Work Text:
He hadn’t meant to go and get himself hurt.
Really, it was just a lack of judgment. Not better judgment, but any sort of judgment, in general.
Matthias had assumed that the majority of people who knew how to throw knives with such precision resided back in Ketterdam, stalking the streets amongst people like Kaz Brekker. Decidedly, they were not spending their time back in his hometown, or in any of the Fjerdan villages, dressed like the drüskelle down to the wolf pendants around their necks.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought about the rifle training he’d gotten, and wondered why this young drüskelle was not wielding one of his own.
A worse thought pushed itself to the front of his mind: Why did the people of his home keep trying to hurt a man and a woman dressed like them, talking like them?
A gunshot ringing out along the Ketterdam shore as a young drüskelle fired his weapon, despite Matthias’ efforts to reason with him. Having to hide away inside of the Ice Court, his old pride and joy and his position as a soldier all withering beneath his tailored disguise. Jarl Brum collapsing next to him as Nina stood in the cell.
Now, his arm around Nina’s shoulders, blood leaking from his side at a truly humbling pace.
Nina had perfected hiding her Grisha abilities, her Ravkan accent. What about them stood out enough for thrown knives and the drüskelles’ boiling hatred? More importantly, what could they change for next time? Not trying to hide? Standing out more?
“This is wonderful,” Nina complained with a grunt, nudging the door open and shutting it with a foot kicked behind them. “After all, it’s not as if you’re twice my height or anything. No, we are perfectly equipped to be doing this alone. Fucking Saints, we should’ve thought about things like this before we came here.”
Rather clunkily, they both worked to get him over to the sofa in their small living room, dropping him down with more than one curse leaving either of their mouths.
They’d bought their home almost immediately upon arriving back in Fjerda. This house was laid out similarly to those in Ketterdam, two stacked floors, the building standing narrow and tall. The bottom floor consisted of just the living room, kitchen, and a small bathroom tucked under the staircase. There were two bedrooms upstairs, but they only used one consistently.
For the sake of their safety, the house was purchased under two false names. The theatrics of this whole mission had already managed to make it feel entirely disingenuous, but signing the name of an alias on the contract to their first home had been a punch to the gut he’d not yet recovered from.
He struggled to undo the belt securing his coat around his waist, watching as Nina rushed off, muttering her way to the bathroom.
He was rather glad to have a moment to himself, no matter how embarrassingly difficult it was to undress while his own blood poured out of him. The thought of having to be tended to in such a way was…
Well, he was very self-sufficient, whenever he could help it, and that was the opposite of self-sufficiency. In fact, the very thought of it was enough to send an awfully uncomfortable feeling throughout his chest. He would be no burden to Nina, nor to their mission.
Undoing his belt was difficult and painful, and ultimately required an odd act of balancing his weight on his feet and shoulder blades as he lifted his waist off the sofa to shrug the belt off.
And in the end, he still wore his coat
This was the exact reason he hated getting injured, being sick, being vulnerable. This whole situation would leave nothing but problems and wasted time. He’d gain nothing from it but a new scar, and Nina would only gain the knowledge of just how much time he was capable of wasting by getting himself injured. First the drüskelle in Ketterdam, this time an ex-drüskelle -- or someone of the like -- in Fjerda.
He was just god-awful at hiding, maybe. Or Djel had it out for him. Either way, he was shocked Nina hadn’t run off on her own to get a head start on their whole plan; though, there was still time.
It was ironic, in a way, how the very people they were trying to save were those who seemed determined to throw as many wrenches into their plans as possible.
He nearly bit through his tongue while removing his coat, but he was able to shrug his way out of it. The blood filling his mouth was a small price to pay for the saved time, as he was left only with his white undershirt, similar to those the people of Ketterdam wore beneath their suits. In his time there, they were the only item of clothing he’d grown accustomed to; they were rather convenient, when they weren’t serving as the only thing stopping him from having full access to a wound in need of dressing.
Nina arrived just as he was rearing up to shuffle the shirt over his head, sitting up from where he’d leaned against the back of the sofa for a moment of rest.
“By the Saints, what the hell are you doing?” she scolded, eyes wide as she walked over, dropping her armful of first aid supplies down onto the small table next to the sofa, lacking any sort of grace about it. “Wait for help next time, you idiot. Stop trying to further injure yourself.”
For a moment, he considered how far he’d gotten on his own. It would take longer to dress his own wound, yes -- but it would be more efficient, without question.
