warnings: angst, no comfort
"You're too smart to act this stupid."
An errant remark, but one you knew was irritated. You'd learned to listen for that black note of quiet danger in his voice long ago when you had first joined the Dregs, a fifteen year old girl from the higher area of Ketterdam. He'd called you a merchling then, shot sarcastic retorts at every single remark of yours. You weren't deadly, you weren't rough enough, you weren't one of them, he'd told you then. He'd shook his head every time you tripped, every time you fell behind the rest of the gang, everytime you apologised for being too slow, for not being experienced enough. He'd seen your kindness as a deception, one he experienced everytime you brought him coffee or included him in a conversation. He hadn't known why you did it, but he'd feigned nonchalance and ignored you as best as he could.
Two years, and the Barrel still hadn't stolen that caring part out of you. No matter how many mansions you'd broken into, no matter how many times you'd carried yourself back into your room at the Slat after university classes, a job, an afterparty, exhausted, dark circles under your eyes and a hand clutching the bandage under your shirt, you'd still get up and make coffee for everyone, fret over their hangovers, make them breakfast. He hated that about you, how you put everyone else first. He hated how you'd never tell him if you were in pain, if everything was falling apart. But then again; he hadn't exactly been a perfect confidante either. He'd never given you reason to trust him. With every sarcastic remark, every snide word, he'd chipped away at your trust until you'd learned to stay away. And that was good for him. It gave him less reason to worry, less reason for the gangs to catch onto his weakness. The further you strayed from him, the better off you'd be.
"I'm fine. The others got away. We got the loot." You breathed out, one hand clutched over the knife gash on your stomach.
It was lucky enough that the two of you had managed to escape from the Stadwatch, but a new gang had started up on the edge of the Barrel, one which specified in knife throwing, and their aim was good. They'd gotten you while Kaz and you were looking for one of the more subtle hideouts. Now that you were here, it wasn't as welcoming as it had sounded while the two of you were running, albeit staggering to it, but it was something, at least.
Broken bricks lined the perimeter of the abandoned warehouse, boarded up windows and graffiti adorning the walls. There were dusty divans and a few arm chairs that missed springs, but it was good enough for you. Your mood distinctly improved when you noticed the broken cupboard stocked with dry biscuits and a few three in one coffee packets. The very prospect of it might have sent fifteen year old you into a disgusted thought spiral, but you were starving, and anything sounded good right now.
"It's not them I'm worried about, (name)." You heard the smooth thud of his cane hitting the concrete floor, his slightly asymmetrical steps approaching you. You barely had time to look up before you felt his gloved hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing your coat aside.
"I know they can take care of themselves. You, on the other hand..." He continued, ignoring your look as he proceeded to glance over your wound, letting out an annoyed scoff as you squirmed.
"Hold still." His voice is clipped, brisk as he leans down beside you, gloved fingers peeling back the torn fabric around your wound. His touch is featherlight, the only sensation you can feel cool, expensive leather. For a moment, there's only silence as he stares at the knife embedded in the side of your abdomen, the scars and smooth skin around it. Despite who he is, you wonder if Kaz is in disbelief. He pauses for a bit, shooting you an almost begrudging glare, then sets to work.The warehouse is dim, lit only by the weak glow seeping through the gaps in the high windows. Every movement of his is precise as he rummages through the supplies he took off some unsuspecting fool earlier. His hands are steady. Yours are not.
"This is the third time this month."
He dabs at the wound, albeit an aperture, left behind when he'd pulled out the dagger, a little rougher than necessary, making you wince and bite your fist to keep down a whimper.
"You think getting yourself killed, putting yourself in harm's way makes you look tough, doesn't it? I don't know why I bother." But he always does, and he always will. That’s the problem.
His gaze flicks up, sharp and assessing, searching your face for signs of pain you won’t admit to. His dark eyes meet yourself, the color of rich coffee. You wonder how they look in the sunlight.
