries.
He stumbles the moment the door closes behind them, grabbing at the wall for support with a harsh exhalation like nothing she’s heard from him before. He half leans, half sits against the edge of the desk – the closest piece of furniture – and doesn’t so much as flinch when the movement overturns the inkwell, ruining the papers he’d been working on. His eyes screw closed, breath coming in pants.
“Kaz –“ she begins.
“No medik,” he hisses, eyes still shut.
“Are you mad?”
“No.” He forces his eyes open and begins unbuttoning his coat one-handed. “Brouwers is being blackmailed.”
“You must have a replacement lined up.”
“Several. None I trust with this.” He frees the last button and reaches up awkwardly to push the coat off his shoulders with his hand. It works, sort of, but the stiff wool doesn’t fall very far. He shakes his left arm free of the sleeve, then looks at the right with a frown.
“No!” Inej exclaims, darting forward. “All Saints, stay still. If you pass out in this state you’ll make it worse.”
He grits his teeth but does as he’s told for once, allowing her to ease the sleeve free in gentle increments. She can’t see the injury through the many layers he’s still wearing – jacket, waistcoat, shirt, undershirt, collar and tie – but the way he’s holding himself tells her it’s his collarbone rather than his arm.
She turns her attention to his jacket next, cursing under her breath when the sharply-cut lines make it impossible to unhook from his shoulder without jostling. Kaz makes a cut-off, animalistic noise, face blanching paper-white. She doesn’t apologise, just pauses long enough to let him catch his breath, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
“Kaz,” she says quietly, “what’s the plan here? I won’t call a medik without your agreement, but there’s no way you can hide this. Even if you could – it leaves you too vulnerable. You can’t defend yourself like this.”
Just saying it feels wrong, like she’s bringing down a curse on their heads. Without conscious instruction, her fingers sketch the circular warding sign she learnt as a child.
Kaz exhales harshly, his eyes slipping closed again. “I know,” he admits. “Just give me a moment to think.”
His forehead tilts towards her, echoing one of the first touches they learnt together. It’s unlike Kaz to ask for comfort, even non-verbally – but then, it’s been a long time since she’s seen him in such pain. She still doesn’t know how they will fix it, but this – this, at least, she can give him. She tips her head forward in response until her skin touches his.
She is entirely unprepared for his reaction.
Kaz jerks back violently, eyes flying wide in panic, catching his injured collarbone in the movement with a horrible, choking sob. For a moment he simply stares at her, stares through her, then turns and vomits over his shoes, retches heaving through him even as the pain of it brings him to his knees – and continues in a vicious, unending cycle as each retch triggers his injury anew. And through all of it, he is crying, sobbing, staring at her like a stranger and coughing out half-formed imprecations to get away from me, get away – but Inej is frozen in place, hand outstretched, helpless to help him.
It’s only when the heaves begin to come up empty, leaving him more air to shout – get away, get away, GET AWAY – that she reacts, that she does the only thing she can think of.
She flees, tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving Kaz broken on the floor behind her.
She doesn’t go far.
She climbs to her old perch above his window, grateful for the fierce wind that’s risen – it keeps the crows in shelter, where she doesn’t need to disappoint them with her lack of breadcrumbs. It covers the sound of Kaz’s sobbing too, though Inej can still hear it echoing in her head. She doesn’t think it’s a sound she’ll ever forget.
She wraps her arms around her knees as the sun sets, burying her face in her leggings to hide her tears. By the time she’s pulled herself together enough to have the bones of a plan, it’s fully dark and she’s shivering with cold – but now, at least, she has some help to offer. She only hopes Kaz will agree to it, and that he hasn’t done himself further damage in the meantime.
The room below is striped with deep shadow and street-lantern gold; curtains left unpulled and lamps unlit. The air is sour with the smell of vomit, making tears spring to Inej’s eyes again. Not for the smell itself, but for the evidence it gives of how badly Kaz is hurting. He has fastidious standards, her boy, and she has never known him to abandon them before today.
