[ he usually wakes after a few short hours of deadened unconsciousness, dragged back to the surface of the living with all the grace of a drowning man where he bides the remaining time until sunrise trying to occupy his mind with brighter thoughts that inevitably deteriorate into dark and jagged fragments. sometimes he drifts back to sleep and wakes with blood slicking his shackles and an aching tremble in his bones. today, he doesn't remember what happens in the night. not enough time bound for him to cause much damage, no cuts into the mottled bruises ringing his aching wrists. he's barely lucid, watching kaz's mouth move far more than it normally does on any given morning and trying to follow his story through the pulse in his head. distracted by the dark fall of his hair, normally combed back but this time coming down around the sharp angles of his face. wanting to kiss him, if he didn't feel so sick.

saints, he feels sick. this isn't a hangover, he would need to drink far more for that. this is something else, something his body has been fighting and is finally succumbing to, made weak by his lack of proper rest. his skin prickles with heat, nausea tickling the back of his throat. burgos will deliver coffee soon — perhaps it will cure him. the little stroke of kaz's finger inside his palm pulls his attention back, sleep-tousled hair, clear hazel eyes, a light shiver across his skin he hopes kaz will attribute to his touch. ]

Is this your way of inviting me to the Crow Club? [ a tired rasp to his voice, rubbing gingerly at both wrists once they're free. when has kaz offered up so much useless information about himself so freely? this is the sort of thing he longs for, these painfully normal interactions that shine a light on the man behind the carefully crafted persona of kaz brekker, and he's disappointed he can't fully appreciate the moment when all he wants to do is curl back into his bed and wish for the bliss of unconsciousness. it's too much trouble, requiring his chains and the tonic again. he forces himself to stay upright, to focus on kaz's words. his mouth quirks. ] Brekker. It's terribly romantic of you to offer me a private showing of a valued piece of art you seem to have acquired through completely legal channels. I accept your proposal with enthusiasm.

[ the fetters click open when he twists the key at his ankles, falling away with a heavy thud against the floor. his vision swims, the key slipping from between his fingers, and he braces his shadow-stained hands at his knees — or tries to, his vision suddenly faltering. he blinks and finds his knees digging into the wooden floors, his breath ragged, chills plaguing him despite his too-hot skin. should he just ask kaz to dose him again? no, that's what got him here in the first place. his heart beats painfully fast, his hand lightly fisting in his shirt. ]

I'm fine. [ he expels a slow breath. most of his crew will be off the ship today, mapping out the maze of caves for kaz to look over tonight and detail his plans for tomorrow. he leans back against his bed. ] How many people have seen that DeKappel once it ended up above your desk? And what sort of landscape compels Kaz Brekker so?