He clicks his tongue in irritation when you flinch. "You think this makes you brave?" His voice drops lower, quieter, but no less biting. You wince again, but this time not from the pain. It hurts. He hurts you, but you know he means well. But then again, you've never been a good judge of character. After all, you had once believed that your parents loved you, would never hurt you. Maybe it was the same with him. Maybe all these years, you'd just been chasing after a dream that would never come true, a gentle touch, a kind word that you'd never receive. It was just like you- begging to be hurt, to be tortured, then smiling and thanking the people who hurt you.
And yet he’s still here, bandaging you up, making sure you’re not bleeding out on the cold warehouse floor. Maybe he's just giving you the amount of care that is deserved by an old acquaintance, even an old friend. He'd probably do the same for Wylan or Nina or Jesper. He'd do more for Inej, or even that Imogen, but not you.
His fingers still for a fraction of a second against your skin—barely noticeable—before he pulls away and adjusts his gloves. "Don't move." He says, moving to the cupboard and setting out a pack of dry cod and biscuits, then settling a flask of water into your hand.
"Warm this up for me while I check the perimeter." You rolled your eyes as he turned his back. He'd never asked you to use your Inferni powers thus far, and you'd only used your Healing to heal any of the Crows or some of the Dregs. He knew what you'd gone through, and in that aspect, he was kind.
"Kaz, wait." Your tongue slipped, and what you'd been thinking came tumbling out like a waterfall of words before you realised. "Why do you hate me?"
Immediately, you cringed. Such a horrible, horrible question- It'd better befit some simpering, darling Kerch girl than you. You were supposed to be titanium, to not care or yield. To be soft to only those who were soft to you. You certainly didn't go around asking people why they hated you. Nonetheless, your eyes settled on his turned back, waiting for a turn, a response, a physical motion- anything.You'd be happy even if he turned around and cussed you out, even if he replied with something harsh and biting- you only needed an answer so you could move on. Two years pining, two years being basically ignored- it was too much for you.
You hadn't meant to say it. Not like this. Not with your voice breaking, your chest tight and aching. But the words had slipped out before you can stop them, raw and exposed, and you wait on the edge of an abyss, hurting like you'd never hurt before.
Kaz goes still. Not the kind of stillness that comes before he strikes, not the sharp calculation you’ve seen a hundred times before. This is different. Like you’ve caught him off guard, like the ground beneath him isn’t quite steady. His hands twitch, curling into fists, and you notice that at some point, he'd taken off his gloves. His pale, slender fingers flex at his sides, unscathed but covered in your blood.He doesn’t answer.
Scheming face, you think pathetically.
You make yourself get up and hobble closer, desperate for something, anything—some kind of reaction, some kind of truth. But the second you move, his shoulders go rigid, like you’re a threat he doesn’t know how to defend against.
"I don't—" His voice catches, and that alone is enough to steal the breath from your lungs. He never stumbles over his words. Never hesitates.But now, he does. A war is waging behind his eyes, but you don't know if he's fighting against you or himself. His jaw clenches, his throat works around something unsaid, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
It’s a deflection, not an answer. But you hear what he isn’t saying, what he’s never said.
But I can’t be what you need.
And you can't be what I need.
And maybe that hurts more than hatred ever could.
But maybe it was all in your head, and maybe he just didn't care at all. Something splintered in you that day, something you still haven't had the nerve to try to fix. Better to lose hope than lay at Dirtyhand's feet like his dog, again, you told yourself, but you still felt your chest tighten everytime you thought of that bastard.
After that moment in the warehouse, you began to speak to him less. After all, why would you speak to someone who'd told you in no unclear terms to stay away? You knew very well what he'd meant to say- I'm not good enough, but neither are you- we'll never be enough for each other.
Those words kept replaying in your head as you threw yourself back into your university classes, dousing yourself in extra credit work and essays, sipping a meagre black coffee between classes which you'd never felt the need to drink before, grabbing a bite of something or other at the end of the day. You'd begun avoiding the Crow Club and the Slat, declining the Crows' calls, refusing jobs and pleading illnesses and clashing classes. You couldn't bear to look at Kaz again.
