Work Text:
It didn’t take much. One handsy man aboard her ship, one slaver with too much guts and not enough of a brain in his head, and she was returning home with shaking hands and a deep-seated desire to stay as far away as she was capable from any man.
Specht sent her off before they began unloading the ship, ignoring any and all false claims that she was fine.
She supposed, though, he probably had a good reason; she definitely didn’t look fine, after not getting more than ten hours of sleep in the past four days because of the nightmares. She couldn’t stop seeing his face in her mind whenever she shut her eyes.
“Go home, Captain,” he said, nodding off toward the ramp leading off of the boat. “I’ll take it from here.”
“But--” She turned to look at the stacked crates beside them, the sheer amount of shit they’d have to unload. The crew could not afford to lose a set of hands, let alone the direction of their captain.
“Go home, Inej. I’ll take care of it. Go get some damn rest,” he said quietly, almost gently. He had never raised his voice at her, and she doubted that this would make him start. He would find a way to convince her to get off of the ship without getting loud, without trying to intimidate her into backing down.
Behind him, there was a figure standing against a building, staring out toward the ship. He was wearing a long coat with the collar popped, and he held a cane out in front of him as he waited.
Nothing looked like safety, right now. Nothing did.
But he was pretty damn close to it.
“I’ll come back tomorrow to finish getting the things below deck,” she said firmly.
Specht sighed and nodded, clearly unhappy with the idea of her coming back to help unpack anything at all, let alone to return the very next day. Still, she couldn’t leave everything to him and the rest of the crew, as Captain. It felt wrong, like she was abandoning her duties, no matter whether or not they encouraged her to do so.
And yet, she rushed off of the ship, eager to have her feet on land. To be closer to Kaz, to hopefully find some semblance of peace with him.
“Captain,” he’d greeted as she’d come closer toward him, bag slung over her shoulder. “Good travels, I hope?”
There was a knot twisting in her stomach, thinking of how this normally went. She wanted to want a hug from him. She wished with everything in her that the idea of him reaching out to straighten her hat wasn’t enough to make her want to flinch backward, to run away and find a place to hide. But those things felt unbearable right now, the way they used to when she was newly out of The Menagerie and nobody quite understood how much distance she wanted to keep from them.
She nodded, looking around them a bit. She felt dazed, like she couldn’t focus on anything, much less a conversation.
Stay here, she whispered to herself. You’re safe here, with Kaz. You have your knives. Your claws. You’re safe.
Safe.
Kaz held out a hand, just as he always did. It wasn’t for her to take -- it was for him to take her bag. He always did, always helped carry her things back to The Slat for her. Whether she had one bag or five, he always took something.
She stared at his hand for a moment, trying to remember what to do with it. She didn’t want to take it, no matter how much she usually enjoyed getting to be close to him. He never made anything more than it was; never turned holding her hand into touching her elsewhere.
After a second, he had his head tilted at her, eyebrows furrowed.
At the sight of that, she was able to shake herself clear of this fog she was trapped in, dropping her bag off of her shoulder, resting the strap in the palm of his hand. He kept eye contact with her as he shrugged it up onto his own arm. He was trying to talk to her, to communicate his questions silently.
He could not reach her, from where she was. His unspoken words didn’t make sense from the place her mind was pushing her into.
Safe.
They walked back to The Slat side-by-side, just close enough to stay together.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, looking straight ahead. She couldn’t let herself fade fully, couldn’t let her body start working on its own, yet. Right now, telling him would be enough to tip her over the edge, to make her mind check out completely.
They reached an otherwise empty alley, one that they had always cut through to get back to The Slat from Fifth Harbor. It wasn’t one people often walked through, as it was just barely narrow enough for people to stand next to each other and maintain personal space. There was no room for crowds, no room for people to rest against the buildings, to push each other up against them.
“Inej,” he said, just a bit louder than a whisper. “Are you alright?”
“Not right now,” she mumbled, keeping as much distance between them as she could.
There was a part of her craving the feeling of his hand against hers, the reminder of how close he was. How she was safe, protected; how he was there as an extra layer of armor for her. An extra set of eyes, keeping other men with their prying eyes and wandering hands away.
He hummed, sighing slowly. She was able to tell he had questions, that it was taking everything in his power not to pry the answers out of her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, tentatively. “I just want to know you’re okay, Inej. Hell, you know I understand not wanting to talk about it, but there’s a big difference between drowning mentally and bleeding out physically.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered, continuing to walk slowly next to him.
