Dirty Hands (Kaz Brekker One Shots)

What If

The crackling of embers in the improvised campfire brought a certain comfort to the otherwise gloomy night. You didn't know the date by heart, but Winter had long made its grand entrance, and, in the cold late hours, having a fire that kept your toes intact was much appreciated.

You shivered, and moved a little closer to the edge of your sit. You and Kaz had been sat on the same log for who knew how long, neither of you having much to say to actually interrupt the heavy quietness engulfing the air. The plan for the whole heist had gone astray before it had even been set into motion; by the end of that evening, in fact, the only thing you could do was lick your wounds like wild animals that had got themselves into the wrong fight.

It was easier said than done, however.

A foreign noise behind you made you stiffen in place, and you glanced back just in time to catch a glimpse of Jesper lurking in the shadows of the rundown barn you had claimed as temporary shelter. He was in there with Inej, who had been wounded in the unexpected run-in with multiple Grisha that had been the icing on the cake. After that, you had had no option but to accept defeat and forget all about the money.

You grimaced at the memory of the Wraith with a bloody hand pressed to the stomach as she emerged from the shadows of the castle. She would be fine —despite the at first unfavourable odds, she was making a speedy recovery that would allow you to get moving in the early morning—, but that didn't make you feel any better. You tried to shook the image away from your mind.

In the meantime, all you could do was rest.

You couldn't remember the last time you had had a proper night of sleep: When you weren't busy covering up the shady deals Kaz agreed to and whatnot, you usually found yourself dealing with the nightmares of a past that kept coming back to hunt your sorry excuse of a subconscious. Something you and the thief had in common, something you wished neither of you had to deal with.

Your eyes wandered away from the shack and towards the flames before you, with a subtle look at the man sitting beside you on the way. He remained motionless —⁠leant forward, with his gloved hands intertwined and his gaze fixated on the wooden sticks burning away. He didn't really need to say anything; you had seen the gloom in his irises more than enough times to understand what was on his mind.

You run your tongue over your bottom lip. In situations like those, when you could do nothing but wait for the new day and you wanted to escape your inner thoughts, you found yourself going back in time, rejoicing in the memories of early morning plays in dirty streets and of the warm sun bathing your reddening cheeks as your feet dangled against the side of old wooden fences.

Out of reflex, you mirrored Kaz's stance, and rested your chin on closed fists. You two... you had met back then, before everything went to hell. It was something nobody knew —⁠or would probably ever know, for that matter. He was very adamant on keeping his past a secret, and you were more than okay with saving those memories for yourself... except in nights like those. When slumber escaped your fingertips and the sun drew the curtains in the starry sky, you often wished for somebody to remember with.

You gazed fully at him then, and he met your stare from the corner of his eye. Despite his usual display of stoicism, you couldn't help but marvel at those orbs you knew by heart. No amount of harshness would ever take away the hidden warmth you found in them: no matter the frown, the limp and the cane, or the dark attire... for you he would always be Kaz Rietveld, and those would always be the eyes you had fallen in love with in your youth.