Paint a thank-you on my palm
Six of Crows; Inej + others, Kaz/Inej; g; 3,205 words
Five times someone else braided Inej's hair.

Title from "Welcome Morning" by Anne Sexton. Thanks so much to snacky for looking it over.

Read it on AO3.

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Paint a thank-you on my palm

[one.]

They have a performance that afternoon—the aunts dancing, the cousins tumbling, and Inej on the high wire with her parents—but that's hours away. The sun is bright and the morning is warming up after a chilly night—the short, hot Ravkan summer is drawing to a close—and Inej lets herself get drawn into her cousins' games. She wins at hide-and-seek, if it counts as winning to be left unfound in her perch up in a tree, the sky high and blue through a lacy curtain of leaves.

When no one comes to get her for a new game, she swings herself down to lie in the grass and stare at the puffy clouds drifting overhead. There's one that looks like a horse and one that looks like their wagon if she squints her eyes and tilts her head. She can hear the other kids in the distance, but they leave her to her daydreaming, at least until it's almost time for the show to start, when their hurry makes them shriek with laughter.

"You have to get ready," Mama says, hustling Inej into the wagon and unwrapping her scarf, the two of them moving with and around each other as if it's another choreographed routine, so used to living together in the small space.

"I lost track of time," Inej says, stripping out of her everyday clothes and slipping her arms into the silver-spangled tunic she wears to perform.

"Your hair is a mess." Mama's hands are firm on Inej's shoulders, pushing her down onto a stool in front of the scarf draped mirror. "Hold still."

She tugs loose the frayed blue ribbon holding what's left of Inej's braid and ruthlessly drags a metal comb through her hair, plucking out leaves and blades of grass with a soft huff of fond exasperation. Even in her hurry, her hands are gentle, and Inej relaxes into the pull of the comb, the feel of her mother's fingers as she begins braiding red ribbons and yellow marigolds into Inej's hair. Once the braids are complete, she loops them up and fastens them at Inej's temples.

"There you are," she says, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Inej's head, her eyes and smile bright in the mirror. "Let's go. The audience awaits!"

*

[two.]

Inej doesn't remember learning to braid her hair; like breathing, it feels like something she's always known. She does remember being fascinated by the delicate flowers Mama used to braid into her own hair, the glittery powder she'd dust over it when she danced, so it sparkled like the star-studded sky over the sea.

She remembers the worn silver comb that never snagged in her tangles, and the tug of her mother's hands, gentle even when she was in a rush.

Bridie isn't gentle. She isn't deliberately cruel, but when she finds Inej sitting at the vanity with her hair still down and her face unpainted, she doesn't chivvy her playfully the way her mother or aunts would have. She sucks her teeth and says, "None of your nonsense now, miss," and drags a silver-backed brush through her hair until it's smooth and straight. They don't let Inej oil it properly and the soap they give her to wash it makes it dry and brittle, prone to knotting and breaking. She thinks about stealing the scissors from the sewing kit and cutting it all off; Suli women don't cut their hair, and Tante Heleen would beat her bloody if she tried it, but it would be some small thing she could control.

Bridie braids it into several smaller plaits she twines together in a complicated twist, and uses jeweled pins (paste, Inej knows, even if they sparkle in the lamplight of the drawing room) to hold it together. The men like taking down her hair and threading their fingers through it, just another unearned intimacy they pay for, another piece of Inej she doesn't get to keep for herself.

She closes her eyes so Bridie can paint the upper lids, rolls them skyward when Bridie applies a swoop of kohl to the lower lids, drawling a little curlicue at the corner, where she pastes a rhinestone ruby. Bridie has a talent for the dramatic—she worked in the theater before her husband took ill and she had to sell her indenture to pay for a treatment that didn't even save him. She was too old even then to be put to work the way Inej is, but her skills with kohl and powder have kept her housed and fed in the years since her husband died. No skill goes to waste in Ketterdam if there's money to be made.

When Inej looks in the mirror, she doesn't recognize herself, and she thinks it's better that way. It helps her separate who she is from what happens to her body when a customer pays for her time and follows her up the stairs to the small room with the large bed.

*

[three.]

"I'm good with my hands," Jesper insists with a lascivious wink so exaggerated that Inej has to laugh, the need to curl up inside herself dissipating. She trusts Jesper as much as she trusts anyone in the Dregs, which isn't saying much. But the blisters on her hands make everything difficult right now, and she needs her hair out of her face. Kaz has already mentioned that it's a liability in a fight, in a tone that makes it clear that he has no time or patience for liabilities, even ones he's paid ridiculous amounts of money for. Especially those. She doesn't think he'd chop it off while she's sleeping if she annoys him enough, but she can't quite tell yet, and doesn't want to take the chance.

"Fine," she says, but she holds herself stiff and ready for action when Jesper moves to stand behind her, comb in hand.

"You're all right, Inej. I used to do this for my mom." There's something wistful in his voice, and Inej wishes she could see his face. She relaxes her shoulders though, and breathes through her nose, willing herself to stay present as Jesper's fingers slide into her hair.

