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Kaz Brekker was an idiot skiv and if he got himself out of this mess he may as well cave in his own worthless skull. Clearly he wasn’t using the contents. How could he be if he had been nabbed off his own streets? Taken like some stupid fat pigeon.

At least the pigeon didn’t know better.

A cough tore through him. His body wracked with it, head to toe, sharp pain through his chest as the wet, rough sound grated his ears. He lay on his side, as closely curled as he could be with his hands shackled behind his back, shivering with cold and spasming coughs until he managed to hack out a glob of something thick into the straw.

It wasn’t much. Dank straw, thin blanket, and worst of all his sodding fault.

His fault for being a fool.

For being distracted.

A flash of anger warmed him. Kaz tried to hold onto it, to the anger, the focus. 

It had been the stupid cold. It had made him foggy even before he was locked in a wet cellar. Now it made his lungs scream, made his head spin. Only two thoughts managed to linger as the anger sloughed off.

1. He was probably going to die here.
2. They would come for him again before he did.

He didn’t want to die. Those were just the odds. The longer he remained, the deeper the cough settled—he thought it had been three days, his odds dwindling with each.

Somewhere between desperate grasps at dreams of escape, he fell asleep in the straw under the dirty blanket, in the dim cellar where he might die.

Inej was gone, two weeks out to patrol the coasts of Eames Chin, known for pirates this time of year.

Kaz had held her warm, gentle hands in his when they said goodbye. They were perfect, her hands. They had callused strength when she needed them, patience and tenderness when he allowed them near. He trusted them.

They parted at twilight, at the docks, the boats readying to leave with the tide, Inej all shape and shadow and that sunshine scent she carried now. She kissed him because it made him grumble and brought the faintest tinge to his cheeks.

Jesper, too, had gone, off to meet some countryside Fabrikator, and his Saints only knew what bribery or indulgence Wylan used to convince him to go. 

“I’ll be back,” he had said, shrugging, stroking his revolvers.

Jesper was still a terrible liar. He could act as reluctant as he liked, anyone could see he adored his boyfriend.

As for Wylan, last time they spoke Kaz told him not to bother dropping by so often. 

“I’m fine, Wylan.”

Besides, he had never belonged in the Barrel.

Wylan had just said, “I’m here if you need me.”

Kaz was past being ashamed that he did. At this point, he would barely bat an eyelash if someone exploded the cellar wall and hauled him out on horseback like a shining hero in an old story.

But he didn’t expect it. If he wanted out, he would get himself out, like he always did. He just needed the fever to loosen its grip on his mind!

“Poor little thing,” cooed an icy voice. When the hand felt his forehead, Kaz’s annoyingly feeble body recoiled even as he mustered up his best glare. The man looked steadily at Kaz. It took everything he had to keep his focus.

When the man broke the stare, Kaz breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bring him along.”

Then hands were tossing back his blanket, grabbing him under his arms, hauling him to his feet. He didn’t try to fight. He told himself he was saving his strength. So much kinder than to think he had none left. Had they gone slower he would have managed his own feet, but they set off at a good clip and all he could do was try to keep his feet from hitting each stair or scraping against the hall floor. The walls seemed to move ahead of him, making his stomach lurch.

It was almost a mercy.

Kaz had been roughed up before. More: he had been beaten. He could take pain.

And his captors knew it.

He told himself he was biding his time as they depositing him on the table, his head thumping down. It was just for now. This was the last time they would tie his hands to the table. He would get through this. His fever would beak and he would never look up at that ugly ceiling again—

“Mister Brekker.”

His fever would break.

His fever first, then some skulls.

Maybe the worst part was that he genuinely didn’t know. He didn’t know who this man was. Couldn’t even mislead him when he didn’t know what he was talking about, couldn’t reason it out with his fuzzy, fever-laced brain.

“I’ll begin today, shall I?” asked the leading man. He had a faintly reedy voice, weaselish features. Dark hair and a ridiculous mustache. “With a confession of my own. I confess to being impressed. A third shipment missing and you remain our only lead. I confess my admiration.”

Yeah, Kaz was worth admiring. 

“Would you care to make a confession, Mister Brekker?”

Kaz caught enough breath to say, “No time. Try again tomorrow.”

The stranger sighed.

“Very well.”

Although he knew what was coming, he couldn’t help feeling bile rise as the stranger approached. He took his time unbuttoning Kaz’s shirt. The closeness of his skin made Kaz’s own skin crawl. The rush of cold air on his bared chest was almost a relief before it was broken by fingertips tracing from his collarbone to his navel. 

Kaz gagged. Tried to steady his breathing, but his chest hitched. He had to cough, shifting his body, brushing himself further against those damned fingers.

“Another confession.” He rested his broad palm flat against Kaz’s side.

He had been… better. With Inej. Had let Jesper hug him—Jes knew to ask first. It was okay. With warning. With trust. He had squeezed Wylan’s shoulder and shaken his hand.

This was different.

This hand felt like death. Cold, wet, swollen flesh. The taste of rot in the seawater.

“You fascinate me.”

Kaz turned his head, coughing and gagging. All he needed to do was get through this. He could survive this. He could break every knuckle of those filthy fingers!

But there were hands on him, revulsion rising.

