Chapter Text
For a while, although he had long since blocked it out, Wylan’s father had had some form of connection with Wylan. Whether it had been simply pure paternal instinct, rather than anything truly heartfelt; there had once been a time where even Jan Van Eck had an ounce of faith in his son.
It wasn’t instant, the merchant’s hatred for Wylan. It had slowly grown as his hope withered away. No matter how many different tutors Jan paid to work with him, none of them were anywhere near being able to fix him. All in the heart of being a good father, obviously, Jan Van Eck tried numerous different approaches, many harsher than others. But Wylan was of no value to him.
Thinking back, maybe all this is partially responsible for why Wylan feels so disconnected from the rest of the crows. His father’s transition wasn’t immediate. What was stopping the crew from realising he wasn’t any use to them and turning their backs too?
Due to this, he had never fully warmed up to them, always trying to keep some semblance of distance. Even if they had been the closest thing to friends Wylan had ever known. But he had learnt over the months that the Barrel wasn’t a place of friendship and connection. He was here solely so that Kaz could blow things up if he wanted. And maybe Wylan enjoyed being a part of that more than he was willing to admit aloud.
Deep down, Wylan had the sense to know that they wouldn’t do anything to him and that if they really were to, they sure would’ve done it in the past months they’ve known him. Although he wouldn’t dare call himself their friend, he had grown to appreciate each of the crows, even if it was mainly him feeling bad for them dealing with his burdens.
Saints, his father’s treatment really had left its mark on how he viewed himself.
Wylan was snapped out of his thinking as footsteps approached the entry of his workshop. By now he really shouldn’t be surprised anymore at the sight of Jesper Fahey hanging around wherever Wylan seemed to be. He was a regular visitor of the workshop.
With a quiet sigh, Wylan spoke up from across the workbench; still half-hunched over the desk, “Good evening?”
Jesper raised a brow which fit pretty well with his constant charming smirk, “Close, Van Sunshine, it’s actually past midnight. To most, that qualifies as night time.”
Wylan shrugged a shoulder in Jesper’s direction with a noncommittal hum, subconsciously glancing around his workspace at what he had gotten done. Truthfully, he didn’t think it was anywhere near the middle of the night, and now he was rethinking how long he had been stuck in his head for. The workshop smelled faintly of sulfur and burnt oil, sharp enough, but Wylan barely noticed it anymore.
The sputtering lamplight caught the silver in Jesper's eyes as he stepped fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. Jesper brought cold night air in with him, along with the faint scent of gunpowder. He didn't say anything at first — just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Wylan sitting with his head down, the way he always did. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that kept changing shape.
"You've got that look," Jesper said finally.
"What look?"
"The one where you're in the other side of Ketterdam even though I can see you right here." He pushed off the wall and wandered closer, boots against floorboards, fingers —adorned with his usual handful of prized rings — trailing across the edge of the workbench. "I knocked, by the way. Twice. You didn't hear me. I’ll try not take too much offense this time."
The tension wound tighter inside Wylan, wire pulled to snapping point., a barely noticeable hitch in his breathing. He hadn't heard. He'd been so deep in the maze of his own head that the rest of the world had dissolved. Stupidity. In the Barrel, not hearing someone approach could get you killed easily. "Sorry," he said, because it was easier than explaining.
Jesper's smirk softened at the edges. "Stop apologizing for existing, Van Sunshine. It's getting old.” He stopped on the opposite side of the workbench, folding his arms onto the surface of the table as he leaned down to Wylan’s sitting level "You've been down here for hours," Jesper said. Not a question.
Wylan looked at the scattered components on his desk. Fuses, brackets, a half-assembled shell casing. It blurred in front of him. "I lost track of time."
"You do that a lot."
"I know."
Jesper didn't move. Just stood there, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes that missed nothing. Wylan had always hated that about him — the way Jesper could peel back every layer without seeming to try. It made him feel raw. Exposed. Even as Jesper laughed off every remark Wylan made back.
But the worst part was that some small, stubborn part of Wylan wanted to be seen. Wanted someone to look at all the broken pieces and not flinch.