Doing this on his own would give her the opportunity to go and work on the plan to fix this, and she would have the chance to go warm up sooner rather than later. Therefore, she’d be less likely to get sick, and they’d be able to get back into business faster.
And he would’ve only caused a delay in the form of negligent injury, not in the form of care for negligent injury.
“I can take care of it,” he insisted, reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Go warm up. I have handled cuts before, it will be fine.”
“This is a stab wound,” she seethed, grabbing his wrists and pulling them away from his shirt. “They are not remotely similar, and I will not hear your blubbering about it. Lift your arms.”
The use of the word ‘blubbering’ was enough to send him recoiling, offended beyond the point of reluctant obedience. And any wound inflicted by a blade was similar enough, in his own eyes and the eyes of those who had taught him how to treat them when away from the camp’s medik.
The biggest offense, in his opinion, was the notion that he wouldn’t be able to remove his own shirt, despite his coat lying discarded on the ground between them. Did she truly believe him to be weak? After working this hard to recover from the injury he’d sustained back in Ketterdam, after fighting tooth and nail to regain the strength he’d lost in Hellgate?
His arms remained firmly planted by his sides. “I don’t understand the difference between you or I doing this.”
He would’ve much, much rathered being left to care for himself than having her continue to see him like this: sweat dripping from his hairline in spite of the frozen ground outside, shaking with the effort to remain upright. He was a mess of pain and blood, utterly useless to do anything but sit here and try to stitch himself back together.
No, he might not have been capable of bringing back the time they’d lost. But he was capable of managing himself, of giving her the ability to make use of the time they had, and he would do just that.
This little injury had put their plans to a complete stop, all because he’d gotten himself hurt. The least he could do was avoid wasting more time, especially while she was still covered in melted snow, still shivering beneath her dress.
“If you don’t understand the difference, you should be fine with getting help,” she argued, sitting down beside him on the sofa, turning her entire body to face him fully. “Lift your damn arms,” she beckoned, gesturing upward with her fingers.
“Nina--” he started, only to be interrupted with a daring look and an outstretched hand.
Djel-damned drusje.
“I wouldn’t keep talking, if I were you. You’re only losing more blood as we argue. Not to mention, you’re increasing your risk of infection with every second that wound is open and exposed.”
And for a moment, he saw a different Nina. Nina he’d met in the hold of a ship, Nina he’d argued with the entire way to the Ice Court. Still his Nina, but someone much more willing to make him spend the night on the sofa, if he kept arguing.
He thought about continuing for a moment, trying to come up with a decent enough argument to get her to relent. However, he realized very quickly that there wasn’t anything he’d be able to think of that there was no counter argument for -- at least, not in this state. And, more pressing, she was right; he was losing more blood as they spoke.
Taking his own guilt and frustration for what they were, he gave in, allowing her to help lift his shirt over his head.
“Isn’t this easier?” she asked, dropping his soiled shirt off to the side. “That had to have hurt less than trying to do everything yourself.”
“I’m cleaning it,” he said, reaching out for the supplies she’d set on the side table.
She didn’t reach out and try to stop him, the way he assumed she would’ve. Rather, she stayed frozen still, just watching as he moved to begin cleaning his own wounds. Preferably without her eyes on him, but he wasn’t going to argue any further, should she feel the need to continue sitting there.
“Matthias,” she mumbled, voice depleted of her usual energy. He looked up as he drenched a towel in alcohol, only to find her expression saddened, the rest of her body still shaking from the cold. “Why can’t you let me help you? What’s so wrong with not doing everything on your own?”
It’s a waste of time, even if you cannot see it. It isn’t worth the help, the end result will be the same. We should be working on our next steps, not coddling grown men with flesh wounds.
“You need to go get warm,” he said simply.
There was not another answer she would accept. Any reason deemed appropriate in his eyes would be anything but to her -- she’d argue about how he’d do a less efficient job than someone who wasn’t ‘bleeding out’, and she’d tell him coddling wasn’t the same as looking after someone.
And he’d likely agree, were the person who’d gotten hurt anyone but himself.
“If I go to change my clothes, you’ll let me help,” she asked with a raised eyebrow, tone more commanding than inquiring. She’d picked up his undershirt, folding the clean parts over the blood stain. “Or is this about something else?”
He sighed, dropping the soaked cloth and setting the bottle down onto the side table. He’d have to prepare another one to clean the wound, but he wasn’t thinking about that -- wasn’t thinking about anything, really, except for his own frustration.
Nina was lovely. She was cunning, and dangerous, and genius. But by Djel, she was impossible to win against, and only because she would continue to twist his words in such ways, to ignore his arguments in favor of her own.