Truthfully, she couldn’t quite tell whether or not she was hurt. Her whole body was tingling and sore, and her mind had put up a barrier between her feelings and her conscious self. She probably did have some cuts and scratches, but they didn’t hurt any more than the aching in her lungs or the tightness in her stomach. Nothing hurt the proper amount, when this happened to her.
“If your mind is toying with you, I’ll find you lavender oil and hot tea, and we will sit and keep each other safe through the night. And if you’re hurt, I will take you to The Slat and hold Kees at gunpoint until you’re no longer wounded,” he said softly, calmly.
She could hear the strain in his voice, trying to keep himself under control. Not knowing what to do was one of the few things that could agitate him into letting his stress show, and he was slowly approaching that point. Once, he would’ve allowed himself to grow angry, to replace the tension with ire. Today, he kept himself contained.
Kaz slowed a bit as they reached the middle of the alley. She hadn’t realized how slowly they’d been walking, but the rest of the alley still looked like an endless tunnel. Like something they’d never get out of.
“I can’t know what to do unless you tell me which it is. I don’t want details, Wraith; not yet, at least. Just tell me what to do.”
She slowed to a stop, nodding. Only trying would tell what would push her back further into her own mind. She preferred not to be left defenseless in the middle of The Barrel, even with Kaz Brekker at her side.
“It’s not… I’m not hurt,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I’m hurt.”
“You’re not, or you don’t think you are?” he asked, looking her hard in the eyes. She looked back, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his.
Kaz.
“I’m not hurt,” she said, putting on a mask of surety. “I’m not hurt.”
“Okay,” he replied, slowly beginning to walk again. He nodded once, letting his face relax into a bit of a smile. “Good. We’ll take care of it at The Slat, then. There are oils and tea in my desk, and Jesper brought a tin of ginger biscuits the last time he was here.”
“Can I have some?” she asked, head fuzzy. Logic wasn’t working in her favor, this morning. She was confused, couldn’t place how he wouldn’t tell her about something she couldn’t have.
He nodded, stepping just a bit closer to her. She did not step away. He wouldn’t touch her when she was like this, when he knew she was panicked.
“It is yours for the taking, love,” he said quietly, offering a slight grin.
On another day, he would’ve reached out for her hand, or maybe wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Instead, he kept walking a few feet away, keeping in line with his side of the street.
Safe.
They got to his room, and it was not the first time she was afraid to go and shower in The Slat, but it was the first time the idea had stressed her to the point of not wanting to.
One of the worse parts of being a captain: she didn’t have much of a choice.
She smelled like the ocean, and her skin was stained with dried blood. Her clothes were wet from standing by the edge of the deck, where the ocean occasionally sprayed upwards and hit her skin. It had been a good idea, at the time; enough to keep her grounded, present enough to help. It wasn’t so much, afterward, when she was collecting pajamas from her drawer and hoping deep breaths would be enough to calm her heart.
“Inej,” Kaz called. “What kind of tea would you like, darling?”
Darling. Inej. Darling Inej, treasure of my heart.
Love. Kaz. Safe.
She looked up from the drawer, turning her head to look at him.
“Chamomile or peach?” he said, a small smile on his lips.
He’d already said it, then. She hadn’t heard him. She was the Wraith, a spy, and she hadn't heard him speaking directly to her. Perhaps that was even more startling than the idea of not being back on the ship with that man, or being disarmed in the company of anyone else.
“Peach, please,” she said quietly. She couldn’t speak louder, for no reason beside the constraints her mind had set on her body. She wanted… she wanted-- “Could I take one of your shirts?”
She always did, always. But, she’d always been put together, before. She’d always known she’d be able to hold his hand, to hold him close; to make up for it, really. Tonight, she was shattered, broken, and the pieces of herself were more torn apart than they were cracked. This was asking him to give something without getting anything in return; to help her without receiving anything.
Really, it was just because she wanted to be close to him. To feel him nearby, despite not being able to let him put his hands on her.
Selfish, one part of her mind screamed, thrashing around in its cage.
“Always, love,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “You’ve never had to ask, before.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to lay with you, tonight,” she said, heart hammering in her chest.
He’d never force her, never make her feel bad about it. But the nights where she’d had to deny him outright had always been so rare; usually, the nights that they spent separated had been because of nightmares, had been interrupted nights. Not because of her, not because she was too afraid to try.
His face fell further, added sadness to his previous confusion.
“That’s alright,” he said, standing slowly. “You can take it, anyway. I’ll go get the cot out.”
“I’ll… I could go to Wylan’s,” she offered. Her damn voice was trembling, weak. Weak. Defenseless. Selfish. “I should go to Wylan’s.”
