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they say that death is a tragedy it comes once, and it's over

From here.

Despite her name, Birdie doesn't have the skill to crawl through a window to Kaz's office. Even if she did, she wouldn't risk it with how much she's carrying and how fragile he record is after all these years. Dropping it from a height might be more devastating a thing than getting caught out at sunrise.

It's precious, a relic of a life she both stopped living and holds close even now. Most of the songs are still covers, because that's how folk music tends to operate. Old songs and songs that just sound old and a couple that she wrote herself. For something made specifically to be sold and listened to by people other than herself, it's rare to have the inclination and the ability to let someone else so much as know about it.

So, she comes through the front door like a normal person, waves a hello to anyone that's still sitting up, and slips upstairs to visit with the exception to so many of those unspoken rules.

He's expecting her, but she does knock before opening the door. If he's forging something, probably best to not just barge in and have his hand slip.

"Your background noise has arrived!" The cheer in her voice is a little forced, a little put on, as if to mask how big it is to share this particular noise with him. As much as he's heard her sing since she's been here, and as much as she's told him, this feels more intimate than just showing off a relic of the past.

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.

Her own night has been decidedly unproductive. There are still some responsibilities she has to maintain to the local Kindred, though they haven't been especially demanding. So far it's been easy enough to split her limited time between that and the Crow Club, and between her more secluded haven and the basement at the Slat.

It's late/early enough that she'll have to stay here for the day, keep a close eye on the creeping light in the windows of Kaz's room. Much as she appreciates having the space here, the opportunity to stay longer, there's always that unnerving sensation at the back of her mind about it being too open. Not that she expects Kaz or any of the Crows to do anything to hurt her, but instinct works harder than rationality.

"Oh, damn," said as she takes in the state of the room and the tease that he might've been singing. "I don't know that it needs an introduction, but maybe I should go back outside and come in again."

Her hesitance with the record isn't instinctual, like the sun or the security of her space when she's most vulnerable, and it's something she pushes past it with determination. Birdie hands him the record when he's up, carefully with both hands. The cover is a picture of her in sunlight, a field of flowers, her hair down and unbraided as she looks off to the right as if she's looking for someone else out in the field, with 'Bridget Lewis' written on the top in some basic font. The back is a faded yellow, listing the songs, mostly covers of other folk music with a couple she'd written herself.

"Just don't judge my sound too harshly. I sounded a little different back then. In exchange," she pulls out a pair of gloves from one of her jacket pockets, the infamous anti-callous ones they'd talked about, and sets them on his desk, "I won't judge your progress on the strings."

As someone whose guard is always up, Kaz wouldn't begrudge Birdie some reticence in staying at the Slat. The offer is always there though in the form of the room in the basement, it simply matters to him that people he likes have a place when needed. Having spent many years living on the streets, it's one creature comfort that he doesn't take for granted. Fixing up the Slat so that it provided a warm and dry, if not always guaranteed safe, space for his crew had been a priority of his from early days and one he keeps upholding now.

"Making an entrance is a very important life skill. Unless breaking in, then it's more the opposite," he deadpans in reply, shuffling over to take the record from her. His long fingers gently take the record, treating it with respect. For all his blunt words and harsh angles, he's deft in the touches he makes with his hands. They, along with his mind, are his moneymakers. He turns it over with care, one finger skimming down the list of names. Some song titles he recognizes, some he doesn't. He's not the best at music history, so it doesn't surprise or deter him.

What does is the sight of the gloves. His eyebrow arches upwards, a momentary mental stuttering as he's not used to people showing him a simple act of kindness. It's not that he doesn't have friends, he does, but years ago when they hadn't been as close Kaz established that he didn't celebrate holidays, that he didn't need or want anything in return. Even now, most of his friends show they care through jokes or literally saving his life. Gifts though, it's not common. "You didn't have to do that," he says quietly, gaze shifting from the gloves to her face. After another beat he adds, awkwardly, "That's kind of you. I'll have to start learning. No judgement on progression, only quitting."

Moving over to the record player he carefully sets the record in place, the cover resting on his desk. "Honestly, if your sound didn't change over the years, I might find that more odd. Ready?" He sits on the edge of his desk, the record player on the dresser nearby, figuring she could start it off when she's ready.

Reticence and instinct about vulnerability aside, it's a good offer. Better, planning-wise, to have spots in different areas just in case. Sometimes it's hard to get back before sunrise, and more than once in the past she's had to hunker down in a sewer or parking garage because she cut it too close. The kindness of being given a spot here is something to be considered, too. Kaz, despite any sharp edges or stern looks, takes care of the people he finds himself close to, and it's nice knowing she's got a sliver of that particular pie.

