#clpdwings ( kaz brekker ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carelessgraces · 3 years ago

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@clpdwings said: five times kaz acted like he didn't care about astoria, plus the one time he did. ( five times | accepting )

one.

She makes it to Per Haskell’s office before she loses her balance, knees giving way and room starting to spin. She’s lucky to find Per Haskell there, and he crouches down beside her; he tips her chin up first, gets a good look at her glassy eyes and the chalky tone of her skin, before he collects her bloodied hands in his to help her stand and guide her to his desk.

Kaz is in the office as well, but if he’s bothered by a bleeding woman collapsing in front of him, he doesn’t seem it.

“Go get the kit,” Haskell commands, and Kaz only sighs as he stands, as if the great sin here is that he’s inconvenienced. Shuddering, Astoria braces her hands against the desk as Haskell moves a chair behind her, turning it so that her back is exposed when she sits. She’s vaguely aware of the thunk of his cane on the floor, but she doesn’t bother to look up until he’s returned, a leather pouch tucked under his arm, a bottle of something clear in his hand.

“I left you alone,” Kaz says, sounding for all the world like an exasperated parent with a particularly troublesome toddler, “for five minutes.”

Astoria lifts her trembling hands to help peel her shirt away, but it’s no use; her fingers won’t hold the fabric, and she feels the blood moving faster when she tries. She’d reopened the wound while she was coming back to the Slat, stumbling and trying not to draw attention to herself, and by the time she’d reached Haskell’s office it was dripping down her back, staining her skirt.

Haskell tuts quietly and takes the bottle and kit, setting them down on the desk beside him before he opens the leather pouch. She glances to the side but only catches sight of a few instruments in her periphery, a flash of white that might be cloth. She hears fabric being ripped, and then her back is exposed, ruined shirt torn open to reach the wound; she hears the bottle being opened next, smells the overpowering stench of strong alcohol, and then a beat later she lets out a sharp gasp at the sudden burning in her back.

“Take a drink, if you can manage it, girl,” Haskell says, and he holds the bottle out for her, careful to ensure it’s in her line of vision. Astoria takes it, still trembling, and downs a mouthful, coughing as soon as she’s swallowed it. It’s strong, no doubt what he’s using to clean the wound, and it burns like acid down her throat, but it’s something. “What happened?”

“Black Tips,” she rasps, “Elzinger.”

“Who could have seen that coming?” Kaz mutters.

“Stabbed you in the back like a coward,” Haskell observes, an edge of anger in his voice. Astoria wonders, trying desperately to distract herself from the urge to shout and quite possibly cry, if he has children; he behaves like a father, sometimes, and she resists the instinct to lean into him, knowing that she shouldn’t move, knowing more that Kaz is watching. The thought of seeking comfort in front of him makes her ill. “Did he run?”

“No. He tried to stab me again when the first one didn’t do it.”

“And?” asks Kaz.

“And I took his knife and did a bit of a — controlled boil, I suppose. He’ll have scars, I’d wager.”

“At least there’s that.”

“You might want to hold onto something,” Haskell warns, withdrawing the rag and tossing it aside. She’s a bit nauseated to see it from the corner of her eye, soaked through with her own blood, reeking of alcohol and copper. “It’ll get worse before it gets better. Kaz — ”

“You want me to hold her hand?” Kaz asks, tone mocking.

The thought of exposing any weakness in front of him makes her want to be sick. Astoria shakes her head, fisting her hands in her skirt. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

It’s a lie. She’s not fine. The sensation of a needle and thread moving through her flesh to knit it back together is agonizing. She didn’t drink enough. Still, she’ll bite her lips bloody before she’ll make a noise; she raises her gaze to Kaz’s face, jaw set and eyes defiant, and the knowledge of his presence is enough to keep her silent. He watches her in return, lips pressed together in a thin line, something odd in his eyes when he watches her take it silently.

It takes too long, pain wracking her body for what feels like hours. She’s sure that, in truth, it’s done in a matter of minutes. When Per Haskell has finished stitching the wound, he gently guides her up, one hand hooked over her arm and the other careful at her back, until she’s standing upright and he can wind a bandage around her. Her ruined shirt hangs from her shoulders, but it’s the only thing covering her. Once the bandage is tied securely, Per Haskell stands, holding his hands out to help her.

It’s not the worst injury she’s sustained, not by far, but it’s certainly different. She’s never been stabbed before. There is a part of her almost amused by this new first, and by the thought that she can celebrate it as a proper initiation into her new life.

Haskell moves to take off his own coat for her, before seeming to think better of it, and he gestures to Kaz. “Give her your jacket, boy. She can’t go through the Crow Club half naked.” Kaz raises an eyebrow but does as he’s asked, watching as she sucks in a deep breath at the pain shooting up her back when she moves.

She thanks Per Haskell with a shaky voice and a kiss pressed to his cheek, ever the faithful daughter as he plays father. She says nothing to Kaz besides a quick thank you.

It takes far longer than she’d like to get the bloodstain out of his jacket the next morning but she manages it, half out of sheer stubbornness and half with her power, the lining a little worse for wear but the outside of the jacket, at least, still in excellent condition. It takes her too long to get up the stairs, and she has to stop to take several deep breaths more than once as she makes her way to the top of the Slat.

He’s in his office when she steps in, and she deposits the jacket, neatly folded, on the desk in front of him. “Thank you,” she says, tone a bit gruff, cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “Again.”

“Mm.” It’s the most she’ll get out of him, and so she doesn’t bother to say anything more, but simply turns back toward the door. She’s almost out of the office entirely when he calls, “How bad is it?”

Astoria hesitates then, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Painful,” she confesses, “but I’ve had worse. Per Haskell says to wait it out until we have a Healer stop by later in the week. I’ll be fine.”

Kaz nods, eyes already back on the papers in front of him. “Good. You’re useless like this.”

She laughs in spite of herself. For a moment, she almost thinks he smiles. ( She’s sure she’s wrong. )

two.

“I can do it.”

Matthias and Nina look toward her with evident surprise; one of her hands is still unusable, fingers broken and mangled — the drüskelle that had chained her up had thought to do a bit more damage, to ensure that she would pose no threat — but Astoria can do it. She’s certain of that much. The others move back to allow her room, Nina hovering worriedly, but Astoria ignores her as she crawls closer to Kaz’s body, still and silent. And, gingerly, she leans forward, bringing her ear to his chest, listening, listening.

Stupid, stubborn Kaz Brekker, always certain he knows more than everyone else in the world, all too often right on that count. Astoria clenches her jaw and closes her eyes, trying to block out the sounds around her, but any gratitude she felt has been ground out by horror and worry and, burrowing into her bones, fear. There is something particularly galling at the thought that one of them might not survive, made infinitely worse by the gnawing possibility that he might be the one of them to be left behind, dead within the Ice Court.

She can hear it. It’s faint but it’s there; the water in his blood, the water in his lungs. Astoria’s injured hand comes to hover over his chest, the other over his mouth, and, gently, so gently, she begins to draw the water from his lungs. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, even though she know he can’t hear her, “but this is going to hurt.”

He’ll feel it when he’s conscious again, and not for the first time in her life, Astoria is looking forward to Kaz’s pain, though this time, she thinks, it’s entirely different. “Come on.” Beside her, she feels Matthias moving to help her, and she snaps a quick no! before returning her attention to drawing the water up through his esophagus, over that sharp tongue, out of his poisonous mouth.

And she nearly laughs with relief when she feels the water gathering around her hand, her fingers moving in slow patterns to urge the water along. Her other hand comes to rest tentatively on his chest, and she winces at the sharp jolt of pain that shoots up her hand and arm at this. Her unbroken fingers flex against him, and she listens until she can hear the song in his blood.