“You shouldn’t go out on your own, like this. It’s alright. I’ll put out the cot, Inej.” He walked around to the other side of the desk, keeping a safe amount of distance between the two of them. “Or I’ll walk with you to Wylan’s, too. But it’s okay to stay. I want you to stay, if you want to.”
She wanted to stay, just to avoid having to go back out, tonight. No matter how unsettled she felt, she was safer here than on the street. In fact, there probably wasn’t a safer place for her than this attic, in Ketterdam. She wanted to stay.
Kaz was safe. He’d help her stay safe. Not just by watching out for her, and definitely not because she wasn’t able to protect herself.
He’d remind her where her claws were. He’d place them into her hands, himself, if he had to. He’d cover her back while she pulled herself together, and he’d wait to come near until she gave him permission. When he did, he’d hold her hand tight, and he wouldn’t let go until the world was right again. He’d stay close or far, but he’d be with her, regardless.
She wanted to stay. Stay at The Slat, stay with Kaz, stay safe.
“I want to stay.”
He nodded, expression softening. He looked calm, looked like he was happy with her there. Looked like he didn’t want her to go, just as much as she didn’t want to go.
“I’ll go get the cot. Here,” he said, slowly coming forwards, stopping in front of the wardrobe. It was enough time to know he was coming, to have the freedom to step backward; and just as they had always worked, he did not look offended when she did.
He opened the cabinets, shuffling through the shirts on the rack. He pulled one out for her, holding the hanger out for her to take the other end. “This one is softest.”
She wouldn’t have doubted it.
“What will you wear, then?” she asked, leaning over to peek further into the wardrobe.
“I said it was the softest one, Inej, not the only one.”
He closed the cabinets, beginning to walk back over to the bed. The cot was beneath the bed, there for nights like these, where they couldn’t tolerate even the possibility of each other’s touch. She felt bad, being the reason they were taking it out.
She walked over to the bathroom, forcing herself to turn away from where he was pulling the cot from under the bedframe.
“I’ll be quick,” she called, pushing the door open.
“Take your time, love.”
If the beds in The Slat were uncomfortable, any cots there were even less so. And yet…
“I can sleep there,” Inej said upon greeting as she left the bathroom, walking out just as Kaz was moving his own pillow over to the cot on the other side of the room.
“No, you just got back. It’s alright,” he said, dropping a blanket down onto the cot, lacking any grace or order entirely. “I’ll go to bed later than you, anyway. You’ll sleep more than me, you should get the bed.”
And that… Well, guilt was a good word to describe this feeling, most certainly. But on top of that?
She didn’t necessarily want to sleep in a bed, but the way he was so adamant about it would’ve made her feel awful to say it. It wasn’t because of him, wasn’t because it was his bed. She just didn’t want to. Not while she’d be sharing a room, not when the only memories her mind wanted to recall of being in a bed were ones of being violated, of being forced into awful things in awful ways.
The cot, as far as she could remember, was nothing like a bed -- nowhere near as comfortable as one, but not something anyone would consider doing such things on, either.
It felt safe. Unconventional, but safe.
Kaz watched her where she stood, clothes still bundled in her arms, hair dripping on the floor behind her heels.
“Do you want the cot?” he asked, slightly baffled, eyebrows raised.
“It isn’t a bed,” she said quietly, shoulders dropping a bit.
She could practically see the moment he realized, the moment everything clicked.
“It isn’t,” he agreed, looking down at it. “I don’t… Are you tired? The bed is comfortable to sit on, and I’ll probably be at my desk. We could switch before bedtime?”
They could. It wasn’t the worst idea, even if there was a strong likelihood that the only place she’d want to sit for the better part of the day would be in the windowsill, feeding the crows. It was easier, mindless. Nothing felt so intense, when she wasn’t forced to pay attention.
“Okay,” she whispered, dropping her clothes into the basket by the door.
She’d do their laundry later, she decided. To make up for all of this trouble she was putting him through, to give herself something to complete, if the panic never went away.
He tapped his cane gently against the floor where he stood, filling the silence.
“Do you need anything else? Is there something I can do?”
He’d promised her tea and scented oils, and neither were anywhere to be seen. She hadn’t asked for it, but she did have a feeling the heat from the mug would help her, some. The hot water had, and the smell of the soap. Tea would likely be similar.
“You mentioned--”
“Tea. I mentioned tea,” he said, putting a finger up as he turned around, picking a steaming mug up and a small bottle up off of his bookshelf. “I wanted to make sure nobody knocked it over. And ginger biscuits are on top of the wardrobe.”