She finds him sprawled on the covers of his narrow bed, jaw clenched and hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His shoes are still on, but his gloves lie discarded on the desk and his collar and shirt have been roughly pulled open, likely to assess the damage. Inej can see it clearly too – a bar of light spearing through the window throws the unnaturally jagged line of his right collarbone into stark relief.
She has always admired Kaz's collarbones, from the earliest days when he would challenge her composure by undressing in front of her. She was drawn to the smoothness of the skin, the elegance of the line; the vulnerability of the pressure point sitting in its shadow. As she got older and braver she imagined undoing his tie herself and pressing a kiss to that spot, claiming it for her own. She has not yet gathered the courage to actually do it, and as she looks at it now – nausea roiling in her gut – she wonders if she ever will, or if she will always think of this night instead. Always see Kaz staring at her with a stranger’s wild eyes, hear his animal sounds of pain. Get OUT.
She shakes herself. Straightens her shoulders. Focus, Inej. There is work to be done.
It takes several covert trips up and down the stairs to fill and empty the pitcher before the traces of vomit are fully cleaned from the floorboards, but she manages it without drawing attention. The corridors of the Slat are crowded and rowdy at this hour, but Inej has years of familiarity with their ceiling beams and shadowed corners. The heavy pitcher makes it more difficult, admittedly – but not impossible; not for her.
Once done, she wipes the floor with a rag and hangs it by the window to dry. She retrieves the tinderbox from Kaz’s coat pocket and kindles the lamp furthest from his bed, hoping to ease him into wakefulness. He stirs, mumbling something, then flinches. Her heart aches.
“Kaz,” she calls softly. He tosses his head, then snaps awake with a choked-off gasp of pain. For a moment, his eyes are wild and unseeing again – but then he focuses on her.
“Inej,” he says, voice hoarse. He doesn’t say anything else, or move to sit up, and she knows well how that must sting his pride. She will not shame him further by asking how he feels, not when the answer is so obvious.
“I know a healer that can help you,” she says instead. His eyes narrow, so she quickly forges ahead. “Her name is Gisela. She’s Fjerdan, and Grisha, though she won’t admit it. She thought she was booking passage to Ravka, but the captain took her money and gave her to slavers instead. She was almost dead when we found her.”
Inej takes a steadying breath, remembering the frail dignity of the woman they’d discovered chained in the darkest, dampest part of the hold – away from the younger girls. She remembers too the blood that wept from beneath her shackles, and the toes lost to maggots. She’d cut the captain’s heart from his chest before they threw him overboard, but that had not made Gisela’s recovery any swifter. Even now, Inej suspects she is a shadow of what she’d been before – but at least she is alive. Alive and free, with a real ticket to Os Alta that Inej arranged herself that very morning.
“She doesn’t speak Kerch, and she’s leaving Ketterdam at dawn. She has no idea who you are, and no reason to talk to anyone who would. Let me bring her here.”
She meets Kaz’s gaze, watches the battle raging there. He hates the idea of anyone seeing him like this – of giving anyone this leverage over him – but he’s practical enough to know she’s right, that he can’t defend himself in this state. And he knows, too, that his only option is to trust her – to trust her judgment that Gisela has no one to sell this information to; that she wouldn’t even know she has something worth selling.
“Fine,” he grits at last. “Bring her. But keep her out of sight.”
Inej would usually roll her eyes at the unnecessary stipulation. Tonight, though, she simply nods.
It takes some time to find Gisela. Inej had given her more than enough kruge to find a respectable lodging house for the night, but in the end she discovers the healer in the same cramped, communal berth where she’s slept for the last several months.
She wakes immediately when Inej calls her name. Unsurprising – Inej has never known anyone to remain a heavy sleeper after time in captivity. “Captain?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Inej whispers in Ravkan. “But I need your help. My friend is hurt.”
“Of course.” Gisela swings upright immediately, already pulling on her boots. “Anything, Captain.”