It’s faint. Faint enough that she’s not sure she’ll be able to do anything at all. Astoria takes in a long, slow breath before she flexes her fingers again. Move. Move. If she can get his blood moving, if she can get the water out of his lungs and some air in, then his heart might start again, might do what needs to be done on its own, and Nina’s right here, certainly she can help if Astoria needs it, and if Kaz Brekker dies because of her Astoria thinks she’ll never forgive herself, which is strange, really, considering that he is one of the people she likes least in this world —

— the last of the water clings to her hand and she waves it carelessly to the side, letting the water splash uselessly to the ground beside them. Both hands are dedicated to directing his blood, to urging his heart to beat, and she listens, listens, listens. Ketterdam will be wrong without him. There will be no one else to take the terrifying leaps into something new, something incredible. There will be no one to pick at her insecurities until she learns how to better weather them. There will be no one in his attic office. Ketterdam will be a thousand things it shouldn’t be without him. It occurs to her suddenly that Kaz is the closest thing she has to family, now, and the thought leaves her feeling as though someone’s squeezed the air from her lungs.

She hears a beat, slow and cautious, and then a second, and then a third, and she sits up just in time for Kaz to take in a sharp and shuddering breath before he rolls onto his hands and knees to retch. Instinct guides her hands forward to curl against his shoulder, but good sense stops her before she can make contact. Shaking, Astoria shifts away from him, her own heart pounding a vicious and unrelenting rhythm against her ribs. ( He almost died underneath her hands. How many times had she idly fantasized about wringing his neck, and now, she’s trembling because she almost couldn’t save him? )

“You drowned,” she says when the retching slows, her voice quavering audibly. It’s the stress, the sudden violence, of their circumstances and nothing more. Kaz looks back at her for only a moment before he’s coughing again, hands braced against the ground beneath them, shoulders shuddering. “Try and take steady breaths.”

Nina crouches down beside him, a hand hovering uselessly over his shoulder; he rasps something that Astoria can’t identify, but a moment later, Nina has moved to take Astoria’s injured hand in her own. Astoria lets out a pained and wordless sound, but Nina hushes her, and Astoria can only focus on the strange sensation of her bones grinding back into place.

“Can you move them?” Nina asks when she’s finished, and Astoria nearly cries out when she curls her fingers into a fist before opening them again, but she nods.

Nina returns to Kaz’s side after that, and Matthias reaches to help Astoria stand again; the arches of her feet tingle uncomfortably when he touches her, and she tries not to think about it. From the look of it, he and Nina have reconciled, and Astoria pretends that her chest doesn’t hurt just a little at the thought of it.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Astoria asks, more for an excuse to say something and fill the silence, and Matthias looks over her shoulder. Astoria turns, following his gaze, to see Kaz staunchly refusing Nina’s aid as he stands.

“I think he’s fine,” intones Matthias dryly, and he settles a friendly hand on Astoria’s shoulder before walking past her to reach Nina.

Astoria’s eyes flicker up toward Kaz, who meets her gaze but says nothing. Astoria clears her throat, raises her eyebrows, calls out, “Are we even now?” His lips twitch into a smirk, but he says nothing, turns deliberately from her to face Nina and Matthias.

Good, she thinks. It would be concerning if anything had changed between them.

( She doesn’t think of it until they’re on the Ferolind again, and she’s taking a turn to watch over Nina, dabbing the sweat from her brow and braiding her hair back to keep it out of her face. Her fingers are still crooked and painful, but are functional again, and Nina takes Astoria’s hands in hers to heal them properly. When she’s finished, she looks up, her feverish eyes settling on Astoria’s. “Good as new, now,” she says, voice strained. “Sorry about earlier. We were in a rush. Kaz said to heal you before we went anywhere.”

“You’re kidding.” Astoria lets out a snort of amusement, already withdrawing her hands to flex her fingers admiringly. “Oh, you did beautifully here. Thank you.”

“Come closer. I’ll get the hair. I’m serious; he said to fix your hands first. Said you were no good if you couldn’t help us, but I think you’re as much a member of the crew as anyone could be.”

She laughs it off. It’s the same reason he took her wrists in his gloved fingers while he freed her, trying to massage the feeling back into her hands after she was suspended for so long. The same reason he came back for her in the first place. She’s useful.

Nina hesitates, taking in an uneven breath, and asks, “How did you get out?”

But then she doubles over with a pain in her chest, Astoria’s hands moving uselessly to try and steady her. They forget the question and file it away as one of the many things they won’t speak of, like Nina’s new awareness of Astoria’s stuttering heartbeat when Matthias comes in to look after Nina again — acknowledged only by a quick glance, pushed aside when Astoria’s tone and expression don’t change.

Still, it’s a simple thing, when you get down to it. It’s simply that she hasn’t outlived her usefulness yet. )

three.

( “Kaz,” she calls as he turns back toward the mausoleum. “What about me?”

He looks back toward her, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me what you want me doing. Am I staying here with Jesper and Matthias, to keep an eye on Kuwei? Am I distracting while you and Wylan break in? What’s going on?”

“No, none of that,” he says, turning around once more. “You’re going to the Crow Club.” )

When she sees Colm Fahey’s face she immediately cups his cheeks with both of her battered hands and stands on her toes, drawing him down so she can press a kiss to his forehead. “You beautiful man,” she tells him, “you absolute gift, if I thought I could convince you to stay in Ketterdam I would marry you on the spot.”

It’s rather sweet, watching Colm’s face turn a red deep enough to compete with his hair at her idle teasing. Astoria releases him with a grateful smile, looking around the space — it’ll do, for now, and it’s certainly safe enough for the moment, though she hates the idea of drawing Jesper’s father deeper into their mess. “You’re injured,” Colm says after a moment, frowning, and Astoria waves a hand.

“I’ve had worse. I need to see Kaz, is he here — ?”

“Right through there. Do you need me to call for someone? It looks bad.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I look lovely. Radiant, even,” she laughs, but there’s a tangible nervousness in her stomach that she cannot shake, won’t be able to shake, until she sees Kaz. She follows where Colm points, and she sees them there, all of them looking exhausted and in various states of disarray. Inej looks to be the worst, though she stands as soon as she sees Astoria and moves to meet her halfway, greeting her with a tight hug.

Whatever arguments they’d had before about saving refugees seems to be forgotten — even Nina, whom Astoria loves in no small part because of her willingness to argue, moves to embrace her. She ends up with Wylan tucked under one arm, Inej fretting over the blossoming bruise on her cheek, Jesper frowning at the bloody state of her knuckles.

“Pekka Rollins was at my father’s house, he found us there — ”

” — an assassin, she said, called herself Dunyasha — ”

” — seems like Nina might be able to control dead matter — ”

“Where’s Kaz?” Astoria asks, smiling faintly, bringing both her hands to Inej’s shoulders and frowning at the state of her. “And what are you doing worrying about me, when someone’s done this to you?”

” — corpses were walking — ”

” — so Kaz threw the acid onto the floor — ”

” — you should have seen Matthias, commanding his own little Grisha army — ”

She meets Matthias’ eyes helplessly over the others’ heads. “I can’t see Kaz?” she says a little desperately, hoping to use his height to her advantage, and Matthias grins and points toward where Kaz is standing, keeping his distance from the others while they gather around her, evidently lost in thought. Even Kuwei has come closer to her, and she offers him the same tired smile she’s been wearing for the others, though she’s starting to feel overwhelmed.

” — Jesper handled the powders and — ”

” — the sight of my father’s face — ”

“BREKKER,” she shouts, cutting across the layered voices, and the others fall silent as Kaz lifts his head toward her in surprise. It’s rare Astoria raises her voice; she has always been of the belief that power comes with being able to command using a whisper, and it’s a skill she’s working hard to perfect, but needs must. Gently, she untangles herself from the others, moving around them to reach him. “We need to talk.”

He waits for her to approach, taking in her appearance without a word. She has to fight the urge to embrace him, and she thinks it’s the first time she’s ever, ever wanted to hug him. “It’s bad?” he asks, and she nods.

“Worse than we thought.” She takes a breath to tell him everything, but she’s interrupted by a rapping at the door; Kaz’s hand tightens around the head of his cane and he moves toward the door.

“It’s Specht.”

The others relax; she doesn’t. It’s not going to be good news.

