IF YOU ASKED ASRA TEN YEARS AGO WHAT SHE THOUGHT SHE'D BE DOING, the six year old wouldn't have said barmaid. She would've said assassin, and while up until recently that would've correct, that phase had come to an end, as all things did. And now she worked behind a bar, in Ketterdam of all places.
The city was fine. Fun, really. The city of depravity and greed was a melting pot for screw-ups and runaways where they were all equally worthless and desperate to prove themselves otherwise. None more so than those Barrel Bosses everyone went on about.
Men playing at Gods, that's what everyone called them. Asra supposed they were right, though Gods did seem a bit far. Even the biggest baddest only dared proclaim himself King of this forsaken city. Pekka Rollins. Asra wasn't sure why she didn't just work for him. Maybe it was just her less than normal upbringing had left her despising anyone with a claim to authority and so, the so-called King of the Barrel only made her skin crawl. The Bastard of the Barrel however, that was someone she liked the sound of.
Kaz Brekker was... interesting. Amusing, in his own brooding and quiet way. She'd promised him a head, smiled at his subtle surprise when she delivered, and he'd made her a barmaid. Bastard indeed, she'd muttered when he told her.
It was like a cruel joke and she was both the punchline and the only one who knew of it. Still, a job was a job and a task was a task, and orders were all she'd ever really know. How was this any different? So she poured drinks and cleaned glasses and refilled cups until everyone in sight was drunken mess.
A barmaid. The Saints were cruel, assuming there were any. Asra doubted it.
She stood behind her bar and emptied her bottles into her customers in an almost trance. It was easy, barely worth her attention. She didn't mind, too much anyway, it gave her chance to do what she did best: watch.
Watching was her forte. Spying, knowing, noticing. Of all her many skills, watching always seemed to come most easily. Interacting with people was... not so appealing, but watching? That was fun. Well, interesting. Amusing. People were often amusing to watch, Asra found.
So she watched. The Crow Club was alive and loud and downright fascinating. Drinks were downed, bets placed, money lost, and then it would repeat. A cycle of loss that every single one of them followed happily. The greed of men, delusional hope of alcohol, and desperation to prove themselves something. It was pathetic to watch in the most hilarious way. Asra was just glad card games never really appealed to her.
Only one person joined her in her silent studing. That interesting, dark speck among the bright monstrosities of Ketterdam fashion: Kaz Brekker.
He'd sit in his both with a scowl on his face and gloves on his hands, watching the desolation unfold beneath his roof with all the arrogance and power of - Asra couldn't help but laugh - a God.
Sometimes he'd drink (Asra would study his face when she came to refil his drinks and he'd study her back). Sometimes he'd pour over his paperwork. Sometimes he'd talk to his men (or Dregs, as they called themselves), usually the bouncer she'd kicked or that infamous Wraith. Jesper and Inej, right? Asra didn't care much, honestly. But no matter what, his hands were gloved.
The gloves were odd. Asra had inquired, of course she had, and come up with the knowledge no one had a fucking clue. There were rumours, of course, outlandish and as likely as a fairytail. Tales of sixth fingers and blood curses lingering in the touch of his skin, that sort of thing. It was to be expected. Asra decided on two possibilities.
One; germiphobia. Simple, understandable in this city of filth, though highly inconvenient. It felt so human somehow, so simple. Terror often was, but somehow it didn't fit Kaz Brekker's complexion quite right. Misery suited him better, it brought out his eyes.
Or option two; pride. Similar to the last, though whereas one dictated Kaz feared the filth around him, two implied he thought himself above it. He didn't wish to sully himself with those around him. Asra didn't like that one as much, she didn't like it at all. The idea that Dirtyhands didn't want to get his hands dirty just made her scoff and glare at him across the room.
She'd often watch him, when nothing else was particularly outstanding. And sometimes, when she dared interfear with the world around her, Asra would feel his gaze on the back of her neck. She didn't like that, didn't like to be seen. The remnants of an old life dictated it wrong and she'd snap her head towards him. She never caught him looking, of course she didn't, but that didn't stop the tremble in her hands and bile in her throat.
He'd given her a room. After three days of coming in, grubbier each time and not once changed from her once uniform suit, he'd asked.
"Where are you staying?"
"Somewhere." She'd said out of habit. Anonymity was built into her bones and even if she'd sullied herself with a name these days, it didn't change her nature. Truth be told (not that she ever indulged such a thing), Asra slept in whatever quiet hovel she could dissappear into. She hadn't exactly had time to check out real estate when fleeing for her life.
Kaz had scoffed. "I won't have my staff look like they crawled out the sewers."
He'd lead her through the Barrel, walking once again with all the arrogance of a God, until they reached the Slat. It was three stories of cramped rooms and surprisingly dry walls, and there he showed her a room that was supposedly hers. It was little more than a crappy bed and chest of drawes, but it was hers and that was better than anything she'd known in a long time. Then Kaz had given Asra her payment early and told her to buy herself something new.