“I would be quite happy to stop this—”

Kaz vomited what little he had in his stomach.

It wasn’t over.

It wasn’t over until his vision was drunk, until he felt ready to shred his own skin under his nails, until he was so lost in it he almost forgot how to hate everything but existence. Only then did they untie one of his wrists and affix it with a shackle. He blinked as they untied the other, struggling to clear some shred of his vision. He could get out of this. He just needed a plan, a chance, anything but his mind was so blurred with fever and panic—

BOOM.

The sound hit him first, maybe because his vision was still clearing and his skin was still crawling, the sound hit him before he realized it wasn’t just him that was shaking but the building, it wasn’t just him that was cold but the rend in the wall. 

Explosion.

Rain pouring in. He hadn’t even known it was raining. That, more than anything, terrified him—he was barely conscious of his surroundings, foggy. Weak. 

“What was that?”

“What happened?”

“The armory!”

He vaguely registered any of it, shouts of a fire, the panic and confusion. All Kaz Brekker saw was a missing chunk of wall and a loosely tied wrist.

He yanked his other arm free. Shackles attached to one wrist. A loose shackle, a corner into the man’s eye, more screaming. Kaz’s heart pumped a burst of clarity at this chance. His fingers knew the ropes, how to free the half-knot quick enough. There was shouting and someone reached for him and he swung his shackle and felt it connect. He needed his cane but he didn’t have it.

Stay and look?

Or run?

Run.

Run.

Scrambling out over the rubble with his shirt unbuttoned and his leg in howling pain, forcing himself to move even as another cough tore through him and the rain hit him like ice.

He didn’t need to get far, just far enough to survive. Kaz’s safehouses were dry. They weren’t much, but they were warm and dry and they had food and water. He could heal in one of them—

When he managed to clear his eyes and squint through the rain, Kaz realized where he was and thought the rudest words he knew. How far had they taken him? Far. Out of his part of the city. This wasn’t the Barrel, but he should’ve known that from the stench. (Or that lack of it.)

He did the math quickly.

He knew a place that was safe. As he limped into the night, away from the shouting and the crack of flames, he thought he could probably get there.

“Get Brekker!” someone shouted. 

Kaz forced himself to go faster. He gritted his teeth.

He was free. 

He had a shackle on one hand and tar in his chest, but he was back on his streets. He refused to be taken from them again.

Before he left, Jesper gave Wylan a pistol. Wylan had laughed it off—sure, Ketterdam was dangerous, but not this part of the city. He lived in a mansion with a gate, a household guard, and locks Kaz Brekker himself approved of. 

Of course, thanks to his affiliation with that same thief, Wylan felt a twinge of unease. There were always dangers.

He insisted it was fine, though. Admitting anxiety would only give Jesper one more reason to falter. So Wylan had laughed it off, said it was sweet, kissed his boyfriend softly, and promised to keep the pistol nearby. He stashed it in the drawer beside his bed. Never mind that he had only ever fired a gun before with Jesper standing behind him, guiding his arms, breathing against his neck, distracting him with flirtations.

So when he heard the sounds of a heavy thud downstairs, Wylan’s thoughts went immediately to the pistol.

Wylan lay awake in bed, staring into the dark. Had he really heard that? Maybe he dreamed it. Maybe it was his fear, the realization that he didn’t look like much. Jesper had the strong presence. Wylan was small and soft and currently alone in the house with an old woman whose sleeping draughts kept her under until morning—the nightmares hadn’t stopped but the syrup brought Marya a bit of peace.

He was frightened.

That was all.

He was frightened. It had only been the wind, the storm— 

A stair creaked. Adrenaline coursed through him. Wylan was out of bed, pistol in his hand, even as part of him insisted he could close his eyes and make this go away. He couldn’t. There was another creak, a confirmation that someone was in his house.

Ghezen.

Wylan threw on his dressing gown, tucked two phosphorous bombs into one pocket, and left the bedroom. He was halfway down the corridor when he realized this was actually not his dressing gown. It was trailing on the floor—Jesper’s. Ghezen. Lovely. Well going back would be foolish, Wylan would simply make do.

The sight of the stairwell confirmed it. Even in the low light, dim in the sconces, he could tell.

Intruder. 

Wylan gripped the pistol and forced a shaky breath. That was what Jesper had whispered in his ear that time, when he was teaching him how to shoot. Breathe, gorgeous. Nice and slow. 

If he could do this with Jesper distracting him, he could do it any time.

But something was wrong. 

Yes, there was an intruder making his way up the stairs, but he was clinging to the banister, shaking desperately, breathing so loudly Wylan heard the gasps more than a floor above him. Then the intruder paused beneath one of the half-lights. He paused to cough, but even with that desperate shuddering of his body, Wylan recognized him.

“Kaz!”

The pistol settled heavily in his pocket. Wylan was already dashing down the stairs as quickly as he could without falling—the last thing this situation needed was for him to give himself a concussion.

How had this happened? What even was happening? Kaz Brekker, soaked and shivering and coughing like it might force his lungs out of his body—how did this happen?

“It’s okay, Kaz,” Wylan said, instinctively moving to take some of Kaz’s weight.