She hates that she’s right; she doesn’t speak again until they’re all gathered in the clock tower, staring in horror at the Dregs marching with the parade of deputized gangsters. Astoria’s eyes immediately move to Kaz’s; he’s watching her, waiting for her report.

“I tried to tell you,” she says, and there’s an edge of unease to her voice that she rarely lets anyone hear. “Haskell, he’s — they’ve all turned on you. Haskell’s sided with Rollins and the Dime Lions. When I got there he was waiting for me, told me that my job was over and I could come back where I belong.”

“He thought you’d go with him?” Wylan asks quietly, and Astoria nods. Jesper winces.

“He told me to make my choice.”

“And?” asks Kaz, his voice as soft as Wylan’s, but it seems to echo in the room. Astoria turns to face him, chin raised defiantly.

“What do you mean, and? I’m here, aren’t I? I chose you lot.”

“Haskell gave you your first chance at safety in Ketterdam.”

“Yes, and you’re responsible for any safety that’s lasted.” She hasn’t forgotten the Ice Court, Kaz’s fingers making quick work of the locked chains that held her, the quiet rasp of his voice when he commanded not a word.

“So that’s how you got the bruise?” Matthias sounds so offended on her behalf, and she smiles ruefully, warmed by his kindness.

“Well, when I told him as much, he wasn’t particularly thrilled. And when he tried to restrain me, it didn’t go well.” Inej tucks herself against Astoria’s side, and Astoria wraps an arm around her shoulders tightly. “It looks like you lot are stuck with me.”

Only Kaz remains unmoved by this. She can see the gears turning in his head and she knows exactly where he’s going, and she hates that she’s become so like him these past years that she can practically smell the stupid on him. Self-sacrifice, in this case.

She wonders if he thought the same when she decided to turn herself in at the Ice Court. He meets her eyes again and she tries to argue but she can’t, and she hates that she can’t. When the others protest, he raises his eyebrows and jerks his chin towards her.

“You love to argue with me,” he says. “Did Haskell’s tantrum break you of the habit, weasel?”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” she says honestly. When the hell did she come to believe so strongly in Kaz Brekker? “And if you can’t, I’ll drag you out of there myself.”

He almost looks pleased by her endorsement, even when Jesper jumps in to argue it, when Inej protests.

four.

They’re gone. Inej has boarded her ship; Wylan and Jesper have settled into the emptied Van Eck estate; Nina is en route to Fjerda, Matthias’ body in tow. Funny, she thinks. She never would have imagined that the Crow Club could feel so empty or so quiet.

There are a thousand things she has tried to make sense of these past days; she is running low on patience and lower on compassion, distracted by her own irrational grief. Her heart aches to remember Matthias dying in that kind of pain and Nina left to mourn him, a revenant and a gravedigger all at once. The promise that Matthias would be buried in Fjerdan soil had comforted Astoria somewhat, though she’d made sure not to ask too many questions, not to allow herself the sharp and sweet agony of his loss. They were friendly; they weren’t particularly close. Astoria’s foolish affection, and the pain caused by it, is her own to bear. At least he’ll be buried in the faith, she thinks, but even that is a jab at an open wound.

Kaz pours her a silent drink and slides it across the desk; she catches it without thinking, folding a hand around the glass. It’s gin, and a decent bottle at that, given the smell. She’d helped him empty Per Haskell’s personal effects from his office and it feels stark and empty and strange, though she knows that he’ll make the space his own. She’s come to admire his persistent refusal to die. It makes her think there might be a chance she can learn it as well.

Astoria swirls the gin in the glass, staring vaguely at the moving liquid, before she lifts the glass in a halfhearted toast. “To Jan Van Eck. That was the most stressful few weeks of my life, but at least the bastard kept us on our toes. Keeps us young.”

Kaz smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he tilts his glass in her direction, and she taps the desk before she downs the drink in one go. It’s the sort of gin that deserves a bit of attention, but it’s been a long week. Month. Year. Kaz doesn’t hesitate when she holds the glass out for him to refill, and for a moment, they fall into a companionable silence.

She’s the fool to break it. The gin has made her a bit bold, and she crosses her legs and slouches just a bit, looking up at Kaz for a long moment before she speaks. “When this started,” she says, voice quiet, “you said you had information on my mother.”

All at once she thinks the air’s been sucked out of the room, and the look Kaz gives her is inscrutable. Is he uneasy with the threat of someone else leaving? Is he eager for her to take her information and go? That’s the problem, she thinks; Kaz never gets easier to read, even after years of fascinated study. As soon as she learns one set of expressions and reactions, he develops another, and over and over again she does the best she can to understand a man who will do anything to avoid just that.

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me what you learned?”

He considers her for a long moment, eyes sweeping across her. He’s taking the measure of her, the tension in her shoulders and the way that grief has written itself into the early lines of her face. His eyes settle, finally, on her hair, still shorter than either of them is used to, and he simply looks for a moment more before he answers.

“She’s in Elling,” he says finally. “Appeared there about a week and a half after you vanished with only what she could carry and under an assumed name. Noora Olzon. Healthy, no major injuries that anyone’s noticed, but apparently her nose healed crooked.”

She considers it in silence. The memories she has of her mother feel tainted by the things she has considered since arriving in Ketterdam; the sight of a mother shielding her children from danger here prompts a vicious sort of sorrow when Astoria remembers her own mother, almost in a state of shock, nodding in a panic as she was coached on her story. You had no idea I was a witch. I did this to you. Do you understand, Mama? You have to say it back to me. You have to make it sound real. Say it again. Say it again. You have to get it right. And Veronika, no doubt, had succeeded, if she still lives.

And it’s not that she wants her mother dead. Far from it. The news that her mother is alive, that her mother is well, makes her feel lighter than she has since she left Djerholm in the first place. It’s as if she’s healing from a long-lasting sickness; tomorrow, she knows, she will be brighter, more joyful. The knowledge that she hadn’t killed her mother will give her what she needs to begin to recover from the knowledge that if she was in the right place, at the right time, she could have saved Matthias.

A life for a life. Hateful, isn’t it? But there is joy in one less death on her conscience. Still, it feels so terribly... wrong. Don’t mothers protect their own? Don’t mothers want to see their babies grow up safe? Shouldn’t Veronika have taken her and run the moment she first showed signs of her power, instead of letting Astoria fester in hatred and fury for nearly a decade and a half before cowering as a girl of only nineteen fled into a wildnerness which would almost certainly kill her?

She is grateful for her mother’s survival and she is resentful of the circumstances of her own. She hasn’t had family for too long, now, and she’s started to forget what it felt like to have someone who valued your safety more than their own. Her eyes flicker back to Kaz’s, and she knows, she knows, that she’ll never find it here. She knows that she is only as valuable to him as whatever jobs she can run, and that what he needs is a lieutenant, not a friend, not a confidante, not a partner, not family.

Still. Kaz Brekker has become family. She hates herself for it, but it’s true. And there is something inside her that tells her that even if she wanted to leave, she couldn’t leave him now. After all, reminds a treacherous voice in her mind, he’s the one who came back for you in the Ice Court.

There will be no going to Elling. There will be no return to Fjerda. Instead, Astoria takes another slow drink of her gin, and she shrugs one shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, tone sincere, and she settles more comfortably into her chair. “It’s a relief to know that. I’m — I am so grateful for it.” The space suits him. She’d like to see him remain here. She’d like to see his success. She’d like to be a part of it. Astoria considers for a moment, then turns her face to him again. “So. It looks like it’s just you and me, now.” No more Crows; she never was one, anyway. Perhaps there’s more room for a weasel when he holds court. “Think you can learn to tolerate it?”

Kaz looks at her, then downs the rest of his drink with a sigh. “Absolutely not.”

She waits a beat, then asks, “Can I take your old office?”

A sigh. She thinks it almost sounds like a laugh. “If you must.”

five.