She had no idea how he believed himself to be inhuman, at that moment. Afraid he’d knock something over, and keeping his ginger biscuits in high places, out of sight. He kept any sweets in his room up and away, only because he’d end up finishing a tin and giving himself a stomach ache if he kept them close to him. She’d watched him do just that, a handful of times.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, reaching out and taking the tea from him.
Their fingers brushed just barely, and he pulled his hand away the second she had a grip on the cup. Still, fear gripped her, anxiety like a tight chain around her abdomen, holding her still.
“Alright?” he asked.
“Alright.”
It got worse as the day went on, and time found them both sitting on the bathroom floor with the door shut, despite the two of them being the only ones present. It was just easier, safer. Safer.
They didn’t need to be there, really. She’d rushed off into the bathroom after true panic had taken its hold on her, a moment when she very well thought she might be sick -- the stress of the past few days finally having caught up with her, fully. She hadn’t, but the tile was cool, enough of a shock to keep her present. To pull her mind back to where she wanted it to be.
“Is it getting bad again, then?” Kaz asked after a while, voice gentle and curious. She’d almost call it innocent, were he not the man he was.
She knew he remembered those first days of her living in The Slat, flinching each time someone so much as moved while facing her. She’d been much quicker to startle, back then. Newly out of The Menagerie -- her own personal hell -- and welcomed into a gang filled with a mix of people both kind and cruel about it. Regardless of other people’s intentions, she was never able to keep calm, during moments like those; everyone would know what was happening.
‘Again’ was not an extra word; this had happened, before. Just not recently, not since it was fresh.
She supposed having someone’s unwanted hands on her again was fresh, though.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, chin resting on her arm, draped over her knees. “There was--”
She felt her breath catch, her heart lurch up into her throat.
“One of the slavers we caught, he… It wasn’t even bad, not compared to--” she couldn’t cry through the panic. It was gripping her tight, holding her throat closed, keeping her words silent.
Kaz sat up straighter, eyes on her hands where they were curled in toward her leg. She supposed she should stop digging her nails into the palm of her hand, let her hand go, but it was the only thing keeping her there. Pain kept her there.
“They’re dead, yes?” he asked, eyes still turned down onto her hand.
She nodded, wishing she could explain better. Oh, he would be proud. The amount of blood on the deck had been astonishing, given the few men they’d cut down. By the end, there had been four bodies, but more than enough blood to paint the sea. Normally, she kept death quick and neat, hoping to spare the children they saved from seeing the gruesome aftermath of a deserved passing, but after having hands on her, she hadn’t been able to. Something had taken over; the thing inside of her with claws.
There was precision, but no kind regard. Not for the men or the children they’d taken.
“Very,” she breathed, inhaling and holding it. She couldn’t breathe properly; she was surely going to die, if she tried.
“Good,” he said, a wicked, joyless grin on his face. Safe. “And you’re here, now. You’re free. Where are your knives?”
Most of them, out on the night table in his room. But her favorites, the sharpest and the most used…
Her hand went to her right forearm, pulling Sankt Petyr from the sheath. Curved blade, steel handle with divots meant to help with grip. One end was sharp, the other weighted and dull; two weapons in one.
It was the first knife she’d gotten, left loose on her dresser one day with a note attached to it: Learn to use it. Meet me downstairs, eight o’clock tomorrow morning.
On her other side was Sankta Alina, bone-handled and heavy. It was the knife of a queen, imported from Novyi Zem. Jesper knew someone who’d ship overseas, and she’d been desperate to grow her collection, having just gotten the quick-release forearm sheaths that she still used.
Her knives. Protection. Cool handles, sharp edges. A way to a man's heart without having to go through the pain of being touched. Her claws; her freedom.
“Right,” Kaz whispered, looking her in the eyes. “Those are the knives you used to tear those men apart, Inej. They won’t touch you ever again. They didn’t keep touching you because you knew how to use those.”
People seemed to enjoy reiterating that to her; they spoke as though she was unaware of it, as though she doubted her own strength on a regular basis. Nobody seemed to mind how much she disliked bloodshed, how much penance she’d find herself doing after harming someone who’d dared to touch her.
Revenge was not the first thing on her mind. Prevention was, stopping these things before they could happen was. Not revenge. Not cutting off hands and removing eyes.
“I shouldn’t have to murder someone to keep their hands off of me,” she said quietly, lacking the energy to fully express the anger she was feeling.
She was panicked, her heart thumping in her chest; simultaneously, she was exhausted. Wherever her body was finding the will to keep being afraid was beyond her.
