Chapter Text
Thank Ghezen, after this whole debacle no one treated him like he was made of glass.
Sure, Jesper was more mindful of his gestures, and Wylan had to talk him out of his fears once or twice. And sure, Nina always invited him to join her for a walk, a waffle, a bit of shopping, which she never did before, but this was nice.
Kaz was still the same. That was the best of his traits. He'd say something about jobs and about bombs, and even if sometimes he advised him to eat or rest, it always was for the sake of a mission and needing his crew healthy. At least that's what he said. And that was exactly what Wylan needed to hear.
Inej came back, sometimes, looking happier, even when she clearly was worn out. At first, Wylan didn't know if she was aware of the whole situation, but at some point she sat with him at the window where he was sketching and gave him a blade.
“For me?” he asked.
She nodded. “I know you prefer to use your brain, but every warrior needs a backup.”
He gave her an apologetic smile. “That's really kind. But i'm not a warrior.”
She stared at him with her deep, soul-grasping eyes. “You are brave, Wylan. Braver than you give yourself credit for. Think of it as a reminder of your strength. This is Sankta Marya.”
“The patron of those far from home,” he recited.
She gave him a surprised look.
“What? I listen when you talk.”
She returned his smile. “That makes at least one of you. I know life has not treated you fairly, and it can be hard to remember you have a home to go back to. But you do. You have us. I hope you'll never have to use that blade, but if so, it will be so you can come back home. To us. To Jesper.”
He didn't know what to say. Thank you didn't seem enough to convey all that was in his gratitude-filled heart. He said it nonetheless. She looked at him once more and he saw in her eyes that she knew what he really meant.
That night he safely put Sankta Marya in his satchel. He said the name out loud, tasted its bittersweetness.
Little did he know that his Marya was still here, just really far from home.
The news had come like a thunderstorm. At first a slow rumbling, the electricity in the air as Kaz showed him something he had found, the unsettling feeling you have that something terrible is about to happen. Then, the whole world cracking open, thunderbolts splitting the ground beneath your feet.
Multiple payments to an obscure receiver, something that didn't match any of Jan Van Eck's business. A location.
He had gone with Jesper. Jesper, who saw his face fall when they heard her name in the nurse's mouth. Jesper, who left him with her so he could grab a few minutes of the last ten years that had been stolen from then. Jesper, who held him afterward, as he cried his heart out on the unconcerned grass outside.
Marya Hendriks was alive. Alive, after all these years thinking she was dead. After all those lies. Alive, and far from home.
He almost cut himself by accident on the blade in his satchel that night when he unpacked. He looked at it, at the strange, gleaming omen it had been. Sankta Marya. Saint patron of those who are far from home.
Some of the scars would not heal.
Three months had already passed, and he found himself staring at cuts on his arms, stomach, and legs. Even the one from before had come back, and he had realized they had only been taylored away, not healed. How foolish it had been of him to think they'd be gone forever. Traces of his past self, shadows of hurting, a drag path, neatly dug in the flesh of his arm and side, both witnesses and murderers of everything he had ever been.
Jesper had seen them, of that he was sure. But he had never said anything about them. Before, it had simply been out of respect for the taboo that had been his past. Now, he knew Jesper remembered what he had said about not wanting to talk about any of it, and he had respected it with such endeavor that it made Wylan fall a bit more in love with him every single day.
He didn't know if he was sad about the scars coming back. As much as he hated to think what had brought them to life, as much as they ashamed him, they were a reminder he had survived.
The other scars, though, the one inflicted by his father all these years and by those two men three months ago, he could have gone without. The worst was when he accidentally felt them, or when they weirdly tingled when the weather was bad, or when he looked at his hands and could still see that no matter how great of a work Nina and that healer had done, one of his fingers still looked a bit crooked, more than it used to be at least.
He had eventually learned what had happened, that night. Learned about them finding him in a bunker, learned about the fire, about Matthias and Jesper running straight into it to save him. He still barely remembered what had exactly happened before that, but had connected some of the dots. He could not hide that he was actually pretty proud of what he had done, especially given the state he was in when he had planned the explosion. Inej's words came back to him, and he had to admit she had been right. He was quite brave.
He just wished he could be shirtless without wanting to tear himself apart and scream.
