everymonstrousthing | (no subject)

"Not like you to recognise a sure bet," he says. He isn't ready, probably will never be ready, to tell Jesper about Jordie, about his father, about Pekka Rollins. He keeps those secrets inside like scars. Still, he takes another sip of his drink and then sets his glass down. One by one, he carefully peels off his gloves.

It's something, at least.

Just as before, Kaz Brekker's ungloved hands are simply that. The bones are visible and there's a faint tan line that had only just begun to fade, the gloves leaving their pale impression on his skin. Clever hands, beautiful hands.

He sternly instructs himself away from that line of thought.

"Still hands," he says.

"It's not what you'd hear in the Barrel," says Kaz, and he allows himself a smirk, flexing his fingers. "Scars, claws, bloody palms." He shrugs. "Every monstrous thing in the world." He tilts his head. "So why don't you ever look as scared as they do, Jesper?"

They both know he knows the answer to that.

"Skin, bones, veins," Jesper says. He starts to reach out and then remembers himself. No one touches Kaz Brekker and comes away with whole fingers, except for maybe Inej and her absence is the problem.

His breath catches before he can school it. In the Barrel, in the whole of Ketterdam, people had known better than to touch Kaz Brekker. It was a sure way to lose a hand. Here, though, things are different. Here, though, he's remembered that not everything is cold and waterlogged and dead.

And once that breath has shivered out of him, he can't take it back.

Jesper looks at him, brows raised and uncertain. That breath, small and afraid, is not what he'd expected. A slap maybe, a broken arm from that cane, but not a look that speaks to Jesper of fear.

"Are you going to talk about it? Or not talk about it? Your call."

"Talk about what?"

He picks up the glass to give him something to do with his hands, takes another sip of his drink.

Jesper smiles a little too sharp and nods, having his answer then.

"Another drink?"

Kaz nods. He drains what's left in the glass and then holds it out to Jesper, eyebrows slightly raised. He's achingly aware of the fact that he's not wearing his gloves.

For once, Jesper displays an excess of caution, a form of respect he really only affords Kaz, and doesn't touch him as he takes the glass.

"What kind of cocktail?"

"Surprise me," says Kaz, absurdly grateful when Jesper doesn't even let their fingers touch. "Something strong. I don't feel numb yet."

"If you regret it, I'm going to remind you that you gave me that free pass," Jesper says. He disappears into his kitchen to mix another drink, briefly flipping the bottle in his hand.

He fights, as hard as he can, to relax. To let go of the hard, cold ball of anger in his chest. He tries to forget how warm she'd been to the touch.

"You're the only person left that I trust," he says. "So I guess I'll have to forgive you."

He drops the bottle then, barely catching it before he hits the floor, and stands up straight.

"Come again?"

The fumble amuses him. He almost smiles.

"You know I'd trust you with my life, Jesper," he says. "It's happened often enough."

Jesper supposes he could get pedantic–he was supposed to be a scholar once upon a time–and tell Kaz that his life and his secrets, his fragilities are different things.

He mixes a cocktail instead, this one sweet with grenadine to hide the tequila.

Kaz holds out his hand for the glass, looking at Jesper expectantly. The first drink settles through him, warm and comforting. He's slightly concerned that he's not going to know where to stop.

"You shouldn't be able to taste the booze in this," Jesper says, a warning and a promise. His hand lingers on the glass as he holds it out but he doesn't dare presume.

So it's Kaz's decision, Kaz's fault that, when he takes the glass, his fingers brush Jesper's before the drink is fully in his hand. He takes a sip, ignoring the wave of something a lot like terror that spikes through him.

"You're right," he says. "I can't."

"I warned you," he says and only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize what's just happened.

Kaz does not casually touch people. He touches when he wants to harm and for no other reason.

Saints.

"You did," says Kaz, flexing the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, still feeling the touch of Jesper's skin against his. He sips his drink. He breathes.

"I didn't soak them in acid, you know," Jesper says, flexing his own fingers in the air to demonstrate his point. There's no need to be defensive but Jesper almost doesn't know what to do without the veneer of casual tension.

"I can see that," says Kaz, looking down at his own hands. "I don't..." He shrugs. "Ever. Except Inej. Not for years and years."

"Is there a reason? Or are we all just that far beneath you?" Jesper tries to hide it in humor, uncertain of how to actually cope with an unvarnished Kaz.

"You're miles and miles away," says Kaz, and it's truth, honestly, because that's how it feels, sometimes - like there's the rest of the world and then there's Kaz Brekker, stalking the edges alone. But isn't that how he always wanted it? Wasn't that what he always strived for?

"A lot of it is habit," he says, knowing that Jesper didn't seem him faint in the wagon. That that was a secret that Inej had kept.