She watches him, eyes ever-sharp, taking in every motion, every shift toward and away, any favoring of his good leg because his less-good one is causing him problems. Reading him, as though he were a page of The Istorii Sankt'ya. She does it all the time, even if she doesn’t need to, even when she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Some habits die harder than others.
The coat first. Then the gloves. It’s a simple thing for anyone else, but a tremendous act of trust, and an intimacy few people are afforded in the presence of Kaz Brekker.
How one boy can so effortlessly make her want to punch him is beyond her, but he’s excellent at it, frequently.
“Kaz,” she shifts in her seat at his window so both her legs swing to hang over the ledge on the inside of the room. Fingers curled around the edge either in uncertainty or in a Saints’ worth of restraint not to smack him where he stands. Maybe both. “It won’t. I’m not—” she pauses and breathes a soft huff. ‘With you’ are words too full of other meaning for her to feel comfortable to throw them at him like that. Instead, she settles on, “I’m not going anywhere, Kaz.”
She understands it, the hesitancy, the uncertainty, the reluctance to let go of that part of himself. It’s terrifying. She’d been through it just the same, not so long ago. Is still going through it every day she’s here. And she isn’t sure she could say she’s given up or let go of The Wraith. Not really. She still slinks through shadows, scales buildings and runs rooftops, is still ever-vigilant in keeping an ear to the ground in case she catches an interesting nugget of something whether from locals or fellow Summoned, either one.
“I think you’re missing the point,” she says rather bluntly. “You’re not going to stop being you. You can’t. It’s built into you— the harbor, the barrel, your wins and your losses, The Dregs and The Crows— all of it has shaped you. You won’t lose that if you leave Dirtyhands in Ketterdam. You’ll just be building on top of the foundation you’ve already started with.”
no subject
The coat first. Then the gloves. It’s a simple thing for anyone else, but a tremendous act of trust, and an intimacy few people are afforded in the presence of Kaz Brekker.
How one boy can so effortlessly make her want to punch him is beyond her, but he’s excellent at it, frequently.
“Kaz,” she shifts in her seat at his window so both her legs swing to hang over the ledge on the inside of the room. Fingers curled around the edge either in uncertainty or in a Saints’ worth of restraint not to smack him where he stands. Maybe both. “It won’t. I’m not—” she pauses and breathes a soft huff. ‘With you’ are words too full of other meaning for her to feel comfortable to throw them at him like that. Instead, she settles on, “I’m not going anywhere, Kaz.”
She understands it, the hesitancy, the uncertainty, the reluctance to let go of that part of himself. It’s terrifying. She’d been through it just the same, not so long ago. Is still going through it every day she’s here. And she isn’t sure she could say she’s given up or let go of The Wraith. Not really. She still slinks through shadows, scales buildings and runs rooftops, is still ever-vigilant in keeping an ear to the ground in case she catches an interesting nugget of something whether from locals or fellow Summoned, either one.
“I think you’re missing the point,” she says rather bluntly. “You’re not going to stop being you. You can’t. It’s built into you— the harbor, the barrel, your wins and your losses, The Dregs and The Crows— all of it has shaped you. You won’t lose that if you leave Dirtyhands in Ketterdam. You’ll just be building on top of the foundation you’ve already started with.”
A beat.
A smirk.
“Brick by brick.”