"You want to tell me what's got you this twisted?" Jesper asked, voice lower now. Less teasing. "Or are we doing the thing where you pretend everything's fine and I pretend to believe you?"
Wylan's throat went tight. He dropped his gaze to the workbench, tracing a scratch in the wood with his thumb, soot built up under his nails he hadn’t time to deal with. His father's voice echoed somewhere in the back of his skull — worthless, useless, broken — and he pressed his palm flat against the table like he could ground himself out of it. "It's nothing," he said. "Just... thinking." His thoughts sat volatile in his chest, one wrong touch from Jesper away from sparking.
"Thinking about what?"
About how I'm waiting for all of you to realize you made a mistake keeping me around.
He couldn't say that. The words would lodge familiarly in his throat like glass. "Doesn't matter," Wylan muttered.
Jesper's jaw tightened. Just barely. A flicker of something — frustration, maybe, or hurt — passed through his eyes before he masked it with an easy shrug. "Right. Doesn't matter." He straightened up, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. "Well, I was gonna see if you wanted to grab a drink, but I can see you're busy being mysterious and broody." He said it lightly. Teasing. But there was an edge underneath, thin as wire.
Wylan blinked.
Jesper looked away first.
Wylan caught it. The way Jesper's hands found his hips, thumbs hooking into his belt loops. The way he wasn't quite meeting Wylan's eyes anymore. He'd done that. Put that distance there. And weirdly instead of relief, all Wylan felt was a cold twist in his gut. "You don't have to keep checking on me, I don’t care if Kaz is telling you to," Wylan said, and the words came out rougher than he intended. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are." Jesper's gaze swept the workshop, taking the scattered equipment, the half-empty cup of tea gone cold hours ago, the dark circles under Wylan's eyes that he pretended not to notice. "That's why you're down here at midnight talking to blasting caps like they're gonna talk back."
"I don't talk to the blasting caps."
"You mutter. I've heard you."
Wylan's face heated. "I'm thinking aloud."
"Uh-huh." Jesper's smirk crept back, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Real convincing."
Silence settled between them. Thick. Uncomfortable. The kind of silence that demanded something be said, but Wylan didn't know what. He never knew what.
Jesper held his gaze a moment longer, then let out a breath and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a crumpled paper bag and tossed it onto the workbench. It landed with a soft thump near Wylan's elbow. "From the stall on West Stave," Jesper said. "Figured you hadn't eaten."
Wylan stared at the bag. His stomach chose that moment to twist with hunger, traitor that it was. But he didn't reach for it. "You don't have to bring me things."
"I know." Jesper's voice was even. Unbothered. "But I was passing by anyway, and it would've gone to waste if I didn't give it to someone."
Jesper always made care sound casual.
Like it cost him nothing.
It was a lie. Wylan could tell. But he didn't call him out on it. "I'll eat it later," he said, which was the closest to acceptance he could manage.
Jesper nodded once. Didn't push. "Right. Well." He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet workshop. "I'm heading up. Try not to blow yourself up before morning."
"I won't."
"I mean it, Wylan. If I wake up to find the door missing because you got distracted and crossed a wire wrong, I'm gonna be pissed. Although you can keep the door open for me anytime, darling."
Wylan's jaw tightened. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Jesper's voice softened, just barely. The teasing edge briefly gone, replaced by something quieter. "Because you've been standing over the same shell casing since I walked in, and you haven't touched a single tool."
Wylan's fingers curled against his palm. He had noticed that. Of course he had. "I'm thinking," he said.
"Right." Jesper held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned toward the door. "Goodnight, Wylan."
"Night."
Jesper paused at the threshold. His hand rested on the doorframe, and for a second Wylan thought he might say something else. But then he just shook his head, almost to himself, and stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Wylan stood there in the sudden quiet, alone again. Everything in the workshop obeyed rules. Heat, pressure, timing. Wylan understood reactions better than people because reactions never changed their minds halfway through. His eyes dropped to the paper bag on his workbench. The pastries inside were probably still warm from Jesper’s pocket, softening against each other in the dark.
He didn't open it.
He turned back to his scattered equipment, and once again let the silence swallow him whole.