That night, Matthias came inside his room when Wylan was still only in his underwear and both of them froze on the spot, looking for the appropriate thing to do or say in this kind of situation, only to find that none of them had ever prepared for something like this to happen and both their mind went blank. After a second or two, Matthias blurted “sorry” and left as quickly as possible.
Wylan tried not to think too much about this interaction. But when he went to sleep, he couldn't find it. The look in Matthias's eyes was printed on the back of his eyelids. Beside him, Jesper was too deep in sleep for Wylan to bother him. So he got up and quietly left the room.
He went to the roof. He had never been too inclined to heights, but two months ago he had joined Inej there and the two of them had gossiped and laughed for a while, and the roof became his favorite spot to hang whenever he wanted a bit of quiet. Sometimes he sketched there, or simply watched the lights of the city. He had planned to opt for the second option but stilled when he saw a broad figure sat at the spot he usually took. Matthias.
The Fjerdan hadn't heard him, and he couldn't hide how startled he was when Wylan sat by his side. Then recognition sparked in his blue eyes. “Oh, it's you.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, simply gazing at the city that stretched in front of them, Wylan's hands carefully tucked under his thighs. It was a nice night, warm for that time of the year.
“I have some too, you know,” said Matthias in his ever-steady voice.
Wylan blinked. “What?”
“Scars. Some are from my time in the Ice Court. Some are from Hellgate. These are the worst. Everytime I bathe, or change, or see them in a mirror, I am back there. It's not easy.”
Wylan shuffled, his hands finding a resting place on his knees. “I'm sorry. That must be terrible,” he murmured, voice filled with compassion as he took in Matthias's lost gaze. The fjerdan always looked so strong, it was rare and rather disconcerting to see him so openly vulnerable.
“What I am trying to say is that I know what it is. It is hard, and it hurts, but you are more than those scars. And you don't have to hide them.”
Wylan almost retorted that he wasn't, but stopped himself when he realized that, in fact, yes, he was hiding them. Not always on purpose, but as a reflex. Just like he had kept all his injuries hidden when he still lived with his father, too scared someone would say something.
He cast his eyes on a couple walking down the street. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything. I don't think I ever thanked you for literally running into a house on fire and saving me. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for that, but I owe you a big one.”
To his surprise, Matthias laughed. “You Kerch people. You don't have to repay me anything. I don't regret doing it, and I'll do it again without a second thought if needed.”
Then, in a lower voice: “I lost too much to fire. I was not going to lose you. You are the only other decent person in here.”
Wylan didn't know the details, but he remembered a conversation a while ago about how Matthias had lost his family. But Matthias didn't want pity, that he knew. A sad smile painted itself on his face. “That would be a shame, indeed.”
They stayed here almost all night, sometimes only staring in the distance, Wylan bathing in the quiet he could only truly find or with Inej or Matthias.
He thought he was getting better, he really did.
The day had been lovely, among the stress generated by one of Kaz's endless stream of plans. He had gotten lunch with Nina and Jesper, had found the time to sketch the crows and pigeons on the roof, and Jesper had looked at him with that look, which certainly meant the night was going to be fun.
He just wanted to take a bath to wash the dirt and the exhaustion from the day away. Six months had passed since the incident – that was still how he called it in his head – and he finally felt ready to try to wash his hair on his own.
The first time he had tried, only a few days after his partial recovery, he had freaked out as soon as the water touched his neck and Jesper had to come and help him wash his hair. What had started as something he found rather humiliating had quickly evolved into a nice ritual of theirs, and despite the worry in Jesper's eyes, he never asked for an explanation, which was even nicer.
But it was six months ago. And Wylan felt like if he didn't try to do it on his own now, he'll be dependent on Jesper for his entire life for something that should be nothing more than a triviality. So he poured the hot water in the bathtub, stripped out of his clothes, and stood in front of the bathtub for a good dozen minutes.
It shouldn't be that hard.
He didn't know if he was afraid of the water or afraid of freaking out because of the water. Jesper was not in the building, only Kaz, Nina and some of the Dregs. What if he freaked out and passed out and drowned and one of them found him naked? Which, realistically, was something stupid to be scared about, because he should be more scared about dying, but right now that was all that was in his mind.
He quickly put his underwear back on. Ok, problem solved. Now he could not hide behind any ridiculous fear. He had to do it.