She’s covered in blood by the time she makes it to Kaz’s office, but that’s really nothing new. On any other night it would hardly matter, but she had been the one to urge a gentle hand in dealing with this latest threat — be patient. Let me handle this, Your Majesty, and we’ll have everything we need by the night’s end. The less desirable corners of Ketterdam have taken to calling him the King of Thieves, and a few have looped her in as his Queen; no doubt she is his favored lieutenant, and she has made herself known in her unflagging support of his endeavors, even when they end in a bit of bloodshed. It’s bled even into their — rather affectionate, Astoria likes to imagine — antagonism. When he’s annoyed by the ceaseless bother of the newer Dregs he scowls and mocks go ask your mother. When she’s being coy in considering an offer she smiles and says I’ll need to consult my better half.

And so it will be little use for her to stand in this meeting, blouse spattered with drying blood and torn in several places. So much for a gentle hand. Kaz’s lip curls in disgust at the sight of her, and he considers for a moment before he asks, “How much of that is yours?”

“Just a bit at the arm,” Astoria says. “Is it hopeless? Do I have time to run upstairs, or — ”

As if on cue, there’s a knock on his office door, and Kaz raises his eyebrows.

“Just a moment,” she calls, and Kaz sighs, and for a moment she can practically see it in his face: I should have left her in the Ice Court. She knows better than to take it personally, by now. He stands, moving to a cabinet against the wall, and after a moment he tosses her a folded shirt.

“Borrow this. Make yourself presentable. Who was it?”

The window is covered by a wooden screen, but the warm glow of the gaslamps outside filters in regardless. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, curls forced into obedience only by her incessant adjustment of the moisture in the air around her head. There’s a smear of blood drying on her cheek that she’s forgotten about entirely. She is a far cry from the girl who came to Per Haskell in this very office all those years ago, her confidence a flimsy mask as she presented him with a proposal.

She is even a far cry from the girl who agreed to return to Fjerda, the girl who mourned in the aftermath. The past few years with the Dregs have made her a ruthless thing, and she is proud of it; there is something to be said for refusing to be ruled by her better angels, not when it means sacrificing the power she holds to ensure she can never be hurt again.

( She doesn’t see Kaz’s dark eyes as they settle on the blood on her face, the way it follows the high line of her cheekbone, nor does she see those eyes as they move to her curls gathered over one newly bared shoulder, her clavicle, the shape of the corset that saved her life. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have believed it if she’d seen it. )

“Black Tips,” she laughs. “You’d think they’d have learned by now.”

“Toss it here,” he commands, and Astoria throws the ruined shirt in his direction so he can shove it in the little bin beneath his desk. “Give me the details later, but for now, are you hurt?” Just as she’s about to be flattered, he continues, “You do not have the option of passing out in the middle of this because you were too stupid to stop a wound from bleeding.”

“Just a little cut,” she promises, “and I’ve already closed it the best I can.” She shrugs the shirt over her shoulders; it’s a bit long, but it fits better than she might have guessed it would. “I tried the steel boning for this one. Worked like a charm.”

“I’m thrilled,” he drawls, “that your underclothes have taken an interest in your safety.”

“How do I look? Alright?”

Kaz’s eyes flicker across her frame for the briefest moment before he nods. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he softened for a moment — but she does know better, and Kaz is never soft. “Face,” he says, and he reaches into his jacket to withdraw a handkerchief for her to take.

The shirt feels all too comfortable on her frame. It’s strange, wearing Kaz’s clothes ( again — she still remembers the jacket he’d loaned her at Haskell’s request ), but she can’t bring herself to mind. Astoria gathers the handkerchief and wipes her face until she’s found the blood; there is another, more insistent, knock on the door as she folds the handkerchief and tucks it away in her sleeve.

“Get this under control,” Kaz murmurs, “or we do this my way,” and Astoria nods, crossing the office to the door as she tucks her borrowed shirt into the waistband of her skirt. When she reaches the door, she’s smiling warmly, gesturing for their guest to step inside.

“Thought I was meeting with you,” the man says, looking at Kaz accusingly, and Astoria’s smile doesn’t falter.

“Some things,” she sighs, rather sweetly, “require the presence of the lady of the house. Take a seat, please, let me make you some tea...”

She plays her part to perfection, the gentle balance to Kaz’s quiet intensity. For every infinitesimal raise of his eyebrows or narrowing of his eyes she is expressive, engaging, endearing. It’s her face, she knows; she’s lovely, delicate, doll-like, even with her hair tumbling across her shoulders and Kaz’s shirt wrapped around her, the very image of a naive young lady in far over her head. And when she takes their guest’s coat from his shoulders to hang from the hook on the back of the door, he doesn’t think she’s picking his pockets or feeling the lining for any weapons to be concerned with, any more than he suspects that she’s slipped a handful of counterfeit bills where the legitimate notes had been.

Kaz sees it, like he always does. It had been her idea — subtlety is needed when an enemy threatens to bring in the stadwatch, less out of any real fear of legitimate backlash than the desire to prevent a mess before it’s made. He’ll spend his money gambling elsewhere, like he always does, and he’ll be picked up and tossed out, left with broken fingers and a damaged reputation. He’d seemed almost proud of it.

He seems almost proud of this, too, watching the way she works — how she leans forward, eager, as their guest speaks; how she lets out a delicate, ringing laugh at a joke, lip caught between her teeth and cheeks flushing. ( It’s easy enough to inspire a blush, she’s found; she thinks about Kaz’s rare compliments to her work, and that always does it. ) And that’s all he needs, a pretty girl to play the part of a rapt audience. He lets slip names. Dates. Times. Even Kaz’s presence behind her as she leans against the edge of his desk isn’t enough to draw attention away from her, and the man forgets quickly enough that it’s Kaz he came here to see.

They get what they want, without handling it Kaz’s way. She doesn’t say it but they both know it’s the case — she usually gets what she wants when he lets her take the reins.

( Astoria clumsily bandages her own arm before retiring for the night. She stays awake just long enough to peel off her clothes and toss them aside, and on a whim, she pulls Kaz’s shirt back on before she climbs into bed, tucking her arm under the pillow below her head. The fabric smells a bit dusty, like it’s spent too long in the cabinet, and a bit like the bottle of gin he only takes out when it’s the two of them alone in that office, and like the soap he prefers. She sleeps better than she imagines she would. )

( This time, when she looks at the borrowed clothing in the morning, she doesn’t give it back. He doesn’t ask. )

...and one.

They don’t talk about it much. She imagines it’s because they don’t have much to say. And there are a thousand things that they don’t talk about — who he was before he became Kaz Brekker, why Inej doesn’t return to Ketterdam so often as they’d imagined she would and he won’t say her name when she’s at sea, the R tattooed on his arm. She doesn’t ask; he will tell her if he wants, and she doubts that he ever will, and it makes no difference to her. They are not who they were before they came here. The histories given to them matter less than the histories they built.

( When they do talk about it, it’s brief. I still hold your indenture, he’d pointed out once, and I don’t use that leverage for something like this, before anything had tangibly changed. She’d scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, and answered, I don’t care. Do what you want with it. You know I’m not going anywhere, and I know exactly the man you are. If I thought you were using it as leverage right now, I’d have killed you before you opened your mouth. He’d seemed satisfied with that, amused by her violence. )

Like most things between them it builds, almost tortuous in how slowly it grows. She saw him without his gloves first in the Ice Court and had averted her eyes, as if to try and limit the degree of his exposure. The first time he takes his gloves off in front of her, willingly, she lets her eyes fall to the shape of his hands, the length of his fingers, with an attentiveness she doesn’t bother to hide; he has a reason for everything he does, and who is she to question it? He won’t touch her when she’s come in from the rain, her skin slick and cold, and she doesn’t ask why. For a time he preferred she not face him, and she hadn’t asked then, either. And it built, slowly, almost painfully so, first his gloved hands against her skin and then his bare fingers twisting in her hair.

