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His cane falls first. This wouldn’t be a problem if Kaz didn’t immediately follow after it—he also lands on his bad leg which is its own issue.
He’s not having a very good night, all things considered. First it was the fumbling with the lockpicks on the windows earlier, then the cat none of them had known existed, the glass ornamental vase it nudged over that alerted one of the guards, and now, this: a humiliating half-fall, half-leap out of a window he would’ve made easily if he wasn’t going on four days without sleep. If it’d been anyone else, he’d have punched them out cold before the job even began, but he’s not about to brain himself on the nearest flat surface just for the sake of some shut-eye, so he’s here, landing awkwardly in the alley behind some minor merch’s townhome.
(Kaz decides he hates cats, officially and irrevocably.)
The pain from the landing ricochets up through his ankle, forcing his knee to buckle and followed by a searing burn in his thigh that radiates out into his hip. If not for his gloves, the heels of his hands would be scraped to shit as he catches himself on the cobblestone palms-first. A hoarse wheeze forces itself out of his throat, his vision briefly whiting out, but he doesn’t faint which he considers a victory. A figure drops down beside him far more gracefully and he curses every Saint in existence.
“Alright, Kaz?” It’s Jesper, at the very least. Jesper’s less likely to fuss and waste precious time. A bullet explodes into the wall of the building across from them, hastening things along splendidly. “Shit, we gotta go. I’m grabbing your elbow, c’mon—”
He braces himself for the long-fingered grip of Jesper’s hand and uses it more than he’d like to admit in hauling himself up. His leg entirely refuses to cooperate, shaking with violent tremors as he drags it under his body. Jesper grunts at his weight, but once he’s slung Kaz’s arm over his shoulders, they’re on the move. Kaz barely manages to snag his cane with the toe of his boot, kicking it up into his free hand with practiced flourish—even half-delirious from pain, he’s not about to leave behind any traces.
With Jesper practically hauling him through the alleys, they manage to finish their escape with only minor inconvenience; or as minor as his leg acting up ever can be. They’re late to the rendezvous point because Jesper is only so strong and Kaz can only drag the deadweight of his leg so fast. By the time they stumble into the warehouse serving as their pseudo-base of operations, it’s nearly three bells and Jesper hasn’t stopped cursing under his breath for ten minutes. Kaz is sweating under the layers of his clothes, trying not to let the tremors of his leg travel past his hips. If Inej were here, she’d kill them both.
Roeder sees them first. “Fuckin’ Saints alive,” he curses while leaping to his feet, hurrying forward to help a wheezing Jesper bear Kaz’s weight. “What the hell happened?”
This prompts everyone else to turn: Wylan with his wide-eyed shock, Anika and her hasty glance around the warehouse for more trouble, and Seela, their newest acquisition to the gang. Kaz ignores all of them in favor of focusing on not vomiting the moment Roeder touches him.
“Are either of you hurt?” Wylan asks, approaching less hurriedly than Roeder, but still with some haste. “Jesper, what happened?”
“Nothing,” Kaz grits out, flinching when Roeder’s arm shifts around him. “We made it out. Everything’s accounted for.”
“We didn’t get shot,” Jesper assures. “Kaz, uh, just had a little tumble.”
“Fuck you, Fahey.”
“Maybe be a little nicer to the guy that’s been keeping you upright, Brekker.”
They help ease him down onto one of the smaller crates, giving him space once he’s not at risk of keeling over. He braces himself with his cane across his knees and breathes, struggling not to focus on the phantom weight of Roeder or Jesper’s hands on him. His pulse thunders in his ears, gloves creaking over his fingers, and for a wild, desperate moment, he almost wishes Seela were a Heartrender or Healer instead of Inferni—getting his heart to calm down with a Grisha’s power would be much easier than this.
“Please don’t tell me you guys were made,” says Anika, restlessly pacing near the windows.
“No, no, we’re clean,” Jesper promises, waving her off.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I’ll admit, it was a little hard to check over my shoulder with this bag of potatoes in my arms, but I’m sure no one followed us.”
“Kaz?” Wylan prompts, arching an eyebrow.
He forces his voice out through the thickness in his throat, rasping, “If Jesper didn’t see anything, then we’re clear. What about the rest of you?”
The waves of pain lessen as he listens to everyone’s reports. It doesn’t go away completely, lingering like a bad bruise under the skin, but the blackness hedging his vision clears and his racing heart slowly winds back down to something manageable. Jesper won’t stop shooting him looks out the corner of his eye, but Kaz ignores him with the practiced ease of a man who’s long since learned to tolerate an annoying presence or two. Wylan doesn’t take his eyes off him either, but he’s even easier to block out than Jesper.
