Dirty Hands (Kaz Brekker One Shots)

Don't

"Where's Kaz?"

In the poor light of barely stable bonfires and dying lanterns, your gaze travelled to every single one of the occupants of the improvised camp, but it was met with averting eyes and a regret words would never be able to properly express. You swallowed hard as cold sweat took over the surface of your skin.

"Jesper, where is he?" you asked again, grasping his shoulder as he passed you by with an injured Inej in his arms.

The gunslinger was in terrible shape, his skin stained with countless bruises and the right side of his jaw getting darker and more swollen by the minute. There were no traces of his usual confidence, of his careless demeanour. With a stutter, he stopped in his tracks, and his face contorted in an expression you couldn't completely decipher as, for the first time in his life, his voice got caught in his throat and a million tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

Another time, you would have dedicated all your attention to their well being, would have dropped everything to make sure their wounds were tended to, but the knot in your stomach only grew tighter and tighter as the scene before you became an almost blurred painting. Because, deep inside you, you knew. You knew something terrible had happened.

"Where. Is. He," you demanded.

After seconds of silence that felt like a million years, it was Inej who finally dissipated the quietness that had engulfed the night like a wolf's maw. She shared a look with him, then turned to you with a cocktail of emotions veiled by her exhaustion and pain. Yet, what you saw in those doll-like eyes of hers...

"We tried to stop him."

~»~

Expert fingers danced in the air, seeking the fleeting feeling of a heartbeat... of blood. It had been a long time since you had allowed yourself to lean into your darkest thoughts, since you had unshackled the raging monster inside you. There had been no reason to: life with the Dregs was easier when you kept a low profile, participating in stealth missions and robberies. In those, there was barely ever any real risk besides the usual thug with a gun. Right then, however, your mind was numbed by an aching thirst. One that only intensified the more enemies you encountered, one that would never subside until you found him —⁠because he was the only one that understood, the only one that could appease your pain.

A deadly shadow, you covered the streets of Ketterdam until there were no more left and your body was so soaked in red you couldn't tell your skin and clothes apart. You ran through the empty pavements with desperation, adrenaline pumping through your veins and limbs aching and trembling. You didn't know who you were more pissed at: at the Dregs for allowing him to do it; at Kaz for giving himself up as bait; or at you, for having separated from him in the heat of the fight. You didn't care that in his eyes he hadn't had any other option, that they had tried to convince him otherwise. There was always an alternative, there was always a reason not to self‑sacrifice.