He lifted one feet and dipped it in the water. It was not that hot anymore, but still warm. One leg, then another leg. Then he sat, letting the water rise to his shoulders. He shivered.
He was not a child scared of the water. He was eighteen. He could do this.
He shut his eyes, held his breath and sank his head into the bath. Water filled his ears, and all he could hear was the frenetic thud of his heart. He went back up, a world of sound waking up as air hit his face. His wet curls sat on his forehead, and no the feeling was not making him sick, it was only wet hair, he could breath, there were no hands forcing him back into the water, he could breathe, that's just wet air, nothing to be scared about, even if water is dripping from his face, even if his eyes sting, it's just wet air and now he can wash it.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the soap. He was fine. Everything was fine. He was going to get clean and then go cook something for Jesper so they can eat dinner when he comes back and can have the night for themselves, and he'll smell good and Jesper really likes this smell and-
The arm he was using to keep himself balanced as he took the soap slipped, and he fell awkwardly on his side, and in a second he was back underwater.
Suddenly all he could feel was the water in his eyes, in his nose, in his mouth. He promptly lifted himself up, and soon enough he was back up, gasping for air, his lungs refusing any of the perfectly good oxygen they were receiving.
Frustration washed over him and he grabbed the soap. He applied it as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, just like he had learned too with the years. It was okay, he was okay. He massaged his scalp, ignoring the urge to throw up as he felt his own curls on his neck. There was no one here, these hands were his, no one was going to drown him, he was safe. So why was his brain thinking he was about to die?
Time to rinse. And he certainly was not going back underwater. He took the cup Jesper kept close to the tub (they had quickly figured out it was the most practical way to do it), filled it with water, tilted his head backward and started pouring the water on his hair.
The first cup was fine. The second made his skin crawl. He couldn't bring himself to fill it a third time.
A groan of disbelief escaped him. Why was it fine when Jesper did it, but not when he tried? That was his own body, damn it!
The cup stayed in his hand a few minutes. He filled it, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, but as he went to pour it he could not. He just couldn't! He sat straighter and, in a flash of anger, threw the cup at the wall with a yell. It broke. He should have expected it, but it sobered him up all at once. He had broken Jesper's cup. Their hair-washing cup. Just because he could not do it on his own and had delved into his anger, the same one festering inside him, the one that came with his last name.
He got out of the tub, quickly dried himself up with the towel and, ignoring his dripping underwear and shaky hands, he knelt to pick up the pieces. It was a basic cup, nothing special. But as he gathered its remaining bits, Wylan's throat got thick with regret and self-loathing. He even spilled a tear or two, but soon he couldn't find any to shed – he rarely did, not since he had found out his mother was alive; back then he had cried himself dry, and he was not sure he had any more tears to cry.
When Jesper came back, dinner was almost ready and Wylan was not shaking so much anymore. He removed his gun belt and kissed him gently on the top of the head.
“Mhm, you smell good,” he complimented.
Wylan gave him a small smile and, gathering the last remains of strength he had inside of him, said: “Thank you, I washed my hair earlier.”
Jesper's eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Okay. How did it go?”
Wylan should lie. He wanted to. But he was so tired.
“Terrible,” he confessed. “I broke the cup.”
A beat of silence. Then another. He realized he had unintentionally tensed. He forced his shoulders to relax. Jesper was not going to be this mad about a cup.
“Oh,” finally said Jesper. “What happened?”
He could read in his eyes the unspoken words, if you want to talk about it, that is. Wylan tried to formulate an answer in his head, but nothing was right. So he shrugged, leaning on the counter. “I got mad.”
“At the cup?”
Jesper's tone was playful, but Wylan was not a fool. He knew his boyfriend, could see the worry and questions in his grey eyes, see the tension in his neck. Wylan stirred the sauce, to give himself a countenance.
“Mostly at myself.”
He knew he was not saying much, knew he should explain more, but it felt too much, and as much as he hated to admit it, he needed help to talk about it. Because he knew he should talk about it. He couldn't even wash his own hair.
Jesper understood exactly what he needed: “Why?”
“Because I can't even wash my own hair,” he said, cringing at the tightness in his voice.
Jesper didn't reply, but not weight clung to his silence. Instead, it wrapped around Wylan, found the thoughts out of his scattered brain, and carried him through the task of fleshing them out.