He was almost shocked when Kaz allowed it. He slumped against Wylan, arm across his shoulders, and Wylan felt how badly he was trembling. He also felt a short chain and shackle settle on him, but they could address that little matter later. Kaz Brekker. Escape. Sounded about right.

More urgent: Kaz was soaked but sweating, and when Wylan touched his forehead, Kaz flinched back violently. It was enough. Fever. A bad fever. Those wet clothes wouldn’t be doing him any good.

“Okay—um—let’s get you upstairs. We need to warm you up.”

He was shaking and burning all at once, his teeth chattering when his concentration slipped. Which it did, frequently.

What do I do?

Kaz would’ve known. Anyone would’ve known, but Wylan’s mind was blank, desperate, unable to conceive anything past… upstairs. Third floor, where the bedrooms were, bedrooms and—ah!

“Nice hot bath, that’s what you need.”

Wylan was fairly certain Kaz needed considerably more than a nice hot bath, but the thought soothed some of the desperate panic stirring in his chest. That was a goal. He could get Kaz into a nice warm bath. Maybe it would even help.

He hoped it would help.

He heard Kaz’s harsh comment in his mind and Jesper’s laughter, but there was no one here to suggest anything better. 

Between their combined efforts, Wylan and Kaz made their way upstairs and into the washroom. The light burned against his eyes. Wylan squinted as he deposited Kaz as gently as he could against the doorjamb, babbling something about getting the bath ready. When he glanced back at Kaz, the sight of his open shirt raised an entirely different sort of heat in Wylan’s face. This was… wrong. He wasn’t meant to be seeing Kaz so… vulnerable. So bare. 

Wylan had lost quite a fair chunk of his modesty living with Jesper. There were certain facts. They both had bodies. Everyone had a body. Jesper happened to like Wylan’s, and Wylan happened to like Jesper’s, and—and, yes, he had blushed almost painfully many times, but he adjusted to the idea of intimate nudity. Even non-intimate nudity. A chest was just a chest.

But he wasn’t supposed to see this chest.

Let alone the pale, long-fingered hands currently holding Kaz’s shirt together.

Before he could think better of it, Wylan grabbed a bottle from beneath the sink and poured some of its contents under the running tap. The bubbles bloomed quickly, growing to cover the surface of the water with a thick layer of rose-scented foam. He plunged his hand in to check the temperature, then dried it, bubbles and all, on a nearby towel.

“Can you… manage?” he asked Kaz, halting over the words. 

Kaz nodded.

“Okay. I’ll—I’ll stay just outside for a minute. Um, in case.”

Another nod, Kaz’s dark eyes unfocused, not even half a glower in Wylan’s direction. What had happened to him? Now that the shock faded, Wylan had space to wonder how this very strange situation came to be. 

Who had done this?

There was no need to wonder who would do this, Kaz had plenty of enemies. But who had managed it? And… what had they actually done?

“Wylan.”

He poked his head back into the room.

Kaz had his shirt mostly off. It was stuck on the shackle. The trouble was his shaking hands, too unsteady to unbutton his trousers.

“It’s okay,” Wylan said. He was careful to minimize any skin-to-skin contact. Kaz didn’t like that. But Wylan needed to get Kaz’s trousers off and Kaz into the bath. “Just, you get in, I’ll bring some shears.”

He left Kaz soaking in a warm, bubbly tub, the slack look on his face almost aching. Kaz wasn’t… like this.

Wylan retrieved a pair of shears and cut away Kaz’s shirt. Kaz let his arm fall into the bath, shackles and all, his shoulders and head the only pieces of him above the bubble line. His shivers had abated considerably now. 

Wylan noticed the tattoo on Kaz’s upper arm. It had been a while since anyone tried to make him read, but he was pretty sure he knew that shape. Probably. But… maybe it was wrong? Maybe it was for Inej somehow, maybe he had the sounds mixed up. 

It had been a while.

“I’ll, um…” Wylan cleared his throat, then stood. He would give Kaz privacy.

“You can stay.”

Wylan turned back.

Kaz Brekker wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it. He didn’t have a polite cell in his body. 

Wylan settled on the floor beside the bath, bare toes in a puddle of sloshed-over water. He remembered what was in his pocket when his dressing gown pocket thunked against the ground. 

It almost hurt to look at Kaz. He looked better now, but still awful, pale even for him, shimmering sweat. He managed to focus on Wylan.

Then he turned away, coughing violently. Bubbles churned. Water sloshed. Kaz coughed up something foul and they both pretended it hadn’t slopped into the bathwater. When he was finished, Kaz had his knees up, leaning against them for support. He sank back toward the water. Hesitated. Leaned for his knees.

“You’re not warm enough?” Wylan guessed.

Kaz nodded.

Wylan grabbed a towel. He plunged it into the water behind Kaz’s back, got it good and soaked, then draped it over his shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Kaz stayed that way for a long time, enveloped in the warm water, alternately sitting quietly and fighting through bone-shaking coughs. Wylan stayed with him, quiet. He watched the shifts as Kaz’s eyes focused and blurred, then as his eyelids began to droop.

It was almost unsettling that the only significant bruising encircled Kaz’s wrists. Someone kept him restrained. But… what else had they done to him?

Wylan knew Kaz was a criminal. And, sure, he knew Kaz did plenty of unsavory things, like killing people and frightening little children. Whatever had happened, though, Kaz didn’t deserve it. At least now he was safe.