"Don't worry," said as she leans a little against the desk, keeping the record in her sights. Not that he won't be careful with it, but this is... Odd, seeing it in someone else's human hands. This usually isn't even a possibility, something she only ever gets to share with other Kindred, if ever. But she's putting effort into projecting ease in every passing moment where she doesn't actually feel it. "I'll keep all my big entrances to the times you need a distraction from your sneaky ones."

It almost makes her feel better to see him caught off guard about the gloves, the kindness. She'd expected that this might be something his Crows do often, bringing him back things he may need like magpies bringing shiny bits home to the nest. And she wonders for a second if maybe they do, and maybe they're better at being indirect with it. Regardless, she doesn't know them well enough yet to know for sure so she just smiles and leaves it with, "You're welcome, but only if you don't quit. If you do, you have to pay me back."

Here it is, though. The moment of truth. Or, at least, the moment of a past truth.

Birdie nods and waves a hand go ahead as she sits herself down in the chair opposite Kaz's desk, doing her best to keep up the image of being more at ease than she actually is. Smile, relaxed posture leaning back into the seat, legs stretched out in front of her. All of this most likely immediately obvious, even if the deeper part -- that she's participating in the time honored tradition of faking it until she makes it -- is a little more obscured. It's too easy to read discomfort as displeasure, when really there's anticipation and worry and an odd sensation of newness that's gotten far too unfamiliar these nights. All of it pleasant.

“I’m usually far too stubborn to quit, so we should be all right,” he replies back with a crooked half-smile, brief and flashing, a sharp cut across his face that to those that didn’t know him would likely find jarring. It’s true he’s usually unable to back down from a challenge that he’s set for himself, no matter how ludicrous it might seem on the surface. This time at least it’s one of the pleasant tasks, he does love to learn new skills. He might inwardly need to coat them in the trappings of being productive to give himself the grace of doing it, but Kaz genuinely loves to learn new things. Facts, skills, perspectives, it usually gets prioritized in his mind but all of it he finds worthwhile. The fact that this time it’s a skill that he could share with someone else brings a different sort of pleasure to the table, too. He’s more used to learning things that compliment the knowledge and talent of those around him rather than mirroring them.

Quieting then he listens to the music. He doesn’t actually watch Birdie directly as he listens, eyes more downward while she’s just in his periphery so he can focus on the sound rather than her reaction. There’s the record player’s scratch to it that’s unique to the experience, the lyrics and cadence of the songs seeming to very well fit what he knows about her as a person. He’s not surprised she would choose songs that held a personal connection in some fashion. She’s not wrong that her voice isn’t exactly the same after having decades to develop and hone, but even in the rawness there’s something magical about it.

After two or three songs of sitting still and intense, he finally lifts his gaze to look at her. “It all sounds like your story,” he says simply, trying to find a way to sum up the experience. “One that makes me want to hear what you’re saying. I can feel your connection to it. And even if you’re not as polished, you’re still able to draw people into that experience. You’re a really talented artist, Birdie. A lot of people play music, but you really are a performer.” That she is sharing something so heartfelt he also doesn't take for granted.

That smile is good to see, however briefly. She understands the urge to learn, and though hers is more focused on a very specific track, it's a quality she likes to see in others. Particularly when they're indulging an interest of hers, something that can be shared regardless of skill level. There's no expectation of him becoming an expert, or to even play much outside his own private enjoyment of it, but she likes the idea that he'll enjoy it at all. Seems he needs more of that in his life.

But the record plays.

Kaz might not be watching her reaction, but she is watching his. Slowly, as songs change, she leans forward in the chair, elbows on her knees with her attention split between watching his face and posture and considerations, and listening to herself but long ago. It's always a vaguely out-of-body experience to hear herself like this, the songs she'd recorded in a whirl of grief and determination just after Sam had died.

When he tells her his thoughts, it's like something unwinds inside her, and she smiles wide and slow. "Thank you. I think that might be my favorite review so far." Which isn't a terribly high bar, considering she pressed a limited number of these and the record never saw any wide distribution or radio play. "I remember, when I recorded this I'd wanted to scream at people to pay attention. Guess that came through."

His fingers lightly tap against his cane’s head in tune to the song. He might not dance or sing, but this much he can do in carrying a tune. While it’s true that he is far from a natural singer, it’s become more of a joke now that he won’t sing. A legendary warning that his very voice might be the anti-siren song and drive people far away. For all his stoic attire and black and white severe appearance, his dramatic flourishes turn up in other ways, like seemingly randomly begun rumors.