Once the others have finished regaling their successes, Kaz rounds them all up to wait out the rest of the night at the formerly Van Eck mansion as planned. Wylan offers the mansion up sparingly on account of his mother, but they won’t all make it back to the Barrel before dawn and it’s safer than hanging about in a warehouse. When Kaz had offered him an extra percentage from the payload in exchange, Wylan rolled his eyes and asked how many rooms.
As they make their way discreetly through the early morning streets, Kaz lags behind the group both because of his leg and he needs the extra solitude. He’s recovered mostly, but there’s a ringing in his ears he can’t shake and his leg might as well be driftwood only ten times as heavy. Everything is too loud: the voices of his companions, the wind whipping past the steepled rooftops above their heads, his own body—especially his body. The muscles of his leg howl in protest of every movement, his joints screaming, the weakened sinew crying. Each time he sets his cane down on the cobblestone, it’s a jolt of fresh agony as he’s forced to drag the protesting limb forward as if a child were clinging to his calf. He knows no matter how good his skills at misdirection, there’s no ignoring his weary appearance; Jesper and Wylan won’t stop giving him concerned glances.
These two he can deal with. If it were Inej, it’d be an entirely different story—one with a lot more steely looks and less coddling—but Wylan and Jesper still cow to him on most things. If he tells them he’s fine, they’ll leave him alone. And so long as they leave him alone, they won’t figure out just how poorly he’s holding himself together.
Inej is on month six of her most recent venture to track the elusive flagship of one of the biggest slaver’s rings out of Ketterdam. She’s been taking out the fleet’s smaller vessels for the better part of a year, flourishing in the task with a savage vengeance Kaz can only be proud of. Her last letter came over a month ago and last he knew, she had no plans of being near Ketterdam anytime soon. Apparently, she’s scared the captain off route so badly, the man refuses to even be within sight of the island. Kaz is fine with this because he can’t be anything else about it; not when she isn’t here, anyways.
It gives him the wondrous excuse of working himself to the bone. He’s clubs to manage, jobs to oversee, and potential leads about more slavers to follow up on with the violent efficiency only the Kerch ever attain. He grinds himself under the heel of his own boot and doesn’t stop to check for a stain. Inej has been gone six months; he stopped sleeping well about three months in, and now, he’s lucky if he gets fifteen minutes.
This, of course, is unsustainable. Kaz does not care. His body does—immensely so.
After a while, it stops listening to him. His body shuts down in that way of a machine that’s been run well past its prime and in total disregard of his need for distraction. (He doesn’t call it distraction, but at the back of his mind, he knows that’s exactly what it is.) He finds himself half-dozing anytime he sits down, startling awake when Roeder appears at his side or Seela comes asking about Nina or any other person walks up unannounced. His thoughts drift whenever he forces himself to remain standing, unusually thin and loose like wisps of sea fog off the harbor. Jesper almost resorts to touching him multiple times just to get his attention, stopping only when Kaz senses the approaching hand and shies away instinctually. No one else gets as bold, but it’s Jesper, so Kaz doesn’t rail him for it like he should—he’s also too exhausted to try.
His body scrapes for any semblance of rest it can get because he avoids the meager comfort of his bed. He runs through numbers in his head in a vain attempt to keep his mind busy; anything from recent economic reports to shipping ledgers that mean nothing to him. A small tin of jurda becomes the new staple of his inner pockets and he drinks enough coffee he tastes it on the back of his tongue like the rotten grounds from the beans themselves. The one thing he does for self-preservation is take himself off jobs. He doesn’t need another fall out a second-story window or a snapped neck.
He ekes out another two weeks before Wylan makes his move. Admittedly, Kaz expected it to be sooner. Most of his business is still done out of Per Haskell’s old office, and that’s where Wylan deigns is the appropriate spot to corner him. Kaz will allow him a little credit—there’s only one door and no windows, so standing in the threshold isn’t a bad way to block him in. If he had any confidence in Wylan’s fighting abilities, it would’ve been a decent plan. But Wylan can’t throw a punch for shit and Kaz could trip him with his cane faster than he could make a fist, so he reserves most of his judgement.
Still, he plays along when Wylan fills up the door frame and makes a show of folding his arms across his chest. Kaz peers up at him from the desk, pen in hand and one eyebrow raised skeptically. They stare at each other for a few long, drawn out beats like two stray dogs trying to decide if they care enough about the other to react.
