Work Text:
“You know, there are more legal ways of admiring art,” Inej commented, perched in the windowsill and absolutely, terrifically smug as she watched Kaz Brekker, the almighty Dirtyhands, struggle to carry in a seven-foot-tall painting.
She smirked as she watched the painting tilt out of the corner of her eye, far more entertained than what was probably moral. “Do you need help with that, Kaz?” she teased, using a knife from her belt to slice the apple she’d stolen off of his desk before he’d come back from his very, very successful mission.
And he, in a fit of misguided irritation, shoved the painting hard against the doorframe, forearm against the backing of the frame as he leaned into it.
The crack that the wood let off would not have been amusing, had he not closed his eyes, bowing a head in a way far too familiar to her from one years-old literal trainwreck. She snorted, turning her head down and away before she could fully see the glare he shot at her.
“There’s no legal way to admire this painting,” he said, taking a deep breath and pushing himself upright, pulling the painting off the doorframe. “And I would appreciate it, but I have a feeling you’re toying with me,” he grunted, once again struggling to push the painting through the door.
It was about two minutes of watching him attempt to ease the painting into the room vertically that she stood, walking over and standing beside him. “Take a break,” she said, hand hovering over his arm. “Let me try for a while.”
He shook his head, still continuing to work. “Why?” he breathed, ever-stubborn and shoving harder than before, effectively wedging the painting into the uneven part of the doorway.
She sighed, lowering her hand to rest lightly over his upper arm, squeezing gently. “Because you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep it up with the ineffective methods, and I’m not interested in your sour mood later. Go sit down,” she ordered with the confidence of a captain, and he turned to meet her eyes.
One second passed, and he was sighing, stepping behind her to pull his cane from where he’d set it against the wall on the other side of the doorframe. “If it’s not through in five minutes, I’m taking a saw to the wall,” he grumbled, making his way over to the desk, practically collapsing into the chair.
She grinned at the mere mental image of him with a saw, hacking away at his attic doorway for a piece of art. It was a shame that she wouldn’t get to see that today, she thought, pulling the painting back through the doorway, undoing the small bit of progress he’d made.
“What are you doing?” he commanded, sitting up in alarm as he watched her, as if she’d just burned his books, or sold his shares.
She tilted the painting, angling it a bit more in the doorway, and pushed it through with ease.
“If you used your brain, maybe you wouldn’t need to work your muscles so hard,” she smirked, propping the painting against the far wall. Kaz relaxed back into his chair, scowling as he looked between the painting, the door, and Inej.
“What is it for, anyway?” she asked, studying the painting with her hands on her hips, head tilted to the side. “This is, what, Ravka? Why do you need another painting of Ravka?”
She waited for a response for a long time, studying the blossoms on the tree in the painting. It was spring, in the painting. She only knew because of the flowers, the colors that never popped up unless it was nice enough out for them to grow.
He didn’t answer her, not even after an entire minute had passed. “Kaz?” she asked as she turned around, finding him staring at the painting, too.
His eyes were also on the blossoming tree.
“What’s the painting for?” she pressed, walking toward the desk. “Is it for a job, again?”
She knew based on his expression alone that it wasn’t for a job. If it had been, he would not have been so intent on getting it into this specific room, and he certainly would not have held back an answer from her.
Either he’d formed an incredibly personal attachment to his painting within the thirty minutes that he’d had it, or it held a significance that she was unaware of.
“It’s not Ravka,” he said quietly, almost as if he was embarrassed.
Surely, he couldn’t be embarrassed -- he was Kaz Brekker, and he did not get embarrassed over paintings. But this wasn’t his careful, warning kind of quiet that he took on when he was angry. This was not a show.
It occurred to her that it might be best to drop it and leave him to tell her on his own time, on a day when he hadn’t already pushed himself too far just trying to get the damn thing through the door. But this pattern they’d learned, the way they’d been doing things so far… he wouldn’t yell at her unless he wanted to deal with the repercussions later.
“What is it?” she asked, moving forwards and clearing a space on top of the desk, sitting down to his left; not in line with the painting, but close enough that she would be what he’d focus on.
He twisted his gloved hands into his chair’s armrest, possibly hard enough to cause pain. “It’s the town I was raised in.”
And, well, that… was something different, for sure. That, she wouldn’t have even guessed.
Of course, she’d figured he’d lived someplace else. He hid it well, made it as far from obvious to the world as he could. But two homesick souls would always find that familiarity in each other; that bond that was so hard to break.
It was the way that his mood improved just a bit when it was sunny out, regardless of the temperature. The way he looked at her like she was describing a fairytale when she brought up the blossoms on the trees back in Ravka. The way that she’d sailed away, and he’d looked at her with longing not just for her, but for the home that she was venturing off to.
He looked up at her after a few minutes went by in silence, relaxing and crossing his arms over his chest. “You knew,” he suggested, seemingly unsurprised.
“I guessed,” she corrected.
She hadn’t known, just as she never had, with him. He was always keeping her on her toes, refusing to mention anything that wasn’t completely necessary. Refusing to even allude to anything that was at all personal.
Another moment passed, both of them turning to look back at the painting.
She could see it, a young Kaz running around those fields, pink and white petals in his hair, on his clothes. Maybe a brother or a sister with him, giggling as one landed on top of his head. The sun shining down on them in the way that it never truly had in Ketterdam, but always did, in another way.
It wasn’t until he shifted, clearly uncomfortable, that she turned back to face him.
“Did you ever consider going to a museum, or something?”
He smirked, shaking his head. “Never occurred to me,” he shrugged, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Even if it had, this was in Schenck’s collection, so--”
“You stole this from Schenck? Alone?” she sputtered.
She’d have come with him, if he’d asked. Well, only after he told her the sentimentality behind it, but still. Breaking into Schenck’s mansion, under any circumstances, was practically a death sentence. And Kaz Brekker, her lovely, lovely partner, had done it on his own.
He had the absolutely, purely boy-like audacity to shrug. “I didn’t think you’d be on board. Not exactly ethical, after all.”
“Ethical enough,” she laughed, turning her head to look at the painting once again. “What will you do with it?”
He glanced over to the opposite wall, standing empty and with a large enough span to cover at least two of these. “I figured I’d put it next to the DeKappel. Artwork from mercher assholes should go together.”
Later that night, she stood back to help him straighten it as he tacked it to the wall.