Kaz startled awake. He could barely breathe and he felt—he lifted the covers for a quick check. Yep, he was naked, wrapped up in someone else’s dressing gown with a pair of shackles attached to one wrist. In a half-panic, he took in the bedside table: a stack of clean handkerchiefs, a bottle of water, a ceramic teapot and two cups. Clean, soft sheets.

Wylan.

It hadn’t been a dream, then. Somehow, he hadn’t realized it even could have been real.

Kaz pushed himself up. The fine surroundings hadn’t worked miracles, then. He still felt terrible. Was still weak.

He was going to stab someone for this.

“Kaz!”

With a soft grunt, he turned to see Wylan scrambling out of an armchair in the corner. He must have slept there. He had a red mark on his cheek and drool around his lips, though he hurriedly wiped away the latter. 

“How are you feeling?”

Kaz pointed to the water bottle. Wylan uncapped it and handed it over. Keeping himself propped up on one elbow, Kaz gulped from it. It hurt going down, like it was knocking away the pain but had to fight it each step of the way. Another gulp, another gasp. He held out the bottle and Wylan took it away.

Kaz held up his shackled wrist.

“I can send for a locksmith,” Wylan said, “or someone from the Barrel, if you—”

“No.” He didn’t want anyone seeing him this way. Weak.

“Okay.”

“I can get you a shirt, if you want. Mine will be a little small, but Jes tends to prefer… louder colors.”

“His,” Kaz requested.

Wylan nodded.

When he returned to the room, he brought a plaid nightshirt and a pair of leather gloves. Wylan set both on the bed beside Kaz. He busied himself pouring drinks from the pot, but Kaz understood. Wylan was here in case Kaz needed help.

He managed most of it. Got the nightshirt over his head, but he felt that alarm of a growing itch in his throat with the shirt still over his face. He struggled, just managing to pull his head out before the cough hit.

“Kaz.”

He held out his arm, the one still trapped in one orange, yellow, and white plaid sleeve, awkwardly lumpy with the shackles. He wanted those off. Wylan reached into the sleeve and carefully fished out the shackles, letting Kaz’s arm follow. 

The gloves weren’t a perfect fit. Probably Wylan’s, short fingers, and not the same as having his own, but Kaz breathed a modicum easier.

“Here.” Wylan offered him a cup. “It’s broth. You need food.”

Intellectually, Kaz agreed. He didn’t feel hunger, but he knew his body needed sustenance, so he drank it down.

He slept for the rest of the day, waking now and again, waking because he needed the washroom or more water or to hack into a handkerchief, and every time he found what he needed. There were always handkerchiefs and water. There were snacks each time, and sometimes Kaz ate. He tried to note the light telling him the time, but mostly he swallowed a few mouthfuls and crawled back under the covers.

This place was making him soft. He could fight through this.

Or he could sleep, and wake up in an adrenaline-soaked daze of ghost hands and swollen corpses to a too-bright room, where he managed to orient himself and cram down a mouthful of bread and butter or boiled egg, and swear he would stay awake this time until he drooped to sleep again in minutes.

Sometimes Wylan was there. He was talking. Running his mouth, always running his mouth, this time saying, “It’s okay, Kaz,” or, “I’m here,” as he touched a damp cloth to his forehead, or telling someone at the door that, “It’s all right, I’ll look after him, thank you.”

Until, finally, Kaz couldn’t escape them. The hands. The fingers against his bare skin—

“Kaz! Wake up, Kaz!”

Someone was shaking him. 

Wylan.

Kaz opened his eyes. He was still in the soft bed, in Jesper’s garish nightshirt, and he was going to vomit.

“Washroom,” he choked out.

Wylan knew better than to question. He helped Kaz up, helped him—that touch, but he could bare it to get to the basin in time.

He only just made it. There wasn’t much in his stomach, but Kaz brought it up. When he was done, he leaned over the sink and splashed water on his lips and in his mouth, rinsing the taste of bile from his tongue.

When Wylan reached out, Kaz shook his head. 

They returned to the bedroom. Separately. Kaz sat on the edge of the bed, but he was still cold enough to want the covers over his bare legs. Another concession to weakness, not that it mattered in front of this company.

Wylan sat in a chair nearby. 

He was worse than Inej that way. Kaz could probably drown puppies in front of Wylan and once he was done with a righteous strop, Wylan would settle into forgiveness and a stubborn belief that Kaz was a good man. Not that he would hurt a puppy. 

Kaz looked at himself. The nightshirt had seen better days, but…

“He really sleeps in this?”

“Sometimes.”

Kaz mustered up his best glower in response. His persistent desire to collect information aside, he did not want to know that Jesper occasionally slept tackle out.

“Not like that,” Wylan objected. “I meant, he has a linen nightshirt for warmer months. Ghezen, Kaz.”

Kaz snorted. “I doubt he wants his name next to mine.”

Wylan shook his head. “You’re plenty industrious. Here, drink.”

He drank. The water didn’t hurt his throat. Not nearly as much as the implication that he was some manner of holy man!

Wylan took the cup away.

“Now try to eat something.”

“Yes, Mother.”

But he tasted the bread this time. Good rye bread, sweet cream butter. Didn’t skimp on the finer things, did he?