( The first time he brought her to tears he’d cupped his gloved hand under her chin and dragged his thumb below her eyes. He said nothing for a long moment, simply looking her over, then asked, Are you hurt? She had smiled at that, at the softness of the leather against her cheek, and shaken her head. Not in any way I don’t like. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you if it ever is. And he’d nodded, brushed the backs of his fingers over one cheek, the tenderness in the gesture enough that it made her ache. The second time he brought her to tears he seemed proud of it, just as she’d hoped. Stop crying, he’d said, this time brushing the tears away with his bare fingers, and she’d looked up at him with something akin to adoration when she told him to kiss her ass. )

If anyone else has noticed a change between them, they don’t mention it; even Wylan and Jesper, who they see often, don’t seem to notice, and she doesn’t intend to be the one to bring it up. Astoria has grown comfortable in the silence that they share, in the things that they don’t say, in the pressure of his hand around her neck and her unflinching pleasure in the knowledge that he could crush her throat if he so chose, in the way his hands will sometimes linger, always a little longer than they did the time before.

( She woke once with his hand in her hair, carding idly through the curls as he considered one of the thousand things always on his mind. She’d rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow, smiling despite herself when he looked down at her, surprised to find her awake. I thought you’d be gone by now, she teased, and his hand fell, only for a moment, to brush across her still-bare shoulder. Years of knowing one another, of seeing each at the other’s worst, of understanding in intimate and painstaking detail all the horrible vulnerabilities they carried and chosing to remain in spite of it, and that’s the gesture to suggest a closeness she couldn’t have guessed at when they’d first met. Yes, he’d mused, his tone far away, as if he hadn’t realized yet that he was speaking aloud. So did I. )

He’s typically dressed while she’s still lounging comfortably in nothing more than a robe, and this is no exception; she’s stretched her legs across his clothed thighs and he has a hand cupped against her calf, papers resting on her bare legs in his lap as he reads. She likes him best like this, the sharp angles of his face hollowed out by the flickering shadows from the candles that light her room, stretched out like a lazy cat, some scheme developing in the evening’s silence, when he’s testing his limits. She never initiates contact but always responds eagerly, encouraging without demanding, and she almost thinks he appreciates it.

“This,” he says, and he slides one of the papers from her shins to her thighs so she can see it, “is where we need to get in. Lucassen keeps the key on him at all times, but if you can distract him long enough to lift it, then it’ll work.”

“I’d have to be very distracting,” she murmurs. “Do we know what he likes?”

“Piety, abstinence, and the word of Ghezen. He’s practically a monk.”

“Then what the hell is he doing in Ketterdam?” His hand flexes against her calf, and when she looks up at him, he’s wearing that crooked smirk. “Well, I’ll do my best, and if we don’t know what he likes, I’ll — figure something out. When do I look my best? At prayer? I could play the penitent worshipper, men love to comfort a pretty girl crying — ”

His eyes flicker towards her face for only a moment, and even in so short a frame she can see him take in the swell of her reddened lower lip and the tear tracks still visible on her face and her hair tangled from his hands. “You look your best now,” he sighs, voice a monotone, “but that’s out of the question. Try the penitent worshipper. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. Report back tomorrow night — I’ll be with Jesper and Wylan at the estate, not sure when I’ll be back. They said Nina’s due in for a spell. They’ve put together an entirely Ravkan menu.” She pretends not to be charmed by his small-talk, and he pretends not to notice. And then, glancing at her sideways, he adds, “Wylan wanted me to remind you that there’s room at the table.”

It’s a lot to hear at once but she tries to sort it out — his possessiveness is always unexpected, always a delight. Nina’s arrival is a surprise; she visits rarely, by circumstance more than choice. And Wylan’s invitation is nothing new. Kaz being the one to deliver it is.

“You all have so little time together,” she says, the same excuse she gives every time. “I hate to interfere.”

“Not interfering if you’re invited,” he points out dryly. “Do what you want. But that’s where I’ll be, after you’ve made contact with Lucassen.”

And she might swing by, just this once. Just for a moment.

Just because he’s the one who asked.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( kaz brekker )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#iii. ain’t it warming you‚ the world gone up in flames? ( kaz x astoria )#nsfw;#(but it's mostly implications tbh anyway)#(here we go)#(this is where i live i guess)

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carelessgraces · 3 years ago

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@clpdwings said: five times of not getting along and one time they did for kaz! ( five times | accepting )

one.

The first time she meets Kaz Brekker, really meets him, she’s sporting a bite mark on her neck that he will not stop staring at.

Per Haskell sits at his desk, repeating the intelligence she’d brought back with her, and Kaz is listening, she knows, but he’s staring so intently at the bruise on her throat, almost as if he’s counting the individual teeth left visible in the mark, that she feels naked. It’s a strange sort of self-consciousness, one she rarely feels these days, a hangover from an adolescence spent in Fjerda. Astoria rubs a mindless hand over the mark, forcing her eyes back to Per Haskell.

He’s finished by now, and is looking at Kaz expectantly. The Barrel has taken some getting used to; Ketterdam is so alien to her, with its constant noise and bustle, tourists and students littering the streets, merchants and buskers in a constant battle for attention. The city is never quiet, not properly quiet. Djerholm had been bustling, but not like this, didn’t smell so obviously of piss and liquor and sweat when she walked down the streets — which were wider, much less crowded. She couldn’t hear the sounds of jingling coins in a fool’s pockets and rutting in back alleys and fistfights every few blocks.

She loves it.

The men are different, too. No one holds a door open for her unless they’re trying to impress her; no one rushes to gather something heavy from her arms and carry it for her; when she wears something cut low, no one bothers to avert their eyes. And Kaz is the strangest of them all: dressed like some unholy mimicry of a merchant, the cut of his clothes always sharp, something at once unremarkable enough to escape notice and flattering enough to distract the eye. She had been attracted to him for about five minutes after the first she saw him, until she saw that venomous glare, and then she’d been too uneasy to think of it again.

And now his eyes are on her neck, not with any sort of interest or desire but as if he’s estimating just how much force would be needed to break the skin and rip her throat out with his teeth should the need ever arise. It isn’t the potential for violence in him that frightens her so much as it is that she doubts he would be bothered by it, unless he spilled her blood on that pristine collar.

Kaz drags his gaze to Per Haskell, considering for a long moment before he says, “And we can trust her?”

“I spent eight months with him,” Astoria says, hand moving to her neck again. “He’s said plenty.”

“Yes,” Kaz drawls, “men say plenty when they’re trying to keep a woman in their bed, but that doesn’t mean it’s always true. Especially if that woman is openly affiliated with his rivals. Unless you think you’re the first pretty little fool too clever to be caught?”

“And men tell the truth when they’re flattered into believing that they’ve become the new center of a pretty little fool’s world.” Per Haskell had warned her about this, that Kaz could be infuriating, that Kaz would find her insecurities and vulnerabilities in a moment’s time and that he would poke and poke and poke just to see how far she could be pushed. She had smiled and said that she’d be on the lookout for it, but even now with it staring her in the face, she can’t help but rise to the bait.

Kaz gives her a withering look that feels almost like a slap across the face. “And what makes you think that he wasn’t trying to draw you in in the same way?”

“That’s exactly what he’s trying to do. But I’m doing it better, and we know because it’s my intel that saved you almost a million kruge this year alone, and everything I’ve told him has been calculated into that. Acceptable losses.”

He looks back to Per Haskell for confirmation, and Per Haskell nods. “You have your spider,” he says, “and I have mine.”

The comparison seems almost to offend Kaz, who looks Astoria over with a lip curled in distaste. Finally, he stands, one hand on his cane, the other held out for the papers on Per Haskell’s desk.

“Then if it’s good intel, we’ll handle it.”

“Yes, you will.” It’s a firm command, as if a reminder — the Dregs are my crew, boy, not yours. Astoria nearly shivers at that, but Kaz doesn’t react except to fold the papers and tuck them into his jacket.

Kaz spares a last glance toward her, eyes flickering down to her right forearm. “She has the crow and cup?” he asks Per Haskell.

“Yes,” Astoria snaps, “and you can speak to her directly.”

Beside her, Per Haskell shakes his head, amused by the bickering. He stands, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“Take Astoria with you — she’s useful in close quarters.”