A lot about Birdie’s past he still doesn’t know in detail, so he’s sure he’s possibly missing some nuance and personal connections, but emotions are universal and feel sincerely delivered. It’s something he’s come to realize over time, that perhaps he still is slowly embracing fully. That his experiences don’t mirror those around him down to every detail, but they don’t have to in order for him to recognize and understand what someone is feeling. The songs are like the tides found at the harbor, sometimes angry and crashing hard enough to make the wooden piers shudder, sometimes wistfully bubbling over the shore, leaving traces of foam that melt in moments before pulling back.

There’s a pause followed by a knowing nod when she mentions wanting to scream to get someone, anyone, to listen.

He gets that feeling, too.

“It came through. I think it’s something a lot of people can relate to. Feeling like they have something important that needs to be said, that they want to be heard, and having to fight to get anyone to pay attention. Sometimes shouting into a void is enough, but more often than not it isn’t, especially if you want to connect to someone or for something to change.” He’s never been an artist, unless a prison escape artist counts, but he knows that transformative nature it can hold. “You ever wonder about how you always loved music, then became Kindred where it’s part of your abilities? Not in the sense of it being meant to be, we’ve talked about our feelings on giving the cosmos credit. More in the sense that certain parts of ourselves don’t get chipped away. Maybe we fight harder to hold onto them.”

One day, Birdie'll get a hum out of him at the very least.

There's certainly a lot of her history to go over, at her age. She's told him a lot, in bits and pieces. Weird little vignettes and mentions that, usually, she'd steer clear of with people to avoid questions about how and why she remembers them. It's odd, almost, to be free of sidestepping truth so completely, but she enjoys the moment. That she's got him enough, at least, to tap his fingers, and to hear her. Really hear, like so many refused to way back when.

Enjoyable, even, despite the facts.

"I recorded this the year after Sam died." Birdie eases into it with a simple fact, turning her eyes instead to the record as it keeps on spinning. "He'd got drafted in that first round, and I tried to get him to get out of it. Get a waiver, you know? There were ways, and the draft board he'd got called to, they all had known our Dad. They would've done it, but he just went along. Said at least he'd get to travel some on the government's dime." She keeps her gaze on the record, the spin, the slight wobble from the years of gentle warping it was subjected to going from place to place and car trunk to car trunk. And she is very careful to not cry--she did enough of that back before her tears turned her to a bloody mess. "And we used to march and scream about it, sit on steps and write senators. Felt like we were begging anyone to listen to us, and it never seemed they did, so I thought maybe they'd listen if I sang it."

Her voice is less bitter, when she rounds back to Kaz's actual question. "Lorelai found me singing, so I figure it's... It's part that. Some things stay with you. The other part is selection, finding people based on those things that don't come out of either of you."

Given the conversation topic, he's not surprised that her eyes remain averted to the record spinning, going in circles as the songs plunge forward. His fingers stop tapping as he listens to her talk instead, unveiling a little more about her family past. A year out of a sibling's violent death, he can imagine she was still in a raw place. He gets it, that frustration and rage. He's seen many people die because nobody would help them, nobody would listen. Bodies being nothing more than trash on one's doorstep to wipe aside when walking their narrow paths. His heart aches that Birdie knows that pain all too well herself. People being considered nothing more than pawns used as fodder for politics, power, or pleasure. It was devastating, whether met overseas or in one's backyard.

He's quiet after she shares about Sam, there doesn't seem to be much that could be said in his mind. The loss of a brother is, unfortunately, not something even he has the power to fix. Not that she's asking him to, but thinking like that is his natural instinct.

"Things that don't come out of you, you mean complimentary personalities?" He can relate to that if so, he's certainly surrounded himself with people who make up for areas he lacks. Though there's overlap still in certain areas, such as having good work ethics and some semblance of morals.

Not to leave the rest of what she'd shared hanging, he adds after another pause, "Also, I can't blame you for trying. With the protests, and the songs. Doing whatever you thought you could to get heard. Sometimes it doesn't always work. Or it takes years, or lifetimes. Most people only care to change when it affects them personally, and that's unfortunately true for people in power, too. Getting through to them... well. It rarely happens quickly. Your music still means something, though. And I think it could inspire those that do hear it."

It's a tragic kind of memory. More so than she usually shares, though she doesn't get as deep as the violence of it. Birdie prefers to remember him without the trip wire and the explosion--they hadn't even really learned about it until well after it'd happened. It's the violence, though, of him being sent there to begin with that follows her around, that haunts the record still playing. She could go on about it, about how much it was, how terrible and how constant, but talking about Sam is enough for the night.

"Something like that." At this point, with quiet and a change of direction, she's able to look at him again. "And something deeper. Complementary is part of it, but there's things that are the same. Notes can be different and go well together and it's harmony, but it's more like matching pitch." When she struggles, Kaz has probably noticed how she retreats back to music. "A way people resonate with how they are, beneath all the things we do."