He pulls it tight close to the scalp, tiny pin-pricks sharp enough to keep her from falling too deeply into her own thoughts, but not hard enough to truly hurt. He sings while he works, a currently popular drinking song so filthy it swings around to being hilarious. He seems surprised when Inej joins in at the chorus, his fingers hitching slightly in her hair, but then gives her shoulder an approving squeeze. She tries to tip her head back to smile at him, but he sucks his teeth and holds her still, large palm flat on the top of her head. For a second it bothers her—she might not trust Jesper yet, but she knows he won't hurt her, not the way those other men did, so she relaxes into his hands and lets him work.

The braid starts higher up than she's used to, hugs close to her scalp before extending down. It's tight, and neat, and when Jesper holds up a mirror so she can see the back, it's pretty.

She presses a quick kiss to his cheek before she can think about it or freeze up. "Thank you, Jesper. It's perfect."

"Of course, Inej. Any time." He gives her a small smile that widens into a mischievous grin and tips her a wink. "My hands are at your service."

She can't help the laughter that bubbles up even as her nose wrinkles in distaste. "I'll keep that in mind."

In response, Jesper hums in amusement.

*

[four.]

"We used to do this for each other in the Little Palace," Nina says. She doesn't talk much about her time there. None of them talk about their pasts. One of the perks of joining the Dregs is the opportunity to leave the past behind. Inej has had a harder time than most, because they all know Kaz bought her indenture from Tante Heleen, but she strikes hard and fast when it comes up, which it does less and less these days.

But the past Nina is referring to now comes before the bad times—the Grisha of the Little Palace were as much Nina's family as the aunts and uncles and cousins of the caravan were Inej's. So Inej takes it as the gift it is, her shoulders relaxed as Nina runs a comb through her hair.

"And you always had the best gossip to share," Inej replies.

Nina laughs. "You know it! The best gossip and," Nina stops combing and gestures towards the box of pastries she'd brought with her, "the best treats."

Inej glances at the box, with its one missing sticky bun, and then up at Nina, who laughs. "Don't worry, I washed my hands before I stuck them in your hair." She rubs her fingertips against Inej's scalp and Inej lets out a soft involuntary sigh of pleasure.

She's slowly learning the kinds of touches she can stand—Jesper's arm flung around her shoulders, and now Nina's fingers on her scalp—and how grateful she is to have friends to give that back to her.

She takes a sticky bun and enjoys the crunchy sweetness of it, waiting for Nina to keep talking, but she doesn't. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Inej's chewing the only sound as Nina parts her hair in sections and begins a loose braid.

"Nina?"

"Hmm?"

"Everything all right?"

Nina's hands pause—Inej wishes she could see what Nina was doing because it doesn't feel like a normal braid—and curl into the currently unbraided strands of Inej's hair.

"You could sneak into Hellgate, couldn't you?"

"Yes." She probably should have paused, kept it to herself, but she's been there for Kaz a time or two, in and out like the Wraith he's named her, and Nina is a friend. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing." Nina laughs, a nervous little titter that is completely unlike her.

"Nina?"

"I may have accidentally gotten someone locked up there by accusing them of being a slaver."

Inej stills and chooses her words carefully. "That doesn't sound like an accident."

"I didn't know—I thought I was saving him from certain death."

"I see. So he is not a slaver?"

"No!" Nina's voice is sharp and then it softens. "No. He saved my life."

Inej hums, trying to encourage Nina to go on.

"I thought if I recanted once he was safe, he would go free, but that's not how it works. And now he's stuck there, and it's my fault."

"Oh, Nina." Inej turns and gives Nina a hug, though she keeps her sticky hands from touching Nina's hair. "I would help you if I could, but even I can't sneak someone else out of Hellgate. Unless we had a plan, a distraction. Have you—You've spoken with Kaz and he said no."

"There's nothing in it for him and I can't pay."

"Do you want me to try?" Inej has tried to avoid thinking about her relationship with Kaz, how there is something different in his eyes sometimes when he looks at her. Not softness, no, but an easing of the calculation in his gaze, maybe. That he looks and sees her, and not just what she can do for him or how much he spent on her indenture. Then she tells herself she's imagining things. Even if he did look at her softly, she can't do anything about it.

"You are his favorite," Nina says, making it harder for Inej to dismiss, "but no. I'll figure something out."

"Well, if you don't, I can try."

Nina's smile is warm and a little wobbly. "Thank you. Now turn around and let me fix the mess I've made of your hair."

Inej gives her a small smile in return before turning back around.

*

[five.]

Not much appears to change at the Slat, but appearances are deceiving. Each time Inej returns from the sea, she sets out to discover the differences—one of Wylan's paintings hangs in the tiny kitchen now, Anika has a new tattoo, the map on the wall of Kaz's bedroom has many more push pins in it, marking the locations of The Wraith's latest adventures.