“Wylan,” he intones dryly, breaking the silence first.
“Kaz.”
“What business?”
Wylan points a finger at him. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Kaz sets down the pen. “Are you going to enlighten me further or are we going to sit here all evening saying you and me?”
Wylan huffs, drumming his fingers along his arm—a habit he’s picked up from Jesper. It usually means he’s frustrated if not itching for an instrument to put his hands on. “You’ve been nonstop for weeks—no, months,” he berates lightly. “Jesper doesn’t think you’re even sleeping.”
“Jesper is only supposed to be in here when he’s working,” Kaz replies smoothly. “He’s no more aware of how I’m sleeping than the pigeons. Tell him he owes the house from his last venture with the cards, by the way.”
“We’re talking about your problems, not Jesper’s.”
“What problems? I’m a wealthy businessman without a care in the world.”
“The sarcasm is cute,” Wylan drawls, looking distinctly unimpressed, “but it doesn’t work on everyone, you know.”
Kaz’s eyebrow twitches at the word ‘cute,’ resisting the urge to pick up his pen again and show Wylan exactly how cute he can be. He steeples his fingers together instead and replies, “It works well enough on you.”
Wylan heaves a sigh and takes a step further into the room. “Look, Kaz, we’re just a little worried, and—”
“I’m fine.” The words come as naturally as his cane in his hands—irrevocably fused with his sense of self and impossible to change. “You’re all worse than a flock of mother hens.”
Wylan opens and closes his mouth at the comparison, apparently more taken aback by that than any barb Kaz’s thrown at him. Only Jesper and Inej know he’s not city-bred, a fact he begrudgingly shared one night when Jesper was definitely cheating at cards and Inej was conspiring with him. The only good thing about Inej being gone is the pair can’t force him to play the drinking game they’d conned him into. Jesper is adamant about discovering if he’s hiding a Southern Kerch accent through the influence of alcohol. (He’s not, but his vowels do get a little longer and his flint-stone rasp of a voice drawls more when he’s drunk enough.)
Thinking about Inej only worsens his mood, and he scowls while picking up his pen. “As you can see, I’m clearly alive and not on my deathbed, so you can leave.” He flips a hand dismissively, not quite in a rude gesture. “Tell Jesper to come himself next time if he’s so concerned.”
“Jesper doesn’t know I’m here, actually.”
Well, that’s a little more interesting, but doesn’t change his own refusal to give an inch. He looks back at the numbers he’s been working over on the desk, tossing back a casual, “Oh? Don’t tell me you’re having a fight about me, of all things.”
He glances briefly up through his lashes to gauge Wylan’s reaction, but he’s surprisingly steadfast, either unbothered by the pointed jab or hiding it well behind that clenched jaw. It reminds Kaz a little bit of Matthias. Wylan’s poker face has gotten a lot better in the few years since inheriting his deranged father’s wealth, a useful skill for anyone in the merch trade. A year or two ago, a cruel remark about Jesper’s deeper history with Kaz would’ve set Wylan off like a bottle rocket, his insecurity still working itself out—now, he just levels Kaz with another hard stare. Matthias’ ghost would be proud.
“You’re trying to get me out of here so I stop prying,” Wylan says bluntly.
Kaz shrugs. “Should I bring up your mother next or your father? I can talk about Yuwei, too. Nina keeps me informed of his goings-on.”
Wylan pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out another sigh. “You’re infuriating, sometimes, you know that?”
“A trait of all decent bastards, I assure you.”
“Inej—”
“Inej isn’t here.” He snaps a little too hard at this one, tone edged in brimstone and words scorched with soot. “So, whatever you’re about to say is pointless, isn’t it?”
Wylan closes his mouth. Kaz readjusts his grip on the pen, its hard exterior creaking dangerously in his fingers. Jesper is usually the only one daring enough to use Inej against Kaz in an argument—or, at least, the only one that succeeds at it. Nina’s tried in the past and those fights always end explosively, both of them shouting at each other in increasingly cruel ways until someone reaches their limit. (Almost exclusively Nina, Kaz only once.) Wylan’s never really made an attempt until now which either means he thinks it’s the only option, or Jesper planted the idea for him.
Kaz rubs at his forehead with his free hand, a migraine pulsing at his right temple and spreading like an oil slick. He doesn’t let Wylan see him grimace, but it’s a near thing, his bad leg twitching beneath the desk as if in sympathy. The fact he hasn’t managed to chase Wylan out of his office yet shows a frightening lack of his usual viciousness, and he opens his mouth to rectify this when Wylan beats him to it.