For a moment, Birdie considers what it is she just rambled off and shakes her head with a small smile. "If you managed to follow any of that, you deserve a commendation."

The rest of what he says settles over her in pieces, not unlike a blanket. For all he can intimidate and glower, he's got his way with words that need to be heard. "You're right, change is hard and long. I've seen it happen in inches over decades, but it does happen." A slow craw, always, but she could list things off that have ended, that have gotten better, that still need work. She smiles, small but genuine. "I do like to think my music helped, at least a little. And if you're inspired, I'll consider sharing it a success."

The lack of eye contact is less worthy of note to Kaz, he completely understands why it can be difficult in times of personal unveiling. That her eyes land on the record player is more relevant to him, though not surprising that Birdie would find it a source of comfort. Her words follow a similar path, clinging to notes and harmonies that make sense and express what might otherwise be incomprehensible. It matters less that he can fully parse out the meaning than it does for her to express it. That she’s doing so to him. Much like Kaz finds firm ground in numbers and figures upon which to stride, she sways to music only she can hear, neither of them remaining still or silent for long. That much, he fully connects with her.

When she looks at him, he gives a little nod of encouragement that he’s with her. She’s still got one foot at least in the present and he can follow where she’s heading with her words. “What manifests on the surface might differ, but what drives those acts are a collective pool from which all resonate?” If so, he can get behind that. There are a set of emotions and needs that drive all actions, though how those actions manifest can differ. A song about grief or love can connect many people to it, even if their reaction then to the music or how they act on that emotion can vary. And sometimes, those variances or differences can make something greater rather than act against one another.

The smile might be slight and small, but it still tugs at him. It’s nice sometimes, in the darker recesses of his being, to know that he can bring out something positive in those around him. That it isn’t all merely teaching people near him how to fight and survive, not just handing them chances to save themselves. Birdie already knows well enough how to do that. What else he can offer people beyond that and a day’s pay he’s figuring out, so used to just encouraging purposes that align with his own. “Plus, it’s not over yet,” he teases. “You have plenty of time to keep influencing with your music. The world still needs plenty of work. Rest is for worse than the wicked, it’s for the boring and useless.”

Sometimes, after their conversations, Birdie wonders about how much more open she gets to be. Never in the moment, though. In the moment it simply is what it is, a perfectly strange inversion of how she usually operates, all her physicality of affection replaced with near complete honesty marred by choice omissions more for the benefit of others than herself.

He is, though, very good at getting her to smile. There's more to him than the things he can do, but this is her favorite.

"Yeah," and that smile widens when Kaz explains about the surface and the pool. "Just like that." Granted, those collective pools are harder to find than the surface, but she holds onto them much as she can when she finds them in people. Kaz is one of them, much to her own personal satisfaction.

The music keeps on, but the mood around it is brighter than before. Or, at least less melancholy after Kaz has his say about it. He's right, there's always work to be done, always a new song ahead to sing. Maybe not right from her, but from someone. "No, it's not over yet. And the boring and useless at the top can come tumbling down eventually."

While he’s only a very beginner at playing music, he’s always liked the phrase in tune. He’s not above scavenging language like he does other parts when it makes sense, and the analogy of the term fits so well in different settings. Kaz has always felt in tune with reading a person’s wants and needs, with figuring out what makes them tick. It’s not foolproof, but for a person who’s closed himself off to emotions for so much of his life, he’s seen the value in understanding those of others. Birdie’s had years of experience fitting into different eras and worlds, but she’s been open enough with him to pick up on what she’s been willing to share. At the very least, he’s made the effort to follow along, and she’s one of the rare cases of being his friend to where he doesn’t plan on using it against her.

The mood in the room shifts, bringing a new hue to the songs playing. He’s never much sought to find nuance in musical sounds, but he can appreciate the layers that songs provide depending on what a person is bringing to their side of listening to them. “I’m certainly ready for such a fight. Don’t know who I’d be without one, and I’m fine not finding out.” It’s mostly true. There are moments where his past makes him doubt the violent man he’s become, but by and large, Kaz is settled into the role he willingly fills. Into what he can accomplish as Dirtyhands, as a Brekker.

He rolls his cane between his fingers in time to the tune, still perched sitting on the edge of his desk. She’s not staring at the record player, not as seemingly lost in another time as she had been a few moments ago. She’s sharing a piece of her with him, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. It hasn’t come without a price, and he gets that, too. “I’m gonna get greedy now, though. When you put out new songs, you’ll have to let me know if it’s not in Ketterdam. Send a text, or a news article, about how people rallied against the dying of the night while listening to a certain protest song. Long as I’m around I’ll listen. It might do both of us some good.”

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@noreasonneeded

Yeeeees, thanks for starting!

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