The next morning dawns cloudy and aching.
Kaz’s eyes are gritty and dry from a night of strange sleep and stranger dreams—some of himself, fourteen and hurting more than he is now—but he’s warm, the covers under him are soft and comfortable, and he managed to get some sleep. So he slowly shifts to sitting legs sprawled across white sheets, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. A thin stream of weak, gray sunlight wavers into the room through a small gap in the velvet curtains on the opposite wall, lighting the room with a hazy and unclear quality. It must be early morning, given how early Kaz fell asleep yesterday after a few hours holed up in the guest room.
Shifting to grab his cane and stand up, Kaz sucks in a sharp breath as invisible teeth bite into his knee, fangs and all. He slides his legs off the bed anyway, letting his bare feet rest against the floor as he carefully leans over to grab his cane where it’s leaning against the small table next to the bed. The familiar, well kept metal of the crow’s head is cold against his bare palm, the polished wood of the body smooth and dry.
He doesn’t stand up immediately, instead setting the end of his cane down, curling his spine to lean his forehead against his hands, and taking a few even breaths.
Yesterday was shit. Today will be—must be—better.
The slant in the shoulders of the young man who stands up marks him as a demjin, but the expression on his face behind the closed door shows who he really is—just a young man who was once just a boy.
The expression, if he were still that boy, would be gone before his hand met the door handle.
As it is, though, it only grows fainter as he carefully opens his door a crack, then returns in full force when he sees the dining room chair sitting just to the left of the doorway, the seat piled high with a set of his own neatly folded clothing and a small box with a handle and a latch. A small piece of paper sits on top. Kaz doesn’t need to inspect it closer to recognize Inej’s looping, graceful Kerch.
The note Kaz picks up, folds into a smaller square, and tucks into the neckline of his undershirt. The rest he shoves carelessly under his free arm as he retreats back into the guest room.
Once inside and sitting on the bed again, the pile of clothing and supplies beside him, Kaz sets his cane aside and carefully unfolds the note.
Kaz,
I took a set of clothes from your room in the Slat. The door and windows are locked and no one came inside. I’m staying here today. Come find me if you want me to help you with your stitches, if not you know when breakfast is. The supplies for your arm are on the chair with your clothing.
Please take care of yourself.
Inej
Kaz sets his hands on his lap, note held between them both, then raises it and reads it again, his fingers tightening at the edges of the paper.
Setting the note aside, Kaz runs two pale hands through raven hair, the words running through his mind over and over even without the paper in his hands. It’s just a note. Once or twice Inej’s letters from the Diep Expansie were the same, short and to the point when she had no time for something longer before the next chance to send it to him.
Even so, those notes didn’t feel so distant.
Kaz looks up, picking up the small box of medical supplies and setting it in his lap. His skin feels cold despite the warmth of the room, whispers of grasping hands threatening to curl around his arms when he considers asking Inej for help redressing his wound.
In the end, despite his ability to wrap new bandages around his bicep, there’s a loneliness to it that Kaz would rather not think too hard about.
Getting dressed is easier, straightforward and habitual, and when Kaz’s armor is donned once again his fingers, now gloved, twitch toward where Inej’s note still sits innocently on the bed. Kaz pulls his hand away and grabs his cane instead, but the courage to stand and face the others doesn’t come like he hoped it would. He doesn’t want to face them after he came in yesterday all but carried by Jesper, dripping with blood, rain, and tears.
Sitting in the lush guest room offered to him by Wylan, Fabrikator-made cane in hand and false mercher’s armor covering his body, he takes a breath and remembers Jordie pouncing on his bed in the mornings.
Kaz struggles to his feet and opens the door.
The adjoining hallway is empty, as is the foyer Kaz had dripped all over the day before. There are sounds of silverware and voices from the dining room, however, and Kaz fights off spectral claws as he limps around one corner, close and still difficult, before finally entering the dining room.
Wylan looks up from a seat on the other side of the short table, his mother sitting next to him as they both eat and converse. “We saved a place for you,” he says, and Jesper, mouth full, gestures toward the empty spot next to him—the spot closest to the doorway—with his fork. The chair is already pulled out, and a filled plate is set in front of it.
“Thank you,” Kaz says.
“Of course,” Jesper says, giving Kaz a crooked smile. “Even the Boss of the Barrel needs breakfast with friends every once in a while.”
“Sometimes he just needs breakfast,” Inej adds from Ms. Hendriks’ other side. Her warm brown features carry a soft, amused expression. Kaz’s heart untwists a little.
Breakfast itself is a calm affair, gentle conversation and the clinking of silverware dispersing the silence that had threatened to consume Kaz in the guest room. Ms. Hendriks tells Wylan about her current painting project, only losing her place twice. Wylan reminds her of where she stopped the first time, and Jesper the second.
When breakfast ends, plates cleared and mugs of coffee or tea empty, Kaz finds himself loath to stand and leave the room. His skin still crawls, an ache deep in his leg, but despite it all he feels warm. Ketterdam is overcast outside, a weak drizzle replacing the torrential downpour of the previous day as the rain moves south. The storm has moved on.
Shouldn’t the ache in his chest mirror that?
Inej passes by with her dirty plate, always cleaning her own dishes and bed and traces of visits despite a few well-paid maids that live nearby.
Kaz’s hand hesitates before he can curl it over her wrist. It hovers, unsure, in the air a few inches away. It almost shakes.
Inej stops anyway. The look she gives him is levelled and regal. It’s hurt.
“I’m sorry,” spills out of Kaz’s mouth before he can stop himself.
“What?”
Kaz breathes. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry for underestimating how much you care.”
Something changes within Inej’s expression. “For Fifth Harbor?”
“For your ship. For thinking you’re like me.”
“Kaz…” Inej trails off. Her brows curve upwards in the center, and Kaz watches a wrinkle appear between them. But Inej’s next words don’t come, a quiet sigh replacing them. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “But do you understand?”
“Not yet.”
“And will you try?”
“Yes.” This, at least, Kaz knows. “I should have started years ago.”
“Good.” Inej nods once, something final and decisive in the motion. “Tell me when you understand.”
“It’s going to take a long time,” Kaz warns, raising his eyebrows to mask the ache rising in his ribs, but Inej only smiles secretively.
“Thankfully, I have a ship to steer. In a few days I’ll be Captain Ghafa again, and you can take some months to try. I’ll come back eventually. We’ll go from there.”
“I’ll be here,” Kaz promises, quiet and softer than he expected it to be.
Inej smiles at Kaz again, not secretive or faint but gentle and calm. There’s hope in her eyes, mirrored in Kaz’s own chest with an intensity he used to only associate with the highs of a well-done heist or breaking a man’s leg. Kaz returns the smile with one of his own, less practiced than Inej’s.
“Your plate can’t wait that long, though.”
Inej laughs out loud, gently shaking her head as the moment is broken with unexpected levity, and heads off toward the kitchen.