“Come over.”
Kaz pauses. “What?”
“Come to the mansion,” Wylan repeats firmly. “Have dinner with us. Nina’s visiting and—don’t give me that look, she can’t even do anything to you—and have some decent food. That’s it, no tricks.”
He eyes him warily, assessing the sincerity of the offer. Wylan stares back with a look that says he doesn’t give a shit, but with eyes that say otherwise—a little bit pleading, a lot I will drag your cripple-ass out of here myself. He’s come a long way from the little lost merchling that made half-baked smoke bombs. Again, Matthias would’ve enjoyed it.
“Fine,” Kaz agrees with all the bereavement of a someone being forced into an activity they consider heinous at best. “When?”
“Right now.”
“Fuck off, Wylan.”
“Now, or Jesper finds out you agreed to come, then backed out.”
Using Inej—someone miles away and on a ship besides—is one thing; using Jesper is another because he can actually make good on a threat or two with more immediacy. Jesper’s threats aren’t always the physical kind, but they’re certainly creative and include petty things like filing down Kaz’s cane (it snapped in half as he was stepping out of his bedroom, Jesper the sole witness) or fabricating the metal on his clothes (he’d chipped the brass-turned-gold fastenings into fake coins and made sure Jesper had a hell of a time explaining them away at the tables.)
It's a good move, on Wylan’s part. Kaz shoots him a particularly withering look and caps his pen.
“This is happening under duress,” he says, grabbing his cane.
“You do everything under duress,” Wylan replies.
“I’ll consider that the next time I find myself beating someone blind and enjoying it.”
“Ghezen save whoever ends up being your stress relief.”
Dinner is, surprisingly, fine.
It’s not overly extravagant—though, really, anything compared to the standard Barrel street food is borderline ostentatious—but it’s filling and doesn’t taste like it’s been dunked in one of the canals. Nina takes her fill of waffles drenched in warm honey-syrup and does her usual berating of Kaz’s preference to have them dry. He eats an extra two just to spite her, taking slow, pointed bites every time she rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically.
Seela is there for Nina, chatting quietly with her about updates from Ravka. Wylan and Jesper do their usual play at pretending not to look at each other every five minutes, having some silent conversation midst the actual, verbal ones happening over the table. Kaz—comfortable in his silence and mostly too exhausted to even try pretending that he’s listening to any of them—pushes the food around his plate with minimal interest. He eats because it’s instinct and he’s hard-pressed not to eat any food placed in front of him, old habits borne from starvation keeping his body nourished whether he cares to or not. The only thing he tastes properly is the spite-waffle.
Predictably, Nina carries a plate of the damned things with her once they move from the dining room to one of the parlors. Kaz allows himself to get corralled onto one of the sofas only because it’s the perfect length for his leg and for Jesper to squeeze in beside him. Normally, he’d prop himself up against the armrest, but Jesper’s shoulder isn’t a horrible alternative. The layers between them makes the contact bearable and he’s gotten better at tolerating Jesper’s touch more than the others. Inej has helped immensely, though the bad days largely outweigh the good. He still wears his gloves and he can’t handle someone with wet fingers or clammy hands, or if the touch is too soft to be properly felt—
Maybe he’s not gotten that much better, but Jesper is alright. Sometimes. In small doses Kaz can deny or allow at his own discretion. This time, Jesper pauses beside the sofa, arches a questioning brow at him, and looks pointedly at the gap Kaz left by the armrest. Kaz inclines his head slightly and Jesper sits down without a word.
The nice thing about Jesper—of the few Kaz is willing to admit or tolerate—is despite all his restless, boundless energy, he sits still around Kaz. He doesn’t bounce his leg or drum his fingers, refraining from all the usual fidgeting that keeps him in constant motion. By some miraculous power Kaz knows is anything but, Jesper reigns himself in whenever Kaz offers him the chance to be closer than five feet, and all without a word of complaint. He doesn’t even radiate the usual annoyance at being forced to sit for longer than ten minutes. If Kaz were a more generous man, he might’ve been impressed.
As it is, neither of them acknowledges Jesper’s considerate stillness nor, wisely, does anyone else. Kaz leans his cane against his good leg, tucks a little more comfortably into Jesper’s side, and doesn’t say a word when Jesper drapes the arm closest to him over his shoulder. The long line of his forearm rests casually across Kaz’s chest, holding him loosely. Jesper’s opposite hand comes up to sit against the back of Kaz’s neck. It’s a steady, reassuring weight that doesn’t cling or subdue; Jesper merely holds it there like once he placed his hand, he forgot about it.