And she had. Now, here she stood, in a new pair of muted red trousers and a white shirt with sleeves down to her wrists. Her top two buttons were undone and not a single weapon was on display on her body. It was an odd getup for her. But then again, everything about this was odd when Asra thought about it.
Only one thing seemed not to have changed. The nightmares.
Of course. They'd plagued her since she'd first shed blood that wasn't hers, the ripe age of five, and she'd not known peace since. Why would a change of scene and clothes and name make a difference?
After a week of laying awake in her itchy bed in her Slat bedroom, Asra decided she'd had enough. She kicked the blanket off her, pulled a jumper over her body, and stepped out into the building.
She didn't know where she was going or what she was doing. She was tired and distracted and barely aware she was heading downstairs till she was. Then she froze. There, stood in the middle of the stairs, was Kaz. He was watching her over the rim of his mug, eyes dull yet analytical. Always analytical. She found herself waiting, staring back. She felt seen, she always did around him. It made her skin crawl.
"Are you going to stand there all night or what?" Kaz asked at last, dropping his coffee from his lips and heading up the stairs.
"No." Asra muttered, eyes trained on Kaz as he headed up the stairs. Past her, out of sight, the sound of his cane slowly fading to nothing. Then she was alone.
Asra had stood there awhile. She'd tried, she really had, to keep herself entertained. But soon, lead by curiosity and the smell of coffee, she followed after Kaz.
His office was on the top floor. He had the whole attic to himself, greedy shit. His door was unlocked and he was sat at his makeshift desk of crates and an old door placed atop. He'd glanced at her as she slipped inside, keeping a foot in the door as she stood there.
"I didn't think you'd be up." She said.
Kaz simply shrugged.
Talkative indeed, Asra rolled her eyes. She spyed a pot of coffee on the table beside him. She grabbed a cup off his table and headed over, slipping onto the windowsill to sit. Kaz watched out the corner of his eye. Asra ignored him and poured herself a coffee. She sat back and had a small sip.
Kaz watched her. Asra watched him back. Then he looked away, and she did the same. And that was that. Almost every night Asra would wake, gripped by nightmares. She'd slip from her room, into Kaz's office, and he would be there. After a week, there'd be a coffee waiting for her, set on the edge of his desk. Sometimes they'd speak, often they didn't. Kaz would pour over paperwork of some kind or simply sit and brood. Asra would sit and stare at the world beyond her windowsill perch. Words weren't needed. There was a solidarity between them. They were bound in subtle rings of exhaustion and comforting silence. That kind of thing couldn't be put into words, even if they wanted to.
It became a game, almost. To Asra anyway. A kind of race to see who would wake first. She always lost, he was always first. It was a first for her, and Asra almost choked on her coffee when she realised. She'd lost. Kaz had won a game he didn't even know existed. That should've scared her. That should've been impossible. Yet once the shock died down all Asra could feel was curious.
"Do you even try to sleep?" She asked the next night, walking over
Kaz spared her a look. "Do you?" He went back to his documents or whatever they were.
Asra hummed, taking her usual seat. "Touché." She sipped her coffee, studying him the way she always did everyone. "Why not?"
"Why not what?" He didn't look up.
"Why not sleep?"
He lifted his head, turning to her. He studied her, the way he always did. By now, after nearly four weeks of working for him, Asra had got used to him. She just met his gaze, patient and stubborn and curious all at once.
"Why don't you?" He said at last.
"Why do you answer all my questions with more questions?"
"Why don't you answer them?"
"Why don't you?"
Stalemate. Bound in rings of exhaustion and silence, trapped in a web of stubbornness and secrets. Kaz went back to his papers. Asra sipped her coffee. And silence settled over them, more comforting than any blanket or bed.
"Bad dreams." Asra said at last, eyes on the ceiling.
"What?" Kaz looked up to her.
"Why I don't sleep, bad dreams." She looked down, meeting his gaze. "Your turn."
He was quiet a moment, eyes far off as he looked back to his papers. Then he spoke, voice just as distant and softer than Asra thought possible from Kaz, which is to say not prying/sarcastic/a threat.
"Same as you."
Asra nodded. She sipped her coffee. Kaz went back to his papers. And that was that.
Kaz Brekker was interesting. That much was certain. The gloves, the insomnia, the secrecy. Asra could respect it, she almost liked it. It was... nice, in a way. Every part of her that made her insufferable, staring back at her over the rim of his coffee. Those silent nights with Kaz Brekker, meaningless and not nearly as boring as she expected, Asra almost felt normal. Almost felt human. Almost felt real. It was an odd thing, and she didn't hate it as much as she expected.
Maybe the Ketterdam smog was rotting her brain.
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Author's note:
Much better:)
I like this chapter. This sets up Asra and Kaz's Soc dynamics pretty well I think.
Also btw there's gonna be four chapters before we actually get into Soc. Two more then we get into it :)