“I got scared. I could feel the water on my face and I could feel my hair being all wet and… and suddenly I was not in the bathroom anymore,” he explained, eyes stuck to the pot on the stove.
“Where were you?” asked Jesper beside him, leaning on the furniture, precautious with his words. They had never gone that far in the forbidden topic.
“In the basement,” muttered Wylan.
Jesper nodded. He stirred. He put the spoon down. Watched the tiny red bubbles at the surface of the sauce.
“They tried to drown me. I don't know how long it lasted. Felt like hours.”
In the corner of his eyes, he saw Jesper's face fall and his own heart clenched. It was supposed to be a good moment. Now, Jesper could never un-learn this information. It would be on his mind every time he helped him in the tub. He had ruined everyth-
“Can I hug you?” Jesper's voice cut his thoughts short.
Wylan nodded, then added: “maybe not from the front, if it's alright?”
He wasn't sure he could bear having his chest squeezed right now, and he still needed to look after that dinner. Jesper understood immediately what he asked – that was nothing new –, went behind Wylan's back, and wrapped his long arms around his waist.
As much as Wylan liked being the big spoon, there was nothing as comforting as being held in such a way. Jesper's torso pressed against his back, with his hands resting on his stomach and his head on his shoulder. Wylan closed his eyes and let himself appreciate the wave of calm and of warmth that washed over him.
“It was six months ago,” he added. “I should be over it, I don't know why it's so hard. It's just hair.”
Jesper laughed, the vibration reverberating in Wylan's chest. He smiled. “It's not funny!”
“I'm sorry, love, but only you could think you can just go over something like this in only six months. It's not just hair. It's trauma.”
Wylan let that sink in (ha, ha) for a second.
“If something like that had happened to me, or to any of the other Crows, would you think they should be over it by now?”
Classic Jesper's trap. Because now he was stuck between being a horrible person doubled of a liar or admitting something that should also be applied to him and therefore turned his own logical thinking against himself. Typical. But he answered anyway, with a long sigh: “No, of course not.”
“So don't be so hard on yourself. It's only been six months.”
Wylan hummed in contentment. Maybe Jesper was right.
“I still broke the cup, though,” he said.
“If you think I only have one cup, you don't know anything about me, Wy,” Jesper teased.
A characteristic hiss took any reply he could think of away from him.
“The sauce, oh no!” he yelped.
In the end, they had dinner at a local tavern before heading back to their room, both slightly drunk and giggling messes, holding hands in the street, murmuring sweet words in each other's ears, and Wylan was maybe not getting better, but he sure was going to.
Kaz had kept his promise.
It took a year, but it ended in glory and blood. Wylan had perfectly “read” in front of all the snobbish merchers, the Crows had grinned as Jan Van Eck was dragged away by the stadwatch, and somehow, two bullets got lost in the chaos, one digging into the red-faced mercher's hand, one into his foot. No one really heard his screams.
By the time Wylan inherited all his father's wealth, most of the mansion had been rebuilt. It doesn't stop him and Jesper from tearing all its walls down, turning every testament of hurt and bitterness into a dust they then spent a whole week cleaning. Then they built new walls, chose a new color for every room, painted them yellow, blue, or red, everything his father would have hated. Sometimes, at night, he'd turn to Jesper sleeping peacefully next to him, watch his chest rise and fall, and think his father would have hated him too. In the morning, he'd kiss him a little longer.
Nina and Matthias visited sometimes. They both had helped to tear some walls and they all had decided they really didn't need a bunker in the basement. Even Kaz came by, shuffling through the debris with his cane with his usual disdain but still giving surprising advice on which chandeliers looked the best. He also helped with getting Maria home, had even managed to get new paint for her, and had left without a word, going back to one of his many projects (something about a tunnel…?). Wylan would never find a way to thank him, but one evening Jesper told him it was Kaz's repayment to him. Wylan hadn't understood at first. But then he saw Kaz again, and everything made sense. Kaz wasn't one to say sorry or thank you. Wylan did not even know if he'd thanked Kaz firsthand, too. Kaz and Wylan had never talked about the mission-turned-nightmare of last year; instead, there had been an inheritance, raspy words about room arrangements, and a package full of art furniture on his doorstep.
And that was more than enough.