A/N: This is going to be a small compilation of one-shots—probably only four or five of them. I wanted to gradually build into Kaz and Inej's relationship because I was so taken with them and the story. This is mostly me indulging myself back into the world Leigh Bardugo built. It's so richly layered and inspiring, and it gives me yet another excuse to write things. I hope I do them justice. Happy reading. All criticisms, love, hate, ideas are welcome and adored.
TOUCH
i.
Once, when Inej had been lying on the plush carpet in Wylan's mansion staring up at the chandelier and its dizzying facets of crystal, Jesper had been lying beside her. In an off-handed agreement to be in each other's confidence, Jesper detailed that fateful day when they had boarded the Ferolind for the Ice Court.
"I held Ooman while Kaz ripped out his eyeball. He threw it out to sea, then stuffed his socket with a spit-stained handkerchief." Jesper paused, fingers denting patterns into the fluffed sprigs surrounding their bodies. It almost felt like a mattress, indulgent and soft. "I didn't realize it before, but he did it because of you. It's so obvious now, but at the time I thought Kaz was just angry at the whole ordeal."
In return, Inej told Jesper of how Kaz missed him. Or, more accurately, how the Crow Club missed him. Jesper began to laugh until he realized she was serious. Then he began to choke after swallowing a gulp of air wrong.
Inej thinks of Jesper's words, now. She thinks of the vast disparity between the violence Kaz is so capable of administering, of how brutal his hands will always be, cloaked in the dark, dead leather of his gloves and his bare hands without them, like magician's hands, long and slender with smooth fingers that had bandaged her arms so carefully and gently. They will always be riddled with death, stained with the soot of leftover sins. And yet—
She catches him looking up from his desk, glancing at her. This is the first time she's been back since beginning her venture out on the seas. She sits in her old spot on the window ledge of his upstairs office, whether from nostalgia, the view, feeding the crows, or a combination of them all. Kaz, for his part, takes the stairs without a word to join her. She wonders if it is possible for someone like him to be nostalgic, too.
He glances away from her after a moment, face as expressionless as ever, as if he is bored with his view of papers in front of him, only to be bored with his view of her. He scrawls something onto the page, and she watches his fingers. Gloveless, here. No less dangerous.
And yet—she knows how his palm feels inside her hand. A warm promise cradled between them, regardless of the blood always present in the creases of his skin.
She catches him looking at her again, and he glances away quickly this time. His eyes scan the page, and he scowls as though he reads something he doesn't like.
"Miss something?" she asks.
His eyes snap up to her, and his eyebrow raises.
"On the bookings," she clarifies when he doesn't answer. Strangely, he seems amused.
"No. I never miss anything on the bookings."
She looks back out toward the skyline of Ketterdam. Its deep stench of fish bones and a layer of brine from the sea, soaking the lanes with salt and blind optimism from the pigeons ripe for the plucking—all things Inej doesn't miss. All the things she loathes. It has been too long since she's been on solid ground, and she can't decide which she prefers: the constancy and sturdiness of the rooftops on the island of Ketterdam, or the rocking, roiling of sea waves and creaky, wooden planks of her ship.
One thing she did miss, oddly enough, was Kaz's complete, irrevocable arrogance.
For now, at least.
"I'll venture to say you've missed no exploit too small or too big," she says. "The Crows' presence is strong not only in West Stave, but in East Stave, too. Even some influence in the Lid."
"We were always going to expand our territory. I wonder why you sound so surprised, Wraith."
Inej will admit, in the protected realm of her mind, that his voice—the rock-salt rasp, the roughened tone, the gruffness reminding her of him waking from too little sleep—is something she missed the most.
"Not surprised," she says, shaking her head. "The Crows are never to be underestimated."
"With me at the helm, they never will be."
"You still abide by your god of greed. Have you continued to follow the goodness inside you while I've been gone?"
He stands up from his desk, coming around to lean against the opposite side of the window frame. He gives her a sardonic look. "My darling Wraith, Scourge of the Seas, the Hurricane of the Isles, Condemner of Slavers and Queen of Death. You know there's no goodness in me."
"People call me those things?"
"You've made quite the name for yourself."
She looks at him with suspicion. "Did you have a part in that?"
He places a hand on his heart, but he gives her the barest smile. A rarity, so small and so fleeting. "I had nothing to gain from it, so I'm not sure why you'd suspect that."
She smiles back. "Liar. You're helping build my reputation."
"You were already a legend before. It doesn't hurt to propagate your skill sets."
Not only has he had his arms elbow deep in improving her brand, but he's sent her missives of potential trades, merchers of dubious history, and updates with exporting and importing cargo along the harbors. It is invaluable information when out at sea and rendered unable to confirm or verify changes in the slaver trades. Now that word is getting out about Inej and her crew, some slavers are getting smart. More strategy, more baiting, more defying the odds.
"And you'll say that it benefits you, too," she says, gently hopping off the sill. "Or there would be no reason to do it."
He takes a step forward, and they are close, now. A wall of space, six inches of thick, dusty air between them.
"Of course," he says. "It makes the fear gripping the streets that much tighter."
This is still arduous. Standing close, she can see the struggle conflicting in his dark eyes. The want, the horror, the need, the difficulty. It is a delicate war. She places her right hand in the wall of space, palm up and waiting. He reaches forward, his hand hovering above her own. The tension is visible in his arm and shoulder, in the line of his back, in the cords of his neck, only because she knows how to see it and where to look.
His hand slips onto hers, and he closes his eyes momentarily, the shudder coming and passing like high tide. When he opens his eyes, she gives him a smile. His shoulders fall from his ears with a sigh, and their fingers intertwine.
"It's…" he tries, swallowing against his discomfort. "It's good to have you back, Inej."
It is a novelty to hold Kaz Brekker's hand. Gloveless. Dangerous. Bare. Pale but radiating warmth. She's better used to it, now, but the power of it never fades.
"I am happy to be here, Kaz," she answers.
He reaches forward to hold her other hand, and she lets him. She's surprised at the increased contact. His eyes linger on hers, the deep, dark russet of his own drowning her with a desire that's thrumming with life. His face is beginning to become pallid, losing color, and it is not the first time Inej wishes she could help him—to pull away the suffocating blanket of the past, to unlock the prison that encapsulates his mind.
They stare at one another for a moment longer before the stress in his face consumes her.
"Come," she says. "Let's go eat."
He allows her to pull him along, down the stairs, out onto the streets of West Stave. It is an unnecessary action, and the right people noticing the Wraith and Dirtyhands walking down the lane together, hand in hand, would have been a damning piece of information had they been anyone else to be swindled and conned. A brazen display of weakness and the easiest reason to exploit it.
It would have been, of course, had they been any other pair of teenagers. But they are a king and a queen, on land and on sea.
Kaz lets her hold his hand the entire way.