“I don’t think we’ll need her on her back for this one.”

“He preferred me on top,” Astoria offers sweetly, though she’s glaring daggers, and Per Haskell only laughs.

“She’s Grisha. Good in a fight. Take her, just in case, and make sure Elzinger can see that bite. He’ll have a hell of a time explaining all of this to Geels.”

Kaz’s eyes fall on Astoria again, and he sighs, gesturing toward the door. Per Haskell taps her lightly on the back, an indication for her to do as she’s told — and, like a good little soldier, she obeys.

two.

She needs to practice her pickpocketing.

She’s functional, but occasionally clumsy, more reliant upon misleading a mark than nimble fingers. Per Haskell had pointed her to Kaz, much to both’s dismay, no doubt in an attempt to make them learn to work together. She’d sulked outside Per Haskell’s office when he’d told Kaz, and caught snippets of the conversation whenever Haskell moved too close to the door. ...useful for more than just securing shipments. I have another TIdemaker I can send to Novyi Zem, but you should learn to... if you like her or not, but I don’t want to waste an asset... your spider can only do so much at once and I have a perfectly useful one.

Per Haskell had opened the door at that, bringing an end to the discussion, and Kaz wasted no time in leaving the office. She could read the disdain in every line of his face, and it had almost amused her that the great Kaz Brekker had deigned to reveal his thoughts, all on her behalf. He’d stopped, looked at her, and then jerked his head irritably, gesturing for her to follow. She’d cast a despairing look at Per Haskell, who’d clapped her on the shoulder.

“Do what you’re told, girl,” he said, though there was no real heat in his voice, and Astoria obeyed before he could get angry with her.

Which is why she’s with Kaz now, trying to pay attention to what he’s telling her and failing miserably, caught up in the oppressive heat of Ketterdam’s so-called spring and her own self-indulgent misery. She’s managed to pick Jesper’s pockets, only because Jesper was being kind, and a few strangers; no one’s caught her as she’s done it, but Kaz has been able to point out every movement, every gesture, no matter how crowded the space between them or how far away he stands.

And if she must deal with him, then she will, at least, annoy him. Astoria toys with her own gloves — lace, covering her fingers and only part of her hand, the height of Ketterdam’s most recent shift in fashion and bought with, yes, pickpocketed money, thank you very much — and she lets out a hum. “Do you dislike all of Per Haskell’s indentures, or am I lucky?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Ooh, is it Grisha you have a problem with? That would be foolish, for you, to carry on a prejudice like that, especially when you know how valuable we are.”

Still nothing, though he’s starting to look as though he’s considering throwing her off the edge of the harbor when they get there.

“See, with all your judgment about Elzinger, I figured it was one of two things. First, that you want to fuck me yourself, and were bitter that you weren’t, but that was easy enough to rule out. Would have been very funny to me, though, if that’s all it was. Typical, nonsensical jealousy would have been beneath you.”

“How flattering,” he says dryly, but she pushes forward as though she doesn’t hear him.

“Second, you wish you’d thought of it yourself. Isolating Elzinger as a weak link and exploiting it by any means necessary. But I did it first, and it made you look slow on the uptake, and it gave Per Haskell a chance to catch up to you a bit.”

“You’ve found me out,” he drawls, monotonous. “I only wish it had been me to spread my legs for Elzinger, and now our love can never be.”

“Prude.”

“Heartbroken.”

Saints’ asses, he’s funny. She never would have guessed. Astoria lets out another little hum, and she folds her hands together primly, the very image of a respectable lady with her lace gloves and the high neck of her blouse and the careful curl of her hair. “There’s really no reason we shouldn’t get along.”

“Did you join the Dregs looking for friends, little runaway?”

“Absolutely. At night I go home to the Slat and I weep because not enough of you like me.”

“I think,” he says, and the worst part of it is that he says it so casually, as though he’s observing something unimportant and not peeling back every layer of armor she’s tried to build around herself, “you joined so that someone would be able to identify your body when you got yourself killed. You’re reckless. You’re half-suicidal. You want there to be consequences to someone else killing you, hence the indenture agreement — ” So he’s seen it. She’s not sure how to feel about that. ” — but you’re desperate to die for something. It makes you a liability. Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.”

He points to a couple, Ravkan tourists chattering excitedly, and he looks back at Astoria as though he hasn’t just torn up every last secret she’s ever kept.

“Them. Do it right, this time.”

They do it again, and again, until Kaz is satisfied enough to leave her be.

It’s not safe to walk the West Stave alone at night but she does it anyway; her anger at Kaz is enough to push her forward, though she can’t quite articulate why it infuriates her so much, to be laid bare before him in this way. She’d studied the Dregs before approaching them, and had chosen them specifically; she could have had it easy, with Pekka Rollins — no need to change her hair — and even the Black Tips or the Razorgulls would have taken her and found a good use for her.

But she’d chosen the Dregs for a reason — she’d chosen the Dregs in no small part because Kaz’s name was on everyone’s lips. Dirtyhands. Bastard of the Barrel. A monster, a demon, a creature out of nightmare. The sort of man you want willing to protect you. And there’s something horribly shameful about being seen without any sympathy, though she’s starting to wonder if she deserves any sympathy, or if he’s right.

Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.

She feels Elzinger’s hand on her shoulder. The night is humid and sticky and she almost feels as though she’s swimming; there’s no jacket protecting her, only the layer of her shirt to cut through, and then his knife is in her, and deep, piercing into her body just below her right kidney. He pulls the knife out; her ears are ringing, there’s something warm rushing down her back and she recognizes it only vaguely as her own blood, and he says something she can’t quite catch, and he hears Kaz Brekker.

Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.

She twists her right arm to press her hand over the wound, and with a twitch of her fingers the blood begins to slow and clot. She reaches out with her left arm until she’s grabbed Elzinger’s face, and she pulls him close enough to kiss.

Learn how to survive this place.

She grins when she feels the flesh blister beneath her hands, and she tips her head to the side, and she squeezes as tightly as she can. “Sweetheart,” she murmurs. “make sure you mean it when you kill a woman,” and she releases his face only when he screams, catching his wrist with her bloodstained hand when he moves to stab her again.

When she releases him she shoves him back, watching with satisfaction as he raises his shaking hands to his face to feel the extent of his burns. Just a little bit, not enough to kill, but certainly enough to leave a mark. She’s not sure what boiling only a little blood only a little bit does to a body, but she’s intrigued to find out. She’ll have to keep an eye on him. Astoria peels off her bloodied gloves and drops them in Elzinger’s lap, and she leaves him there without another word.

Survive, says Kaz, and for a moment she wishes he could see her.

three.

“Matthias tells me you told him not to come for me.”

“I did.”

“But you knew he’d come for me anyway.”

He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know whether to thank him or scream.

“Damn it, Brekker.”

“You’re too eager to die.”

“It’s not about dying.”

“Dress it up however you want, call it selflessness and loyalty and love, but you’re still useless dead.”

It’s the closest she thinks he’ll ever come to anything resembling a kind word to her, and she’s horrified to find that she’s moved by it. Her voice sounds unsteady, almost wet, when she speaks.

“I know. I know that.” What else is there to say? She’s working on it? She’d thought she’d moved past it, but here she is, trying to sort through why she’s so shocked to have lived through Fjerda, when she’d promised herself once that Fjerda would never have the privilege of taking her life?

“It’s enough. Come back to Ketterdam willing to survive or don’t bother coming back.”

She’s never hated anyone more in her life. She would be lost without him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He lets out a snort, turning his back to her. “Apologize to Helvar,” he says as he walks away. “He’s the one who had to come get you.”

( But, she thinks, maybe Kaz would have come for her, too. )

four.

How did he handle things?

“Very well, sir. Better than I might have expected. He was calm and levelheaded throughout.” ( She doesn’t mention the dangerous panic on the Ferolind, when they thought they would lose Inej. ) “He kept to the plan without hesitation, and when he had to improvise, he did it effectively.” ( She doesn’t mention how often the plan fell through and they had to come up with something new on the spot, or how dangerous it was for her, in particular. ) “He works well leading a team. He was very receptive to our concerns.” ( She doesn’t mention the Ferolind. )

Did he have any trouble with one of mine going with him?