And Kaz has new sheets on his bed. The cotton is smooth and silky, but the pale gray stripes are cool and crisp. They look inviting, but Inej stays on the window sill; she's soaked to the skin from a sudden downpour, the type that blows up off the water late in the afternoon, fast and hard and washing away the summer heat for a few days.

"Expecting guests?" she asks when he walks in.

"Only one," he replies, and though his mouth doesn't smile, there's warmth in his eyes. He removes his gloves and jacket, and undoes the buttons at his throat, exposing it to her. He rolls up his sleeves and she can see the tracery of blue-green veins beneath pale skin.

"You should get out in the sun more," she says, and he flips her a vulgar salute that makes her laugh.

"You should get out of the rain," he replies. "I know you love the ocean but did you need to bring it with you?"

"I've missed you," she says. She'd been gone almost a year this time, and the work is hard. The sea can't be reasoned with and she's no Tidemaker to force it to her will, and the slavers aren't any easier to break. But she does it, because it needs to be done.

He gives her a pleased little grunt and pulls a shirt and a large towel out of the wardrobe. "Come here."

Inej hops off the window sill and goes to him, head cocked inquisitively.

He hands her the towel. "This is for your hair."

Her mouth quirks up in a half-grin. "Thank you." She turns and bends at the waist so she can wrap her wet hair in the towel.

"And, if your clothes are still wet…" He trails off, and she can see the faint wash of color high on his cheeks as he offers her the shirt.

She's the only one who gets these glimpses of him like this, and she hoards them the way he hoards kruge, takes them out on long, lonely nights at sea to sigh over like a lovesick girl in a romance. "Thanks. Can you?" She tilts her head toward the door.

"Yeah, all right." He turns and gives her a few moments of privacy.

She strips out of her wet things and slips into his shirt. The fine lawn is cool and smooth against her skin. She does up the buttons but leaves the top two open. "I'm done." She gives him a tiny smile and touches her collar. "We match."

"It seems we do." He reaches out and brushes her cheek with his fingertips before ghosting them down over her collar bone, the hollow of her throat, like the softest brush of a crow's feather. Heat blooms under her skin at each touch, and she swallows hard.

He once told her they'd never stop fighting, and she wasn't sure she'd believed him, but in the years since then, she's learned it's true. Each warm look, every casual touch, is territory gained in a long war with their demons neither of them wants to lose.

She licks her lips, knowing his gaze will linger on her mouth and wanting that heat to linger, to flare between them. His breath is ragged and so is hers. He curls his hand under her jaw and leans in, close enough for her to feel his breath on her ear, and it makes her shiver. His cheek is achingly close to hers, and they breathe in tandem for a few long moments. She brings a hand up and lays it flat against his chest; she can feel his heart racing beneath the palm of her hand. He turns just the smallest bit and his lips are whisper soft against her ear, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Brief touches that set her nerves on fire. She is fully present and she wants more. She wants him. His mouth presses against hers briefly, tenderly, and then he retreats.

"Come, sit." He leads her to the bed, with its clean sheets and inviting pillows.

She folds her right leg beneath her and leaves her left foot on the floor, as carefully balanced as she'd ever been on the high wire. This is still new territory for both of them. She breathes deeply, willing her racing heart to slow. She squeezes the towel wrapped around her hair, trying to capture the last bits of excess water before removing it. Kaz plucks it from her fingers and tosses it towards the chair.

"You look like a drowned rat."

"You say the sweetest things."

He scoffs and she laughs in response.

"What business, Kaz?"

He clearly has nothing up his sleeves, but he produces a shiny silver comb from somewhere. "Let me braid your hair."

Inej sucks in a surprised breath, thinking of his deft fingers skimming through her hair, and relaxes on the exhale. "All right. You'd better not make a mess."

He makes the comb disappear and reappear with a flourish. "It's Fabrikator made. I'm told it will glide through your hair like a hot knife through butter, and no tangles can withstand its teeth. Allegedly."

"It's not like you to be taken in by flash patter."

"It's a pretty piece of work," he displays it for her, the silver spine chased with delicate waves, the teeth of it gleaming like one of her knives, "so it's worth what I paid, even if it doesn't heal the sick and cause the crops to flourish."

"I'll settle for it not snagging in my hair."

He tips his head in acknowledgement. "Let's put it to the test."

She can feel the mattress dip behind her as he sits, his bad leg stretched out beside her hip, the other on the on the floor next to hers. He must have removed his boots while she was changing; his socks have little white diamonds embroidered over the ankles.

His hands are gentle as he draws the comb through her hair; she can barely feel it at all aside from occasional prickles on her scalp that startle her out of a doze. His chest is solid against her back, safe. His thumb traces the shell of her ear before he begins sectioning off her hair, and his breath is warm against her neck.

The long summer twilight has faded to darkness by the time he's done. He's tied a silver ribbon around the end of the braid, gleaming in some complicated knot that will come undone with a tug on the right strand. It's not the tidiest braid Inej has ever worn, but it holds.

They're both trembling with equal parts fear and desire when she turns to cup his cheek.

"Thank you," she says against his lips, and he doesn't flinch when she kisses him.

end

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