The healer asks no questions, not even when they cross into the Barrel and find themselves dodging brawls and staggering drunks every few steps. Gisela looks distinctly out of place, but she keeps her head down and lets Inej use her skill to keep them from notice.
The Slat is quieter by now, thank the Saints, with most inhabitants either abed or on shift. The only person they encounter is a runner – a scrawny lad of thirteen at most – curled up on one of the landings to sleep, who raises a freckled head as they pass before dropping it again, uninterested.
“Wait here,” she tells Gisela when they reach the top. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Inej knows better than to try and pick Kaz’s lock from the outside, and she doesn’t want to disturb him without cause, so she descends a floor and picks the lock on her old bedroom door instead. It’s occupied by a round-faced teenager now, but she doesn’t stir when Inej cracks the window and scales the wall to the floor above. Kaz cracks his eyes when she steps inside, looking wan in the lamplight. He doesn’t appear to have moved.
“I’m going to bring her in now,” she tells him. “Alright?”
“You’ll need your picks,” is all he says.
Her progress with the door is frustratingly slow, not helped by the fact that she can feel Kaz judging her technique from across the room – trust the Bastard of the Barrel to lock his office without a key – but she gets it open eventually and ushers Gisela inside.
The older woman shows remarkable restraint, resisting the temptation to look around or ask questions in favour of heading straight for the bed. It takes Inej by surprise.
“Don’t touch him.” She moves quickly, putting herself between Gisela and her patient.
Gisela frowns. “I will help him, Captain. That is why you asked me, yes?”
“Yes.” Inej nods. “I’m sorry, Gisela. Just be careful, please. My friend… He doesn’t like to be touched.”
She glances over her shoulder to see how Kaz will react to this statement – this public articulation of his greatest weakness – but although his dark eyes glitter he says nothing. Inej counts it for a mercy.
She steps aside and allows Gisela to approach the bed, her bony hands spread in an appeasing gesture. “I must touch you to help you,” she says. “But I will tell you first, yes?”
Kaz nods tightly, then winces.
“Ah ah ah,” Gisela clucks, clearly spotting the source of the problem. “Not good, young man. Not good. How did this happen?”
“You are not here to ask questions,” Kaz growls. His Ravkan is heavily accented, but the threat is crystal clear.
Inej shoots him a warning glance but Gisela is already making soothing noises, brushing past it like so much childish posturing. It’s more than a little patronising, but luckily Kaz seems more willing to tolerate condescension than curiosity.
“I will touch the bone now,” she tells him, raising her hand. “It will hurt. It is best to hold onto something, to squeeze against the pain.”
Kaz folds his hands into fists, short nails digging into his palms, and waits.
“No no,” Gisela chides him. “Not like that. You will only hurt yourself in a different way. Perhaps – “ she glances slyly at Inej – “perhaps you want to hold the Captain’s hand, yes?”
In other circumstances, Inej might have laughed – but after the disastrous consequences of her last attempt at physical comfort, her stomach only shrinks miserably at the suggestion. When she looks at Kaz, though, there is a wry twist to his mouth.
“Meddling old trout,” he mutters in Kerch. “It’s not a question of wanting.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but stops short. “Wait – I have an idea.”
She reaches up to release the pins holding her braid in a coil, gathering them into a neat pile on the nightstand. She perches on the edge of the bed, close to Kaz’s head, and offers him the end of her braid.
He doesn’t take it.
“Inej,” he says flatly.
“Kaz,” she returns in the same tone.
“Am I really meant to believe you have no bad memories associated with this?”
She shrugs. “Just don’t pull on it. Squeezing is fine. And I know hair is easier for you than skin.”
He stares at her for a moment more, then seems to accept her reasoning. The pale, clever fingers of his right hand wrap carefully around the tail of her braid. Inej feels it when the line goes taut, but it’s not unpleasant – if anything, there’s a certain security in this pressure, this tether binding them together.