“Not at all. He was understandably cautious to introduce a new element into a functional team’s dynamic, but he understood the necessity of having someone there to represent your interests.” ( She doesn’t mention that the functional team is an inner circle that extends beyond Kaz’s precious Wraith, that the functional team could easily topple Per Haskell’s control of the Dregs, or that she’d help them. ) “There was no trouble beyond the initial adjustment period, and even that was mild.” ( She doesn’t mention that Kaz threatened to throw her overboard. )

Kaz is waiting for her when she’s finished with Per Haskell, and he greets her with a huff of humorless laughter. “Do you have to practice lying like that, or does it come naturally?”

“Every morning I wake up, I brush my hair, I lace myself up, and I tell myself ten lies in the mirror until it feels natural. Were you waiting for Per Haskell?”

“No. You. Walk.”

And she does — less because she likes following Kaz’s orders than because she can’t think of a good reason not to. They’re silent until they get out to the floor of the Crow Club, through the patrons and out into the humid night air. When they’re a fair distance from the door, he holds a folded piece of paper between his index and middle fingers for her to take.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t give over more shares while Rollins has any, but once we have them back, a percentage will go to you, as part of your take.”

Astoria looks up at him sharply, taking the paper; when her eyes fall to it she sees that it’s a contract, legalese she barely understands, but there it is, a percentage ( however small ), set aside for her to purchase, once the shares have been bought back from Pekka Rollins. Slowly, her lips curl up in a smile, and when she looks back up at Kaz, she’s sure she looks as pleased as she feels.

“Thank you,” she says, because it’ll be better received than I could kiss you right on that terrible mouth of yours, you glorious little bastard. He lets out a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, though he seems a little wary, as if he can hear the unspoken words in her tone.

“Don’t thank me. We had an agreement, and you carried out your part reliably enough.”

“Careful, Brekker, or I’ll think you’re starting to like me.”

He snorts, raising his eyebrows. “Perish the thought. I’ll need you tonight — we’re sorting out a plan, and I want you there in case Nina isn’t able to do her job.”

Nina. Sweet, vibrant Nina, whose battle with parem seems to have drained the life right out of her; she barely eats, she barely laughs, she barely flirts. ( Astoria has been trying to forget the way Nina lashed out at them all on the Ferolind, in the throes of her withdrawal; she’d brushed off the insults aimed at her, but had heard enough of what was said to the others. There’s some fight in her, at least, and Astoria is grateful for that much. )

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, but yes, of course. I’ll be able to help however you need.” And she pauses, frowning. “Do you think she won’t be able to handle it?”

“I’d rather be prepared than overconfident.”

“Fair enough — but won’t it undermine her confidence, if she knows you have someone there to take over if she’s unsteady?”

“I don’t particularly care about her confidence. I care about the job’s success. If she wants to sort out her feelings, she’s welcome to find a parent or a priest.” Kaz’s expression is inscrutable, as always, though there’s a mocking edge to his voice now, and it makes Astoria clutch the paper harder. So much for starting to like me; he looks at me like I’m a troublesome child he can’t shake. “There’s no winning with you, is there? First you’re sore that you’re not a real part of the team, and now you’re tripping over yourself trying to spare everyone’s feelings when you’re offered the chance.”

“She sacrificed a lot for us, Kaz. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be a little concerned about her.”

“Mm. The same concern you felt, I’m sure, when you told her to, what was it? Find a way to watch that tongue or I’ll cut it out?”

“That was different.” But her cheeks are hot with shame; she hadn’t been proud of the threat, but it had happened all the same, when the craving for parem doused Nina’s tongue in poison.

“Yes, how could I forget? You were defending your drüskelle’s honor.”

“It’s — ”

“I don’t care. You want in? Earn it. This is how you earn it. Mind your manners, don’t ask stupid questions, and do as you’re told. Be at the Black Veil tonight, by midnight.” The Black Veil?

He turns his back to her and walks away without another word, and Astoria scowls after him — but she grips the contract tighter in her hands, and she makes no plans to argue.

five.

“On one condition.”

Astoria’s eyes flicker towards Nina in surprise; it’s rare someone’s fool enough to try and negotiate with Kaz. It’s not something she’s often willing to try, and she’s the biggest fool of them all.

Kaz drags his gaze to Nina and arches one eyebrow in that infuriating way of his. “This is not a negotiation.”

“Everything is a negotiation with you, Brekker. You probably bartered your way out of the womb. If I’m going to do this, I want us to get the rest of the Grisha out of the city.”

“Forget it. I’m not running a charity for refugees.”

“Then I’m out.”

“Fine. You’re out.” And Astoria knows what’s coming next, Kaz’s dark eyes flickering towards her, ignoring the look of anger on Nina’s face, the way she opens her mouth to argue.

At Astoria’s side, Matthias stiffens, as if anticipating a fight, and Astoria folds a hand carefully over his and squeezes gently.

She hesitates, and then, before he can ask, she clears her throat. “I can do it.” She’s not half so skilled as Nina when it comes to calming the blood, but she can make do. And more than that, there’s a fury building in her at the thought of being chased out of another home, of being hunted again. She knows Kaz well enough by now to know that he can expect to rely on her anger; it is the only thing she has left of her mother, of the girl in the snow, a family heirloom she keeps close to her heart. Nina whips her head around, her expression caught somewhere between anger and betrayal, but Astoria doesn’t look away from Kaz.

“Fine. A distressed Fjerdan, new to the city, looking for work in the warehouse district.”

“Astoria,” Nina warns, and Astoria tears her gaze away from Kaz to look coldly at Nina.

“I’m tired of running, Nina. Aren’t you? How long until someone else comes looking to kill us?” Astoria’s jaw clenches without her noticing, and Matthias turns his hand up under hers to lace their fingers together and squeeze back, as if to try and calm her. She’s just a little too far gone. “How many of those refugees are going to end up Second Army conscripts? Save a few Grisha just to throw them at military conflict, where they’ll, what, die in a nice coat, carrying out a foreign king’s commands?” Carrying on the ever-present war with Fjerda? She’ll rail against her homeland until she draws her last breath, but it makes her no less protective.

“That’s not what it’s about. It’s about saving lives.” Nina’s voice sounds almost dangerous, and Astoria leans forward, Matthias gripping her hand even tighter as she does.

“Enough.” Kaz’s voice cuts clearly through the argument, and he turns his cold eyes on Nina. “You’ll still get your share of the money for your work on the Ice Court job, but I don’t need you on this crew.”

“No,” said Inej quietly. “But you need me.”

And that’s enough to quell the dissent, Inej’s interference and the strength of her unwavering gaze. Nina turns deliberately from Astoria, whose jaw has yet to unclench, and Matthias releases Astoria’s hand in favor of winding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, as if to comfort. She doesn’t escape the way Kaz’s eyes flicker up to them, or the twist of his lips at the sight of Astoria’s continued anger.

“Do you think this makes me a Crow, now?” she murmurs dryly to Matthias in Fjerdan, voice soft enough not to be overheard amidst the conversation, and Matthias lets out a humorless chuckle. “Being willing to turn my back on old friendships for the sake of the great Brekker masterplan?”

“I think that’s the initiation ritual,” Matthias mutters back, and it prompts a smile, at least, her clenched jaw relaxing.

It occurs to her how unbelievably stupid it is to want his approval — demjin, says a voice in her head that sounds like Matthias’, but there’s a fondness there that’s entirely Astoria. In another world, they might have been friends. Here, now, she’s not sure it’ll ever be possible, but the weight of what if hangs in the air around him.

Kaz steps out to get a breath of fresh air, and Astoria follows quietly; he looks as though he expected this, and she leans against the wall of a mausoleum, arms crossed over her chest.