“I do think I’ve wasted enough of our time today with this, yes?”
She sat silently for a moment, nodding and looking off into the distance, as though she was both deep in thought and waiting for him to say something else. What else was there, though? He felt he’d established his thoughts fairly well, in his own opinion. And he’d had a good reason for what he’d said, after all; he’d made himself clear.
Finally, she stood.
“You’re not a waste of time,” she said, voice uncharacteristically quiet. She did not meet his eyes as she walked out.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the pang of guilt he felt as she left.
She returned only a moment later, wearing different clothes and holding another bundle of clean ones in her arms.
He’d only just finished cleaning the wound, and was making very slow work of threading the needle to stitch it up with his erratically shaking hands. He didn’t stop trying until she walked over and took the needle out of his hands, herself. For all he’d known, she was just dropping off the clothes for him to change into -- after all, he could see her doing such a thing, in a fit of anger. Helping with the things he couldn’t do, leaving him with the things he could only manage with difficulty.
“Lean back,” she said quietly, a gentle hand on his shoulder guiding him toward the cushion backing the sofa. He did as asked, positioning himself somewhere between lying down and sitting upright, allowing her to better reach his wound.
She worked silently, never once looking up at his gritted teeth or clenched fists. He could feel her need to speak, to spew words of reprimand at him, but was nevertheless grateful that she didn’t release such anger while he was writhing in pain beneath her touch.
The final stitch was tied off with a short hum from her lips, and she sat back, setting the needle aside. The silence remained deafening as she cleaned his wound once more with the alcohol, and she dressed it with gauze and tape.
Her words filled the silence as she began sorting out the medical supplies once more to take them back to the bathroom. Her eyes were trained on her own movements as she spoke.
“It is not a waste of time, taking care of you while you’re hurt,” she said, voice quiet. “It’s hurtful to insinuate that I think it is, frankly; and, I’ll have you know, it’s fucking hypocritical. You act like the world is crumbling to dirt when my nose runs from the cold.”
She collected each of the supplies into the basket next to the table, disposing of soiled items in the trash bin beside it. There was frustration backing the energy of her actions, clear enough to make the silence between her words even louder than the silence preceding them.
“Don’t act like a fatal wound isn’t a reason to worry, especially when you know damn well you’d be shitting yourself if our roles were reversed.”
His wince at her words fell at the same time as her tossing their small box of gauze pads into the basket. Yes, he supposed it was hypocritical.
“You’re resting for the rest of the day. We’ll figure out the new plan tomorrow, together.”
“But you can still--”
“I can still sit by your side and pet your hair until you’re feeling like you’ve been blessed by Djel? Yes, I can still,” she said. “But first, you’re changing your pants. Unless you’re keen on the idea of hypothermia.”
He groaned as she stood once again, and they very slowly worked together to switch out his near frozen hiking trousers for those he’d typically wear to sleep. By the end, he was exhausted to the point of collapse, and his side was in significantly more pain than before.
Nina sat down beside him with a sigh, leaning back against the sofa.
With painfully tender hands, she took his shoulder in her hand and slowly pulled him in her direction. Aching, he eased himself over until he was lying on his uninjured side, his head resting against her thigh.
There was something particularly comforting about this, about the warmth and love within her actions. Perhaps he’d gone too long without being held like this, between those months of Hellgate and the years of strict military service prior. There had been nothing tender there; the only sacred thing had been their god, and the people he fought alongside had carried twisted faith, even in him.
She began carding her hands through his hair, and for a moment, he did indeed succumb to the belief that this was what being blessed felt like. No power without the ability to bless someone could make this feeling happen, after all; there was simply no possible way that they’d made this for themselves.
“Go to sleep,” she instructed softly, her voice a whisper in their dimly-lit room. “Stop thinking about work. We’ll sort it out later.”
But he wasn’t thinking about work, was he? No, he was thinking about her, and safety, and warmth, and love. Aching, true love.
“Don’t go,” he whispered, a repetition of an ages-old plea.
He trusted her, without question. But in the back of his mind, he suspected he would always carry the fear of being left behind. Because of the way he’d been sentenced to Hellgate, because of the way his family had passed.
He wouldn’t ever dare question her loyalty, but he would be afraid, even without reason.
“I wouldn’t,” she swore, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll be with you. Rest.”
So, he did.
When he woke, it was to the sound and warmth of a crackling fireplace, Nina’s hand resting on his arm, and a blanket tossed over him as he laid on the couch.
It was to home.