Kaz finished both slices. Wylan looked puffed up like a proud mama bird, but he looked tired, too, so Kaz kept that to himself.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Thursday, early afternoon from the light at the window.

“What day did I get here?”

“Tuesday. Just after midnight.”

Kaz nodded slowly. Two and a half days he had been in his fevered state, two and a half days lost. And that was only after his escape. Before? No telling.

He looked again to Wylan, who had watched over him.

“Kaz, um… I need a favor. Now that you’re awake—my mother thinks we were at school together.”

He nodded again, understanding. He would help maintain that facade. It was a good lie, simple, not one Marya would follow up on.

“Look at you, no more wild tales about local gunsmiths.”

Wylan blushed. “Thanks… I think.”

“You can repay me with hot chocolate.”

Kaz slept longer than he would have liked that day. He didn’t intend to. Any time he closed his eyes, even blinking it felt like, he drifted off for at least half an hour.

Sometimes he woke up nauseous. The better his body, it seemed, the worse his mind.

Kaz decided, that evening, to simply lie in bed and marshal his small energies. He didn’t… need sleep. Just wanted it. He could stay awake and listen to the murmurs of the house, the settling of old bones and movements of feet. Someone was moving around upstairs.

He thought about asking for a book to stay busy. Might’ve, from anybody else.

Two sets of footsteps: one came up the stairs, another down from the fourth floor.

“Mister Van Eck, do you have a moment—no, I’m sorry, I can see this isn’t—”

“Now’s fine. What is it?”

“Well… the Doorns. Who took such losses in the storm, they had that lightning strike—they’ve let some of their staff go. I wondered if you might…”

Of course he would. Kaz already knew as much, even before the clearly flustered young woman got the words out.

“It’s my sister, sir. She’s lost her job with them and she’s—um—she’s a hard worker, and she’s very clever, only she can’t hear very much of anything, and it’s hard to find opportunity like that.”

Wylan was definitely going to help.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“She’s not stupid.”

“No, of course not. Let me… I’ll see where I can find a place for her.”

“Thank you.”

Wylan was such a soft touch, especially for someone different.

When he took over from his father, he changed considerably the way the house was run, but he hadn’t let anyone go. They hadn’t done anything wrong and shouldn’t lose their jobs.

Realizing Wylan was approaching his room now, Kaz managed to sit up.

Wylan placed a cup and saucer on the bedside table.

“That’s my debt paid.”

Kaz halfway smiled. 

“First installment,” he retorted. Soft touch, after all. Easy to extort: just imply you’d like another cup of hot chocolate tomorrow.

“All right, then,” Wylan agreed. “Kaz, what… what happened?”

Kaz scowled at the cup. Then he sampled its contents, and if only the hot chocolate hadn’t been so delicious! It was, though. Thick and rich and glorious. 

“I was stupid,” he said. “Let my guard down. Let them nab me right off the Wijnstraat.” 

They had moved him, though. Wijnstraat was a decent enough spot, but nowhere close to the edge of Geldin District where he had been imprisoned—not Geldin District. But near enough. 

Kaz set the cup down. He changed his mind and had another sip. Using his left hand was driving him halfway mad, but he still had that loathsome shackle on the right wrist. 

He was going to need more than two installments on that loan. After a few days of this sort of hospitality, he understood what Jesper saw in Wylan.

And a few more details. Love, devotion, gentleness, minute stuff really.

“What did they do?” Wylan asked.

Kaz clenched his jaw.

“It’s okay,” Wylan said after a long moment of quiet. He reached for the empty cup.

“Wait—will you come back?”

Wylan looked to Kaz, an unspoken question on his face. He needed a haircut. His curls were flopping nearly over his eyes.

“I just… would you… just don’t want to be alone at night.”

The realization came after a moment that Kaz didn’t only want Wylan coming back. He wanted Wylan staying. Overnight.

Wylan nodded.

“I’ll come back.”

“Bring sewing needles.”

Wylan always knew one thing about Kaz: he wasn’t to be touched. Ever. Jesper had even warned him about it the first time he brought Wylan to meet Kaz. No one touched him, and doing so was a great way to lose a hand.

And I can think of plenty of better uses for those hands, he had added, just because, making Wylan blush and stammer.

Sometimes his friends spent the night. Wylan had plenty of guests rooms, and Kaz and Inej knew they were welcome any time. He hoped Nina knew that, too, though he hadn’t seen her since she left Ketterdam after the Ice Court job and everything else. And whether they scheduled their visits, announced their visits, or simply showed up at breakfast one morning, Wylan liked when his friends stopped by. 

One thing he never anticipated was to wake up with Kaz Brekker holding him close and drooling on his hair.

It wasn’t exactly cuddling. Wylan, as the recipient of frequent high-quality cuddling, knew the difference. When he put his arm over Kaz he had been told in no uncertain terms that this wasn’t allowed. So Wylan kept his hands to himself and let Kaz hold him like a big warm stuffed bear.

Kaz stirred beside him.

“Kaz?” Wylan asked softly.

“Soon,” Kaz murmured. 

Wylan nodded. He was in no rush. The past few nights had been light on sleep. He didn’t know what to do for Kaz, but when he wasn’t checking in, he was fretting and wishing Inej were there.