“You couldn’t have known Nina would make that threat. You couldn’t have known about the kidnappings. But it feels like you were prepared for that all the same.”

“I’m prepared for most things.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Astoria hesitates, then — “Jesper’s leaving. Going back to Novyi Zem with his father. Wylan wants out. Nina’s going to want to leave too, if it’s not safe to stay. It’ll be her chance to go back to Ravka and the Second Army. Inej is going to pay off her indenture, isn’t she?”

“If you have questions about what Inej is doing, then you should ask Inej. Am I her keeper?”

Yes. Even she can see how he looks at her, when he thinks no one is looking. She can’t hear heartbeats but she can hear the movement of blood in the body, and it has much the same end result. “Why don’t you expect me to leave?”

“Where will you go? Back to Fjerda, with Helvar in tow? You’ll both be killed within a year. You wouldn’t last in Ravka, either. He’s not going to tolerate the Wandering Isle or Shu Han, when both are so dangerous for you. And you’d get bored in Novyi Zem.”

Damn him, but he’s right.

“No home but this one, pigeon. Where will you go?” he asks again, and Astoria uncrosses her arms, only to fist her hands in her skirt. “You’ll stay in Ketterdam, sell more years to Per Haskell. You might go back to Fjerda once or twice. Helvar loves a mission. But you’ll come back to Ketterdam every time, because you’ve put the Barrel in your blood.”

Why is he always right?

“And what if I’d had a conscience?”

He laughs at that, a sharp, almost feral bark. “Astoria,” he says, and she thinks that might be the first time he’s used her name, “when have you ever cared about someone else more than yourself?”

“The Ice Court.”

“Ah, that’s right. Your drüskelle makes you soft — and if I ever need to ask you to double-cross him, then I’ll worry. But you’d let every Grisha in this city burn if it meant your survival, and no amount of lovesick sacrifice will change that about you. Conscience gets you killed. You’re not that stupid.”

She hates how well he knows her. She hates how well he understands her, in ways no one else could — not Inej, whom she admires; not Jesper, who makes her laugh; not Nina, who hears her; not Wylan, who sees her. Not even Matthias, who loves her.

But Kaz Brekker understands her. Kaz Brekker sees through her. Kaz Brekker could crack open her skull and make a map of her brain, could split open her chest and make a map of her heart, with terrifying clarity. There’s the self-preservation. There’s the selfishness. There’s the ambition. There’s the greed. He’s right; the Barrel is in her blood now, feasting on the foundation of rage her mother had given her when she was just a girl.

She feels exposed. She feels furious. She wants to wrap her hands around his neck. She wants to run as far as she can. She wants to tell him that she is tired of life wearing a choke-chain, but that if anyone must be on the other end of it, she hopes it’s always him. What a mortifying intimacy to share with someone, she thinks, cheeks coloring in the dark, almost like a twisted sort of love. A brother she never imagined, the monster under her childhood bed come to teach her how to shoot straight and pick a man’s pocket.

He watches her impassively for a moment more before turning back toward the crypt. She has to try twice before she can manage to speak.

“I’ll stay,” she says, because of course she’ll stay. “And when the others go, I’ll still be here — but this has to go both ways. You have to be as willing to protect my interests as I am to protect yours.”

He turns back to face her, expression still painfully neutral, and then he says, as easily as if he were giving her directions through the West Stave, “I found your mother. Where she is, the name she’s using, how she’s been. Get us through this and I’ll tell you everything, and not a moment before.”

She lets out a sickly laugh, chokes on it, as he heads back into the mausoleum, and she remains leaned against the wall, fingers pressed to her lips and staring at the sky, until Matthias comes to fetch her.

Nina still won’t look at her. She finds she doesn’t mind it this time.

...and one.

She’s never been so pleased with a broken nose and a gash across her cheek, but there’s some undeniable relief in knowing that, for once, she and Kaz are on the same page.

He’s been watching her closely, and she’d initially chalked it up to his distrust. No doubt looking for any way in which she falters or fumbles. She wonders now if he’d been watching to see if she could do this, if she could be trusted to get them in. If she could handle this, in particular, this greatest fear. Kaz, in his drüskelle uniform, looks as fierce and terrifying as always, but Matthias will draw attention, and that is a danger. ( A danger to all of them, but a danger to him specifically, and it’s become clearer and clearer that she cannot, will not, tolerate such a thing. )

“Anyone have a handkerchief?” she asks pleasantly, and Matthias shakes his head and Kaz raises his eyebrows, and Astoria sighs, because this would be easier with something to muffle the sound. She supposes biting her lip bloody will have to do, and she takes in a deep breath before she wraps her right fist around the middle and ring finger of her left hand and yanks back as hard as she can. The crack of her bone is audible, and Matthias looks as though he might be sick, but Kaz almost looks impressed.

“Feeling theatrical?” he asks dryly, and Astoria, face white with pain and chest heaving, takes in a shaking breath.

“The drüskelle bind our hands so we can’t use our power,” she says, voice strained. “Particularly dangerous drüsje see their hands or fingers broken, so that even if we can manage something without all that gesturing, we’re not a threat. It’s an ever-honorable tradition of giving us a fair shot.”

Kaz listens with the mild interest of someone hearing a weather report, and he only says, “Shame we tailored your hair.”

Matthias almost moves to touch Astoria, but seems to think better of it, and he whirls on Kaz instead. “Do you often strike unarmed women?” he says, his voice nearly a snarl, and Kaz shrugs.

“Less a woman than a weasel,” he says, “and she did ask.”

Weasel. She hasn’t heard that one before. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Kaz was starting to like her. For his part, Matthias looks rather as though he wishes they’d left him in Hellgate, and he takes a few steps away from them and shakes his head as if trying to shake loose his knowledge of what’s to come.

And for a moment, they’re alone, Kaz watching as she tries to tangle her hair with one working hand. A better man might ask if she was sure, might encourage her to be patient until they find another way in. And perhaps there is another way in, but this saves them precious time. ( Hadn’t she realized it, on the Ferolind? Her role was, has been, will be, as a sacrifice. The six of them will make it out, Kaz and his precious Crows, but she thinks there’s some poetry to it. Dying here, as much on her own terms as anything can be. )

Her stomach is turning somersaults but she clears her throat and meets Kaz’s eyes. She wonders, stupidly, if he’ll miss her. She’ll miss him, him and his stupid haircut and his horrible smirk and his cruel hands in their leather gloves, for whatever time she has left. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, and she clears her throat to try again.

“Spare me the goodbyes,” Kaz sighs, and Astoria shakes her head.

“Don’t let him come back for me.”

Of all the things Kaz might have been expecting, that doesn’t seem to be on the list, though he only shows it with a raise of his eyebrows.

“It’ll waste time. And wherever they’re taking me, it’s going to be well-guarded, and very, very hard to reach. If he goes in, there’s a very good chance he won’t come back out. Do not let him come back for me. Tell him whatever you have to to make it happen, but — I think you owe me, just this once.” Astoria’s eyes flicker towards Matthias and she knows she softens when she sees him. “If I’m doing this, I need to know he gets out of this godforsaken country alive.”

She expects an outburst like on the Ferolind. She wonders, for a moment, if this is why he’d encouraged her to flirt with Matthias, but that seems a bit much, even for Kaz. When she looks back at him, though, he only nods.

“He’ll make it out,” Kaz says, and she doesn’t push for the words. The deal is the deal. She’s not Kerch anyway; it doesn’t mean much to her. Besides, just this once, she trusts Kaz Brekker to do the right thing.

Matthias returns, a look of grim determination on his face, and he looks towards Astoria. “I cannot change your mind?” he asks, and Astoria shakes her head.

“It’s time.” Kaz’s voice is clear and certain, and Astoria takes in a long, slow breath before she nods.

“It’s time,” she agrees, and she lets them guide her as she takes her last steps.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( kaz brekker )#(yes this is also a tag drop)#ii. i forgot softness because it did not serve me. ( kaz brekker )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#tw: suicidal ideation #(dialogue in number five between kaz - nina - inej taken directly from crooked kingdom)

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