A week passed, then two. The calls from the Crows never stopped, but they became less frequent; perhaps they'd caught on to you and Kaz. You'd known that they'd known, but it still stung, them knowing that you had begun avoiding them only because of Kaz's wrongdoings. You missed them, you did, but you knew that going to the Slat meant running into Kaz, and you didn't think you could bear meeting those dark coffee eyes again. You looked in the mirror and all you saw was insignificance, dark circles, wan skin. The depth of his refusal.
"You've been out of it for weeks." Your head snapped up as you felt a calm hand on your shoulder. It was your friend, Saige, her warm green eyes settled on yours. You shrugged, neck and back aching from the hunched position you'd been settled in since noon.
"I'm finishing the assignment. That's all." You replied, tapping another calculation into your calculator. Saige paused, eyes flitting over your face. The two of you, along with your current friend group, had been friends for almost four years, and you trusted them with all your heart- the only secret you'd ever kept from them was Kaz. You'd never fallen in love until him, believing love didn't exist, abiding by some unspoken rule: don't love, don't break. But he had a habit of dragging you in like a wave into a rocky shore. Too bad you'd evaporated on those very rocks you'd first found appealing.
"You're lying, and you know it." She bops your nose, drawing a tired laugh out of you. "Tell me."
"I won't, because you'll make fun of me or something." You whined, settling down the calculator. You knew she would, but she'd also comfort you, then start her psychoanalysis. You didn't think you wanted to hear that you were attracted to emo gang leader cripples because of your traumatic past. After all, you already knew that.
"I'm not." She replied sagely, moving your books to the side. "I'm not going to laugh. Tell me."
You didn't know what went on in your head, but you told her, all of it. It spilled out like blood from an artery, a fountain of words. The two of you sat there for an hour as you talked and talked and talked. You told her everything you'd never told anyone before- why and how'd you'd joined the Dregs, how you'd been going on jobs with them since you were 15, your friends there, the Ice Court heist, the chaos afterwards, your strange attraction to Kaz. She listened, nodded once in a while and at the end, let out a long breath.
"No!" You scrambled. "It's not his fault, it's not-"
"The first time you fall for someone and he breaks your heart?" Saige looked vindicated. "I'm breaking that cripple's other leg, and then I'll break his third leg too."
You only stared, then burst into laughter- probably the first time you'd really laughed this month.
"No need for that." You replied, sighing and tapping your phone with one hand. "I'm trying to move on."
Saige ran a hand through her dyed violet hair, lost in thought. "Yeah. You do that, and then I can psycho-analyse you all I want."
The two of you talked for a while, then parted ways when she had another class. You lay back in bed, scrolling through your new messages.
Nine from Nina. Seven each from Inej and Jesper. Five from Wylan. Three from Matthias. Your fingers itched to write a reply, but you stopped yourself. Better to stay away, to cut ties. Easier for your heart.
It kind of broke your heart.
You mumbled a curse under your breath and moved on. It was better, really, to let him go. He didn't seem the type to marry, to settle down, to have kids and a family, to get you flowers. The only gifts you'd gotten from him were appreciative nods and switchblades and quiet nights by his office's window, sharing a few words but never touching, always on opposite sides of the room. And a few sarcastic compliments, maybe. That was all.
New message from dirtyhands [kaz]
You dropped your phone on the floor. You gaped at the glowing screen. It contained a single sentence, alarming in its hostility, in its suddenness, in its confidence.
dirtyhands: I need you here for a job. Now.
Fuck you, bastard, you thought in sudden anger, picking your phone up and trying to ignore the pang in your chest. I could live a thousand years and still not understand how your mind works.
You typed out a reply, fingers flying across the screen.
->you emo piece of shit, you demjin, your hair looks like it hasn't been washed in decades, you look like a dying Victorian child who swallowed shit, your parents probably found you drowning in a septic tank as a baby, and you probably carry 200 different kind of STDs. I don't know how you'd get them though, with that 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖞 haphephobia shit you have going on.
You finished typing and sighed, falling back onto your bed, heart giving a painful twinge. You knew you'd curse his name, but you'd still crawl back to him. Bastard of the Barrel. Dirtyhands. He had your little heart clutched in those leather gloves.
"You'll never find love." Your mother had told you one cruel winter night in Fjerda, the whole family by the elaborate fireplace. The maids had just served cocoa and your hands were occupied with that.