“Ready?” Gisela asks, but doesn’t wait for a response. She lays her hand across Kaz’s collarbone in one decisive movement, then makes a pinching motion. Inej can’t see the power she uses, but she can certainly see its effect as Kaz goes rigid, grip tightening on her hair, breath sucking in in a sudden, sharp gasp. For a long moment, they’re all frozen in place – until Inej hears the small, horrible, unmistakable knick of the shards of Kaz’s collarbone slotting back into their rightful places.
Kaz drops back to the mattress, swearing colourfully and at some length.
“Thank you, Gisela.” Inej pulls some Ravkan coinage from a pouch at her waist as she rises. “I owe you a debt.”
“No no,” Gisela pushes her firmly back to the bed and bats away her hand. “You already gave me enough. You gave me my life.”
“At least let me walk you back to the ship,” Inej protests. “The Barrel isn’t safe at night.”
“Do not worry about me,” the older woman insists, already halfway to the door. “My skills can hurt as well as heal. They will not find me such easy prey a second time. Besides,” she glances at Kaz again, “I think you are needed here, no?”
She is gone before Inej can muster another argument. Behind her, the mattress creaks as Kaz sits up, nimble fingers making quick work of his shoes, waistcoat and collar now that he can move freely. He slips the braces off his shoulders but doesn’t undo them or move to strip his shirt. He keeps his socks, too, and Inej recognises the unspoken request – he wants her to stay close, but he’s not yet ready to risk further skin-on-skin contact.
Her braid swings forward as she twists to sit against the headboard, and she suddenly notices that the tie is gone – thick strands already more than half unravelled. Kaz’s fingers flicker and the tie appears between them for an instant before vanishing again. He smirks at her.
“You’re shameless,” she tells him, combing her fingers through the dark mass that now spills over her shoulder to pool on the sheets below. “Did you even need something to hold onto, or was it just an excuse?”
“Can’t it be both?”
She smiles despite herself, settling in to sit shoulder to shoulder with him. “I suppose.”
He reaches out, smoothing one strand free of its fellows and twisting it into a complex knot one-handed before unhooking it easily and beginning another. Inej recognises them from her first lessons with Specht, the daily vocabulary of her crew. Sheet bend, bowline, clove hitch. Round turn and two half hitches. They appear and disappear in a smooth sequence, flowing between Kaz’s fingers like water. No matter how many years of seafaring lie ahead of her, Inej suspects she will never rival his dexterity.
For a while, they simply sit like that in companionable quiet. But in the end, Inej finds she needs to give voice to the thought that has been preying on her mind all day.
“If I hadn’t been there –“ she begins.
“I would never have been off guard in the first place,” Kaz finishes.
She shakes her head. “If I hadn’t been there, you would never have seen a healer, would you?”
“…No.”
She’s grateful, at least, that he doesn’t try to lie about it. She sighs. “What would it take to change that? To have your promise that you’ll get help when you need it, and worry about the fallout afterwards?”
He’s silent a long time – so long, she almost thinks he won’t answer her.
“How many of your crew have you lost?” he asks at last.
Inej flinches. It’s not something she likes to think about. “Three.”
Kaz nods. “And how many captives died before you could save them?”
“Too many. I don’t keep count.”
He nods again, looking distant. “And you would have died on the Ferolind,” he states. “If Nina hadn’t been there.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what it takes, then.” He gathers a handful of her hair, fans its tips across his palm like a hand of cards. Looks up at her. “That’s my price.”
“What?”
“Engage a healer for the Wraith,” he tells her, “A real one. And you’ll have my promise.”
“You’ll get one for the Dregs too?”
He tuts, shaking his head. “Those weren’t the terms. I’ll promise to get help if I need it, but the how remains at my discretion.” He quirks an eyebrow at her. “Good enough?”
Inej snorts, bumping her arm against his. “Good enough, Kaz Brekker. The deal is the deal.”
He presses a kiss to the fall of black hair covering her shoulder.
“The deal is the deal,” he agrees.