It’s a good night. A productive night, which for Kaz are one and the same most often. Still. Productivity is not the only means by which he measures success these days. As far as he knows, his people are safe and on their respective tasks at hand. Business has expanded since overtaking Rollins’ enterprises, more people have come onto the staff, and there’s hope of expanding still. It’s not enough, it never is. There’s a constant burning urge inside Kaz to move onward, and tonight is no different. After checking in at some places of interest and holding two meetings, he’s returned to the Slat to tuck in at his office.
It’s so late it’s early, or so early it’s late, one of the two. Still with a few hours of night sky left, which is good. He could have used the office he took over from Haskell on the first floor, but he’s expecting Birdie and he doesn’t want to get interrupted. Not when she’s sharing something so personal with him. People he finds are much more inclined to problem solve for themselves when they have to walk up three flights of stairs. In his office that doubles as a bedroom in the converted attic, he can also take off his shoes and loosen his tie, which is about as far as he goes looking slightly less perfectly put together. There’s a coffee pot on his desk and a mug that’s half drunk, both looking like they’re years past when they should be replaced. Kaz doesn’t care. He’ll use an item until it breaks and can’t be fixed. His outfit is expensive, it’s for show, but his bedroom? All secondhand furniture and items that he’s been accumulating since he acquired the building at twelve for Haskell to put his name on, with very few exceptions of ever being replaced.
The desk is simple wood with nicks, his pillow is all but a pancake at this point. The bookshelf doesn’t at all match the worn wall paint, but the books are lovingly and obsessively organized. It’s a small collection, but loved. Everything is neat and organized, clean to the point of a little side eyeing, but simple. As if at heart he’s a farm boy turned street rat who can’t pass by giving anything a second chance.
At the knock he’s about to rise but honestly is glad he doesn’t have to when Birdie lets herself in. Looking up from his desk, he sets his pen aside and quirks up an amused eyebrow at her enthusiasm. His gaze as usual is sharp and dissembling, but it’s not out of desire to pick her apart. He simply doesn’t know how to function on a level aside from intense and focused. “Oh good, I was this close to starting to sing to myself,” he holds up fingers an inch apart. “And we all know that would be disaster.” He slowly gets to his feet, waving her in. There’s another seat on the other side of his desk, the window ledge that Inej has lovingly claimed over the years, and his bed. There’s also a record player that he carried upstairs earlier on his dresser.
“Wait, should you do an intro first? Tell me what I can expect? The names of the songs to tease? Or should we get right to it?” The tone is teasing, but he’s genuinely trying, in perhaps an awkward way, to give her some time if she needs it before starting the music.
Yeeeees, thanks for starting!
It’s so late it’s early, or so early it’s late, one of the two. Still with a few hours of night sky left, which is good. He could have used the office he took over from Haskell on the first floor, but he’s expecting Birdie and he doesn’t want to get interrupted. Not when she’s sharing something so personal with him. People he finds are much more inclined to problem solve for themselves when they have to walk up three flights of stairs. In his office that doubles as a bedroom in the converted attic, he can also take off his shoes and loosen his tie, which is about as far as he goes looking slightly less perfectly put together. There’s a coffee pot on his desk and a mug that’s half drunk, both looking like they’re years past when they should be replaced. Kaz doesn’t care. He’ll use an item until it breaks and can’t be fixed. His outfit is expensive, it’s for show, but his bedroom? All secondhand furniture and items that he’s been accumulating since he acquired the building at twelve for Haskell to put his name on, with very few exceptions of ever being replaced.
The desk is simple wood with nicks, his pillow is all but a pancake at this point. The bookshelf doesn’t at all match the worn wall paint, but the books are lovingly and obsessively organized. It’s a small collection, but loved. Everything is neat and organized, clean to the point of a little side eyeing, but simple. As if at heart he’s a farm boy turned street rat who can’t pass by giving anything a second chance.
At the knock he’s about to rise but honestly is glad he doesn’t have to when Birdie lets herself in. Looking up from his desk, he sets his pen aside and quirks up an amused eyebrow at her enthusiasm. His gaze as usual is sharp and dissembling, but it’s not out of desire to pick her apart. He simply doesn’t know how to function on a level aside from intense and focused. “Oh good, I was this close to starting to sing to myself,” he holds up fingers an inch apart. “And we all know that would be disaster.” He slowly gets to his feet, waving her in. There’s another seat on the other side of his desk, the window ledge that Inej has lovingly claimed over the years, and his bed. There’s also a record player that he carried upstairs earlier on his dresser.
“Wait, should you do an intro first? Tell me what I can expect? The names of the songs to tease? Or should we get right to it?” The tone is teasing, but he’s genuinely trying, in perhaps an awkward way, to give her some time if she needs it before starting the music.