"Every bad thing that happens to you is deserved. Demjin. A devil. A homewrecker. You broke up my marriage with your father and now you're trying to break up this one, too. Learn something from your step sisters. Or maybe just stay away."
Your brother'd looked at you, eyes flitting away, but you'd said nothing. The next day you'd left for Ketterdam, for your college. It was hard, staying away. But ever since your mother had started to introduce your step sisters as her only daughters, it'd been easier. Easier when her calls stopped. Easier when she told your brother to stop talking to you. Easier when you met Kaz.
You still sent them cards for every holiday. That silly, simpering heart was what brought you to the Barrel now. Clad in a black corset dress and knee high boots, you figured you could at least go out in style. Maybe you'd even punch him once. Would he let you do that? You had no idea.They'd changed the locks on the Slat's windows months before, and you'd forgotten your keys. Failing to get a response at the door, you knocked once, twice on Nina's window, ensuring your feet were still on the ledge that you'd climbed so precariously and that your makeup was pristine. You were no Inej, but ledges were nothing to you. Easy, easy, because Ketterdam was forever mildewy. You stepped onto the loose brick and grabbed the window sill.
The curtains were open. You peeked in and saw something you shouldn't have. Not something that inappropriate, but deep down, you were still Fjerdan, and Fjerdans shied away at kissing scenes, let alone touchy feely makeouts in beds.
Good for them, you guessed as you refrained a shriek. No, no, please don't take it off- please-You thanked Djel as Matthias and Nina's head shot up towards the window, where you awkwardly waved at them, cheeks burning. Nina shrieked and rushed towards the window, opening it instantly.
"(Name)!!" Nina cried, pulling you through the window with as much care as she could in her addled state. "On all the Saints, what?! Where have you been?"
"Places." You said meekly, returning Matthias's warm nod as Nina pulled you into a tight hug. He'd always treated you like a sister, on account of both of you being Fjerdan. And you supposed you were more polite than most of the Crows at first meeting. And Nina and you...well, you two were just differently bonded.
"You can't just...disappear and then come back and say "places"!!" Nina shrieked at you, clutching your shoulders and pushing you onto a chair. "I want an hour long explanation, right now. But first, you need to meet everyone. We've been going insane, and even Inej couldn't track you, where the hell were you?"
You sighed, trying to think of something, focusing your eyes elsewhere as Nina righted her clothes and Matthias rebuttoned his shirt.
"I'll tell you later. It's just...university."
Before Nina or Matthias could protest, you stepped up and out of the room, murmuring promises of explaining. First, you had to find Kaz.
Secondly, you had to kill him.
Very easy, you thought as you opened and shut doors, earning shouts of "she's back!!" from random Dregs. You shot smiles their way and started to go up the stairs, eyes fixed on the unfinished wood. You missed him.
Saints, you missed him so damn much, and you hated him so much, too. You were aching to meet his dark eyes, to bask in the presence of him, his cologne and his glare.
You were about to step on that one stair that creaked when you heard a door opening and found yourself shoe to shoe with a pair of black boots and the telltale thud of a cane.
Think of the Devil and he appears.
(Name.)(Name, you're too gullible for this. You're too good for him.)
"Firstly, I-" you started.
"Where have you been?" He hissed. You didn't meet his eyes, grabbing his collar but not missing the jerk he gave. That fear. Always there. When would he really trust you?
"I hate you, Brekker." You spat. "And I always will. That’s all I came here to say."
You met his eyes. He met yours. Your arm brown eyes against his shark-like ones.
"That's for the best," he said dismissively, already turning away, jaw tight.
Deep down, you knew he was right. But you couldn’t leave it like that—not without the last word. A stubborn Fjerdan flaw, maybe. Or maybe just your heart refusing to go quietly.
“But I’ll probably always love you too, you bastard."
He froze. Just for a second. Then his eyes met yours—no longer cold, no longer indifferent. There was something else there now. Something raw.He opened his mouth as if to speak—But then he turned and the door slammed shut behind him. Gone again.
And maybe that was the last word after all.