Similar to dinner, Kaz barely listens to anything around him. Between finally sitting down for longer than five minutes without getting up to pace and the warm mug of hot chocolate someone presses into his hands, he feels the tempting drag of sleep at the edges of his mind. It clouds in the corners like smoke and seeps through the cracks of his composure, pulling at the threads of his resistance and taking advantage of their frayed ends.
It’s harder to temper the worst of his bad habits when Inej isn’t around, and aside from Jesper, the others aren’t as good at noticing his tells. Inej is hardly his keeper—she’d knife anyone who dared suggest such a thing, a thought which never ceases to amuse him—but arguing with her about efficiency and momentum only earns him a hard glare, one which chastises him better than any weapon would threaten him. Unfortunately, without that glare, he’s left with no one to stop him from functioning off of Kerch’s bitter coffee and pure adrenaline alone.
Jesper’s started moving, but only his thumb. He drags the callused edge back-and-forth under Kaz’s ear; slowly, absently. Like he’s not aware he’s even doing it. Kaz knows better, but again, he keeps his mouth shut because it’s… nice. Jesper’s skin is warm—never cold, always dry—and the repetitive motion lulls Kaz closer to dozing. He’s vaguely aware of his eyelids drooping, drowsiness settling in his limbs like leaded weights. The last of his attention stays focused on not spilling chocolate all over himself, the leather of his gloves soaking up the heat from the ceramic mug and making his fingers tingle pleasantly. When Jesper pushes his hand up, digging his fingers into the jagged-cut edges of Kaz’s hair, he deflates.
His eyes close and his shoulders fall as Jesper begins petting his hair in firm, soothing strokes. The wide spread of his palm cradles the back of Kaz’s head perfectly while his long fingers are well-suited to spreading out over his scalp. His nails are blunt, and when they dig in just enough to be felt, Kaz shudders against him. Jesper—well-versed in his reactions by now—doesn’t stop and keeps following the same pattern: from the base of his skull up to the top of his head, nails scratching through the shorter hairs along the sides, then smoothing back down again to repeat.
Kaz settles the mug against his thighs so he can stop worrying about it. One of his hands drifts up to where Jesper’s forearm lay across him, loosely gripping the other man’s wrist just to have an extra thing to hold. His leg aches something fierce and there’s a migraine pushing up against the backs of his eyes, but he’s warm and well-fed. Jesper’s sitting perfectly still while petting his hair not exactly like Inej does, but in a way that’s good for different reasons.
He falls asleep without even realizing it, his breathing matched to the slow pace of Jesper’s hand.
“Is he asleep?” Seela whispers.
Nina presses her palms together from her spot on the carpet, lashes fluttering faintly. She can’t adjust heartbeats or increase blood flow anymore, but she can still sense a person’s resting pulse. “Yes,” she says softy, a smile curling across her face. “And not faking it this time.”
“Finally,” Wylan mutters, rolling his eyes.
“How did you do that?” asks Seela, eyes wide with shock.
Jesper grins and winks at her in a conspiratorial manner. “Trade secret, I’m afraid. Only Kaz’s favorite two lieutenants get to know.”
“His favorite two?”
“Jesper and Inej,” Nina hums, tearing apart one of the waffles. “Since Inej is gone, Jesper is our next best Kaz tamer.”
“And as you can see,” Jesper drawls, “I’m quite good at my job.”
Wylan shakes his head. “If he actually took care of himself, you wouldn’t need to do it at all.”
“Are you kidding?” Jesper sweeps his fingers through Kaz’s hair, arranging the uneven tresses into something semi-presentable. With Kaz’s relaxed features, he almost looks seventeen again. “And miss out on this? I will gladly be this man’s pillow; I’ve had far worse jobs.”
Nina dunks a piece of waffle into her drink, sucking the dribbles of chocolate off her fingers as she says, “The day Kaz Brekker does any sort of self-care, I think we all need to escape on Inej’s ship.”
Wylan snorts quietly. “The day he gets a good week of sleep we should be ready to bolt. His mind well-rested will come up with something insane like another Ice Court heist.”
Jesper tunes out of the conversation, only half-listening as he gazes down at Kaz. He smooths the pad of his thumb over Kaz’s forehead, willing the furrow in his brow to relax. It does after a moment, and the soft, breathy exhale Kaz lets out is a sound that deserves to be bottled and admired. If he didn’t suspect Inej had heard it already, he would’ve offered it to her as a keepsake. Not many people see Kaz as they do, and that’s fine by him.
That just means there’s less he has to share.