Dirty Hands (Kaz Brekker One Shots)

Healer

You woke up in a healer's tent. You had visited enough of them to know the silver patterns stitched over the blood red fabric like the back of your hand. The question was, why were you there this time.

With your eyes glued to the sparkling threads woven in and out of the improvised walls, you let your fingers appreciate the soft material of the sheets covering your tired body as you weighed up your possibilities: You could be a good patient and wait for someone to tell you you were good to go... or you could get out before someone showed up and told you you had to stay there. You fancied the second option. Staying still only made you an easier target for whoever had put you there in the first place, and you weren't exactly in the mood to die that night.

Grimacing at the off-putting sensation that emanated from your stomach, you sat up in bed —⁠healing wounds were never fun—, and brought a careful hand to your belly to caress the bandages underneath your half‑unbuttoned blouse. If only you knew who the fuck had got to you in the first place, then you would be able to plan a much better escape route; but of course you didn't.

With sudden realization, your eyes searched the room franticly. You needed your jacket, that was where you had hidden the piece of jewellery you had stolen. You couldn't return to the Crow Club wounded and without the goods.

"Are you looking for this?"

You froze in place for a split second, startled, but then let your eyelids shut slowly. You had substantially underestimated how deep in trouble you were, but now that Kaz was there? Shit was about to get real, and you were nursing a headache that was bound to make you not enjoy that at all.

With a deep sigh, you dragged your legs to the edge of the bed, then rested your bare feet on the cold stone floor. You weren't in the mood to fall face first that evening —⁠or night, seeing how the only light besides the candles around you was the one provided by the moon coming in through the tent opening. And then, and only because you had no way of avoiding it, you opened your eyes and looked up.

A very unamused Mr. Brekker had just stepped inside, and he was glaring at you like he believed he had the power to make a hole in your skull by doing so.

"Yes," you uttered as you gazed at the jacket he carried draped over his arm. "I need that."

"And I need an explanation for this," he retorted coldly, motioning with his cane in your general direction. "Because the last time we talked, I don't think you getting stabbed was part of the plan."

You followed the metallic crow head with your eyes as it spun in the air, then brought a hand to your face to rub the tiredness away. Stabbed, uh. Well that one wasn't new. But you honestly couldn't even remember when you had been attacked in the first place.

"Well?" he insisted impatiently.

"I just like getting knifed from time to time," you said sarcastically. "Keeps the mind alert, you know?"

It was evident that was not the answer he had been looking for, seeing how the heads of his eyebrows curved downward as his frown deepened, and how his cheek twitched as he tensed his jaw; but it wasn't like you had had much choice in what had happened to you. You didn't exactly go out every night trying to find ways in which to put your life at risk.

When it became obvious that there was no room for humour in that tent —when was there time for humour around Kaz, was a better question—, you let out another heavy sigh that had you screwing up your expression in discomfort.