Before they awkwardly settled into bed together the previous night, Kaz had removed the shackles. At his direction, Wylan had modified a couple of needles into rudimentary lockpicks. Kaz did the rest with the two sturdy sewing needles, his left hand, his teeth. It was an impressive and mildly terrifying feat.

When they made their way downstairs for breakfast, Kaz moved well. He only needed to cough once on the way down the stairs and it was just to clear his throat. He didn’t even have to spit out muck. He needed to lean on the banister, then the wall, at a few points. They would get him a normal cane until they could find his. That sort of hardware didn’t just disappear. 

Marya was there, too, and she smiled at Kaz. He looked less himself in Jesper’s clothes, both because of the bright patterns and because the too-long sleeves needed to be folded back, making him look younger. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Hendriks.”

“And you. Wylan’s been so worried.”

Wylan felt a blush growing at the thought of what Kaz might say, but he just smiled and told Marya, “It’s not the first time he’s rescued me. My trigonometry grade would have been a complete disaster without Wylan’s help. He’s been a great friend.”

Wylan crammed a mouthful of pancake into his mouth to keep from asking if Kaz meant that. He sounded like he meant that.

“You and Jesper must be close, too?”

“He’s known Jes even longer than I have,” Wylan said, gulping his mostly-chewed pancake.

“He won’t mind me borrowing his things.”

“He’ll mind not being here to see it.”

Wylan laughed, sure that was true. Jesper was due home soon, though. Maybe he would see Kaz wearing his too-long, too-bright trousers!

Kaz seemed well enough that Wylan didn’t even worry when he needed to go out. It was just as well. Kaz wouldn’t have taken well to being fussed over. 

As he left the house, settling his hat over his curls, Wylan found himself keenly missing Jesper. It wasn’t just that Jesper tolerated Wylan’s fussing—and it had meant something, Kaz trusting Wylan, accepting his help, even keeping him physically close! It meant something to have his help accepted.

But Jesper accepted all of Wylan. Jesper loved all of Wylan. He missed being loved like that.

He hoped the Fabrikator in Eemden was helping. 

It had been Jesper who deemed it ‘fussing’. Wylan just… he worried sometimes. He worried about the people he cared about. Things could happen—illness, injury. Disaster. Worst, other people. He knew he couldn’t wrap everyone in soft cotton and stash them away, but he couldn’t help wanting to look after them. 

Jesper let Wylan fuss over him, sometimes, before pulling him close and calling him sweet. 

Just like Jesper normally would have been beside Wylan on an errand like this, playing it off like he was just keeping him company while Wylan knew it was those Barrel-honed instincts to protect someone in his crew. Ghezen, he missed him. He missed his jokes and his smile. He missed that sly look on his face when Jesper had a joke brewing but waited to share it, savoring it all to himself for a while.

Instead, Wylan had a member of his household guard. Not for company. Kiril. Decent sort, reliable, two little children at home so if nothing else he needed a good-paying job.

But that was Kaz’s way of thinking.

Wylan tried to focus outward as they made their way to the harbor.

The city had glistened after the storm. Now Ketterdam had returned to its usually drizzly self. The dreary grayness of it was almost reassuringly familiar, even if it did make him want to stop through the Garden District just for the variety. Wylan supposed he ought to consider it his city, or at least feel a sense of achievement towards it. He knew this place. He was someone in this place.

He didn’t really care. 

Not about being someone. Not about the issue at the docks.

More importantly, how could he give Kaz a cane? It wasn’t procuring that Wylan questioned. That would be easy. How could he give it to Kaz in a way that wouldn’t offend his pride? If he did, the stubborn bastard might just refuse to use it despite a clear need. 

Or was that the old Kaz? Wylan remembered again waking up beside him.

He almost wished Kaz had kicked him out of bed. Literally, physically kicked him. He almost wished for the harshness Kaz used to have, because this vulnerability he’s showing is worse. Not that Wylan minded, but he wasn’t supposed to see Kaz bare. He wanted his old friend back—the one who would sooner break his wrist than cuddle him. That guy. 

He wanted Kaz to be okay.

Wylan and Kiril started onto one of the ships, a freighter, older but in solid repair. It was a sturdy ship and tidily presented. Its sails were furled and only a few men were on the deck, working at tasks Wylan couldn’t begin to understand. Despite its recent mishaps, this ship wanted to be respected.

The captain met him with a curt nod. 

“Mister Van Eck.”

“Captain Bakker.” 

The man was older, gray threads in his dark hair, lines at his eyes, and he was visibly tensed by the visit. Not the first time Wylan had been in a position of unconventional authority. Still, he’d met Bakker before, normally he wasn’t this visibly uncomfortable.

The captain said, “I’ll show you to… I’ll show you.”

Wylan nodded. “Thank you.”

“But you should know from the start, most of the crew was no more aware than I was. We’ll find who did it.”

“Understood. I want to see where it happened, but I’m not here to hold anyone to account. The stadwatch will handle that.”

How could Wylan blame the captain for a crime occurring when he had a passing understanding of how criminals thought? Laws and regulations wouldn’t stop a proper thief.

He followed along the deck, down a narrow stairway. Bakker held an oil lamp aloft to light the darker corridors—narrow, too. A whole little world compressed into a floating platform of efficiency. 