With everything inside of her, she wanted to lie down and sleep. With everything inside of her, she wanted to run, to keep running until she was twelve years old again; safe and unafraid, loved by people who would never have to see what The Barrel could do to a young girl.
“You shouldn’t,” Kaz agreed, voice raspy and low, “and you don’t, here.”
You don’t, here. Safe.
“I’m tired,” she whispered, hoping to reach anyone who would listen. Kaz, The Saints, her family in their homes across the True Sea.
His lips parted in a deep breath, expression hard-set and sad. “I know.”
He did.
They slept on opposite sides of the room that night.
The next day was not brand new. She did not wake up feeling safer, or less angry at the world for the types of people it brought about.
There was a part of her deep inside, ready to go and cut down as many men as she’d taken out on their last voyage three times over. It would be so, so easy; take Sankt Petyr and Sankta Alina, dig the tips in and pull until there was nothing left intact.
After almost a full night of sleep, and day’s worth of nearly enough food, she felt a little bit stronger.
She was sitting on the windowsill in the morning. She still wore his shirt and a pair of leggings, her hair down and moving slightly in the breeze. Things felt just a little clearer, like the world wasn’t trying so hard to force her back into her mind. Staying there was effortless, and the breeze on her skin was simply pleasant, not necessary.
Kaz had kept his distance since the morning before, sure to never touch her on purpose or by accident.
He was so, so careful with her; kept his distance, quiet while she slept, set things down rather than passing them over to her. There was a part of her -- the independent one -- that hated it. It felt like coddling, felt like he thought her to be weak. There were the other parts, though, the softer parts that both needed it and loved him, which almost found it endearing.
Now, he was already at his desk, up and dressed and ready for the day. She could hear his writing, the faint scratch of the pen against paper.
“I don’t want this to break me,” she said softly, not to him, not to anyone. To the wind, maybe -- the breeze outside, which might have just been able to take that wish up to her Saints.
“It hasn’t,” Kaz responded, voice firm and soft.
And he would say that -- he would. After all the times she’d told him the same, talked him back from self-doubt and the fear that one bad night for him would do them both in. He wouldn’t lie to her about something like this, and it didn’t feel at all untrue. He truly believed it. Believed she’d come back from this, just as he was coming back from everything he’d been through.
There was sun filtering through the clouds, finally some warm light on her skin after days worth of cloudy skies. Even aboard her ship, the sun had been absent; there were storms rolling in from Novyi Zem, covering their route in preemptive darkness.
“It felt like it had, yesterday,“ she said. “The past few days.”
He put his pen down, looking up at her. “And today?”
“Better,” she said quietly as she turned to face him, a smile on her lips, the breeze still brushing along her skin.
She imagined the wind was fast enough to whistle in her ears, should she lean her head further out the window. Not for the first time in these past few days, she craved the feeling of him next to her, feeling all of these things with her. Only, she was less afraid, today. Not unafraid, but less so. Less like she would disappear, less like there would be awful outcomes to the things they’d done time and time again.
“I don’t want to be afraid forever. I want to try,” she stated, voice much more confident than she felt, inside. “Try to overcome it, I mean.”
By the time the words had left her mouth, he was standing and making his way to her. Beneath the sound of gentle breeze, there was the distant clicking of his cane against the hardwood. A memory surfaced in her mind -- a vow he’d made to her hardly a year ago: I would come for you. No matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together. He was coming to her, despite how broken she was at the moment, despite how long it was taking to pull herself together.
“Hold my hand,” she suggested, reaching out for him.
Two steps and he was there, standing right in front of her. His gloves were off, as they had been since they’d stepped in the door to the attic when they arrived back at The Slat.
He stopped, standing almost frozen. “Do you… Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He eyed her somewhat warily as he reached up, putting his hand out for her to take. One deep breath, both in and out, and she rested her hand in his.
Her heart did tighten in her chest, and her stomach squeezed uncomfortably with anxiety at the thought of someone's hand on her, no matter where or how willingly. She did not push him away. She would not push him away; she would fight this until the end, and she would come out on top.
She began focusing on other things, on the freedom of this moment rather than the confinement of that one on her ship, or of those years in The Menagerie. The things which made her whole, now. The feeling of the breeze on her face, the way her hair moved with it. The distant smell of the oil on her wrists, accompanied by the lingering scent of Kaz's cologne on the sleeves of the shirt she wore. His steady breathing next to her, the absolute lack of force in his grip. The open window next to her, no bars on the outside. The cotton covering her body in the place of old, false silks.
She closed her hand, squeezed gently. Like freedom.