The cargo space itself was broadly empty of everything but a small collection of weapons on a canvas sheet near the back. It felt cavernous after the little walkways and necessarily tidy rooms of the rest of the ship. It made him feel small and his steps seemed to echo.

Wylan swallowed against that feeling. It didn’t matter. Wouldn’t. That wasn’t him anymore, and anyway, this wasn’t some massive room, it was just disproportionate.

He could just picture Jesper grinning at that sentence.

He crouched by the gap in the wall. It wasn’t a particularly large hollow. Given the amount of hardware collected at the Doorns’, this couldn’t be the only ship. Would the harbor police search others?

No, they would never. They should, but they wouldn’t, because it would hold up the traffic too much. Disrupt commerce. 

Wylan ran a hand along the edge of the hollow, jagged edges in perfect keeping with the whorls of the wood, thin strips far too sturdy for their size. Was this a Ravkan trick? Did the Second Army use the tactic when moving things abroad on their spying missions? It was nice work, and the strength of the wood fascinated him.

Had it not been weapons, he wasn’t sure he would mind, honestly. Was it such a crime to avoid a tax? Well, yes, it was, and it was blasphemy, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much.

Turning back to the captain and Kiril, Wylan asked, “Did they find the Fabrikator involved?”

Wylan had been around enough Fabrikator work to know it by now. Defying the laws of physics made that especially easy!

The hollow had only been found that morning and by luck, the only reason the weapons were still here. Harbor police and stadwatch bickering over jurisdiction. Meanwhile, the owner of the ship could just stride in.

“I don’t believe so,” said Bakker.

Wylan nodded, accepting that.

So there might be a smuggler Grisha crewing the ship. Or not! Who knew how long this little space had been a part of the wall?

He stood and looked over the weapons. Small arms, mostly. A lucrative enough trade if they sold to the right people, not enough to change a man’s fortunes where he came from, but in the Barrel it would.

Mostly small arms. There was also a very familiar item lying on that canvas, so familiar it sent a jolt of adrenaline into his veins. 

Wylan picked up the crow’s-head cane.

As he left the room, he turned to Captain Bakker.

“This was never here.”

Fabrikator lessons were astonishingly dull. Probably didn’t help that Jesper didn’t, technically speaking, want to go. Wylan thought it was a good idea with all his bright-eyed optimism, and Jesper wanted a happy merchling. 

So off to Eemden he went like a good little Grisha boy.

Saints, it was good to be home! He had missed the sheer amount of the city. There were things, there buildings, there were people—mostly servants at this time. It was just a little past dawn. They’d be going for the fresh catch or warm loaves at the bakery, he guessed.

Jesper had lived at the Van Eck place long enough that it felt like home. Long enough that the household guard knew him and greeted him with a nod. He nodded in return. Nice to see someone on the lookout.

Sneakery had never been Jesper’s area of expertise, but he would make his best approximation of it. Wylan was probably asleep at this hour. Jesper left his shoes by the door and avoided the creaky stairs, already grinning at the thought of Wylan’s surprised face. He was due back that evening—but where was the sport in doing what was expected?

He made it to their bedroom without too much noise, but when Jesper peered into the room, he found the bed empty. He frowned. That wasn’t right. First of all, he expected a gorgeous redhead in his bed (which would make him laugh another time), and second… the nightmares. It had to be.

Saints, he never should have left Wylan alone!

Recalibration required: less of a teasing arrival, more of a gentle one. Not that it mattered too much. Wylan would still be happy to see him.

Jesper checked the music room first, then started on the guest bedrooms.

“That’s… unexpected,” he told himself very softly.

He had assumed, yes, he would find Wylan asleep in a guest room. The crime lord snuggling him was a considerably larger surprise.

That was Kaz Brekker.

Snuggling.

Kaz Brekker in Jesper’s nightshirt snuggling Jesper’s merchling.

Kaz.

That Kaz.

Dirtyhands. 

Bastard of the Barrel. 

Snuggling.

Jesper crossed the room softly and laid a hand on Wylan’s shoulder. Wylan stirred, sleepily looked around. When he spotted Jesper, though, he broke into a massive grin.

“Jes!” he whispered.

Saints, the things Jesper would do for that grin! He would kill for that grin. He would spend a week in Eemden Fabrikating nails for that grin.

“Hey.”

“You’re home.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t going to try to extricate Wylan from Kaz’s grip. Instead, he laid down beside him, his arm around Wylan and carefully not touching Kaz. Never knew his limits. Never, apparently. Though he noticed that Wylan’s arms were wrapped around himself. Apparently the snuggle went one way only.

“How was Eemden?” Wylan asked, still speaking in a whisper.

“It was fine,” Jesper whispered back. “I missed you. Though it looks like you had plenty of company!”

“I missed you all the time. Glad you’re back.”

A prickling feeling made him look at Kaz. His eyes were half-open, just watching the two of them.

“What are you doing?” Kaz asked.

“Kaz,” Wylan said.

“I’m cooking.”

Kaz gave Jesper a somewhat puzzled but deeply unamused look.

“Cooking,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Making a Wylan sandwich,” Jesper said, jostling Wylan. Kaz looked deeply unamused, but Wylan laughed so Kaz could keep his grumpy opinions to himself.

Kaz rolled his eyes. 

When he started to get up, Wylan objected, “Oh, don’t, you need to rest. We’ll leave you alone.”

“I’ve rested long enough.”

Kaz went to dress himself. Wylan scooped one of Jesper’s hands into his and brought it up for a kiss. 

“Wylan toast,” he said. 

Jesper snickered. 

“Come on. Let’s give Kaz some privacy.”

He didn’t object to a little alone-time with his boyfriend, either! That week was the longest they had been apart since Jesper moved in, and he wasn’t keen to replicate the experience.

Neither particularly needed sleep, so Wylan washed up and cleaned his teeth and made an attempt at tidying his hair, all the while explaining Kaz’s situation to Jesper. He had shown up horrifically ill, needed a place to recover, and he had been a captive somewhere as well. Something about smuggling weapons?

“I miss all the excitement,” Jesper lamented. 

“Jesper, you were training as a Fabrikator! That’s the most incredible thing!”

Saints, he made him feel special when he talked that way.

“Wylan.” Still seated on the edge of the bed, Jesper reached out a hand. Wylan came over and hugged him, Jesper’s face against his chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you. I’m really proud of you for going, though.”

“Thanks.”

It was nice and safe and warm, being all wrapped up in Wylan, Wylan’s arms around him. Jesper felt good all over. He also, all too soon, started to feel impatient. The moment was perfect, but moments were meant to be brief.

“So,” Jesper ventured. “That night… you saw Kaz all… naked…”

“I wouldn’t—that’s—that’s rude!” Wylan spluttered out.

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“Lies. Show me.”

Wylan hugged Jesper tighter. “Not a chance.”

“But I missed your blush,” Jesper whined. Wheedled. “I like when you blush.”

Wylan sighed.

“Fine,” he muttered, his grasp loosening. 

Jesper grinned. He leaned back, though he had to reach up and cup Wylan’s face in his hands to keep him from turning away. Not just the blush. It was good to see him again, to get a proper look and know he was here. He looked tired, but happy. Jesper had definitely missed some excitement.

Wylan, for his part, managed to look Jesper so solemnly in the eyes Jesper barely believed his ears when Wylan muttered a quick, “Anyway it was a cold night.”

Jesper burst out laughing. 

Wylan kissed his forehead.

“I didn’t think you would mind. He needed something to wear…”

“No, of course not. Just tell me one thing, and be honest: who looks better in that nightshirt?”

Not missing a beat, Wylan said, “Kaz.”

Jesper’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t thought there was even a chance Wylan would—

“I prefer you out of it.”

Jesper laughed and pulled him close again.

“That sense of humor is entirely inappropriate for a reputable merchling, you rogue!”

Kaz knocked on the door not long after, announcing that he was going to leave now. He was well enough. Jesper had only just returned, though, and Kaz agreed to stay for an early breakfast. This clearly hadn’t been a social call. That needn’t stop them having a while together, though, before Kaz returned to the Barrel. Wylan put a pot of milk on the stove. Jesper cut what remained of yesterday’s bread and livened it up a bit in the oven. For his part, Kaz offered to help, but was banished to a chair in the corner.

Kaz looked off in the details. His hands seemed wrong in what Jesper knew were Wylan's gloves, and his cheekbones had always been sharp but now they seemed almost to cut into his too-gaunt face. But he was awake and focused. Something had happened. Kaz had survived it.

Kaz and Wylan both. They had been through it and come out whole.

The three of them took their hot chocolate and jammy toast into the sitting room, where Jesper and Wylan sat together on the settee. Jesper quite liked that arrangement. He hooked an arm around Wylan’s waist to pull him closer. Those were the little things he hadn’t anticipated missing so much, the domesticity and closeness, that quiet presence. 

“How was Eemden?” Kaz asked.

“Dull. Apparently nothing like here!”

“What are you planning, Kaz?” Wylan asked. 

“I thought you said it was resolved,” Jesper said.

“The smuggling issue was,” Wylan said, “but Kaz has been here for days. Out of the Barrel for…”

“More than a week,” said Kaz, grimly. “It’s better if you don’t know the details.”

Of course he had a plan to send a message with his return. A part of Jesper wished he could be there. It was sure to be wild.

He had made his choice, though. Sometimes Jesper might feel restless, but he never felt sorry for it.

“Jes?”

“Hm?”

“I need that, darling.”

Jesper realized he had Wylan’s fingers curled around his and surrendered them so Wylan could have a drink. When he was done, he offered the hand in return. 

Kaz snickered.

“About time you took Wylan’s hand, Jesper.”

The words took a moment to sink in. When they did, Jesper tossed a napkin at Kaz’s face.

“Haven’t you overstayed your welcome?” Jesper asked. “Rude. You’re a rude man, Kaz Brekker.”

Kaz tossed the napkin at Jesper, grinning so widely it was almost laughter, then Jesper jolted to catch the napkin, nearly spilling Wylan off the settee but catching him in time, pulling him back, and that had them all laughing. That was the other thing about Jesper’s life. His boyfriend, one of their closest friends, good food and a good time. For all he missed out on—the schemes, the heists, the adventures—he could, actually, have everything.

They all could.