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

Birdie knows this is a shift. Free as she is with her physical affections with nearly everyone else, she's held back and held off with Kaz. Still, she was honest before. She's thought about it, considered options, ways for it to work beyond the scant shoulder bumps past guards and desperate arm grabs.

Her last set at the club for the night is distracted, though only the Dregs might notice it. Pigeons are oblivious creatures, and gamble the same as they always do when she sings, full of high risks and minimal rewards with barely a murmur of disappointment at the tables. When it's over, she heads straight back to the Slat without the usual lingering and conversation.

Kaz wants to try touching, something that has as many wonderful opportunities as it does potential for disappointments. None of which she wants to miss by not making it back to the basement with enough time for it before sunrise.

Really, she hasn't done as much to the space as she normally does more permanent havens. Partly because she traveled light when she came to Ketterdam, and partly because she's been so distracted with Kaz and jobs and everything else at night that she hasn't had too much time to really nest. But she has done her usual--any sliver of window is covered with either thick curtains or insulation. One curtain is hung between the space where the bed was placed and the door that leads upstairs, an extra little barrier on any errant sunlight that might creep its way down. The rest of the walls, too, are covered in fabric. Not quite tapestries, but random yards of scrap picked up from any number of places, colorful and thick enough to act as a rudimentary soundproofing.

And pillows. On the floor, on the two chairs that look like they were spare from somewhere else and had wound up down here ages ago for storage.

She's in the middle of contemplating if any of that fabric would help this touch-related venture when she hears his cane on the stairs and calls, "Come in," in the direction of the door, lilting and not half as nervous sounding as she is that she might mess this up.

He’s tried touch in the past. Not often, admittedly, but he has. Stripping his gloves off wholesale at fourteen to wrangle drunkards and crooks had been, admittedly, an impossibly foolish idea that had left him in a panic attack. The next time with Inej, her hand briefly touching his face and then him kissing her neck, those had him battling desire against revulsion, but he hadn’t been driven out of his mind. He’s running through the scenarios in his mind all throughout the day, picking apart what he already knows are the distinctions. What he’s trying with Birdie is happening somewhere safe, and with someone he trusts.

With someone he wants to touch.

He wants to get better, to heal, and while this first step is causing his stomach to summersault the closer the hour approaches, he’s also determined enough not to back out.

The day has been busy but not overwhelming in another way. Standard by his measure, which is good, because he’s not approaching her room already upset. He’s wearing one of his suits, something he feels at home in, and his trusted cane clacking on the ground is enough to announce his presence. The familiar voice of Birdie sings out to him to enter, he can’t separate musicality from her even when she’s just speaking. That might be a construct of his mind, it might not, but it makes him smile a little with the familiarity of it. He flexes his fingers and opens the door, stepping inside and then shutting the door behind him with the end of his cane.

Glancing around, he takes in the space and what the few things are that she’s done with it. It’s not overly done up, but then, they lead busy lives in the Slat. The air is scented with her however, and the soft pillows and spots of color seem fitting. The Slat is an anchor for him, but so is the woman in the space right now. Funny, perhaps, given how fleeting she could be by her admittance, but she’s a steady presence for him. “I like what you’ve not really done with the place,” he says by way of teasing, moving to stand near her. “Are we sitting on the floor? I’m all right with that.” It’s easy enough to stretch out his leg, and she’s definitely got enough pillows for it.

There is a lot here Birdie doesn't know. She has a vague idea of how deep his aversion runs, but she hasn't spent a lot of time asking about whys and hows, the limits or boundaries of it. Whatever it is, she takes seriously enough to hold herself back from every urge to reach out, beyond that time on the bridge. And there have been plenty of urges to grab his hand, touch his face or hair, to reach over during a lesson and reposition his fingers, to lean in even closer than that--

Birdie has touched a lot in her long life, but she doesn't really like the idea of it putting someone off, making them upset when that isn't her intention. And while she knows there will be some of that now, she's emboldened by knowing there's a goal in it. That he wants it, despite the issues.

"Floor works, yeah." Birdie steps back a little and gestures at one large pillow on the floor in particular, something just shy of a full beanbag chair. "Try that one. I'll help you get out again when you're ready."

She's hoping it'll be by taking his hand, but there's options. They'll find options, if they need to. For as much as she tells him of her own monstrous natures, impulses and blood and history, she wants to help him with this more than she wants to help on a job or a scheme. Even a little more than a song.

Birdie has always been respectful of Kaz’s boundaries, a main reason why he feels comfortable trusting her now. He knows he’s not the first person she’s come across with a history that he struggles with, and that she has her own baggage, too. It’s taken months to get to this point, slowly unraveling bits and pieces of themselves to create a foundation sturdy enough for it. He’d be there for her as well if she ever needs it. No questions or jeering, no glances of pity. Just as she’s not doing to him.

Looking over at the pillow, he quirks up an eyebrow as he heads towards it. “It’s almost big enough to be a second bed.” He’s exaggerating somewhat, but it is a large pillow that he gathers will let him sink deeply into it. He’s not wrong as he uses his cane to help him plop down, extending his right leg out in front of him. He sets his cane to the side, flexing his fingers inside of the gloves. He’s not barking out orders or lost in scheming thoughts, a betrayal of the fact that he’s not as certain as he normally is. He doesn’t know the best way to navigate something like this. “Are you going to put on music?” Is he stalling? Perhaps he is, a little, and he steels himself along with an internal admonishment. “Maybe start holding hands with the gloves on.” That at least he’s used to with handshakes and such. Kaz can manage some touching with his gloves on, though prolonged holding is hard for him. Lengthening the time he can hold someone’s hand makes sense to him as a place to start, as much as any of this could make sense.

It’s hard not to want to take the gloves off wholesale and plunge himself into holding without them on, but as impatient as he is, a brick by brick method has always served him best.

She's got a soft spot in her a mile deep for things like this. Boys that went into something they shouldn't have suffered and came out the other side wounded men. Some nights, early on before Lorelai, Birdie would worry over if Sam would've fared any better if he'd made it out the other side of things. And much as she can be a fast mover with these things, she knows what pushing the edge of things too quick too soon can do.

"I've curled up there from time to time." Kaz is absolutely stalling, but she doesn't call him out on it. This feels a little too delicate for that. Instead, while he plops down onto the big pillow she walks over to a little radio and turns it on, tuned to some radio station playing through the night.

The music might help, too, with easing into things. Noise in the background to provide some small distraction. "Yeah, I was gonna suggest keeping the gloves on to start." Birdie doesn't elaborate that she worries about how chill her fingers can get. She spent some time making sure her heart was up to the task, that she's as warm as she gets, but that doesn't always make it all the way through her hands even when the core of her is as close to human as can be.

She nudges another pillow a little closer to his before she sits down on it, facing him and holding out her hand for him to hold however he feels best. "Tell me about your meetings." It's a question meant to distract, much as it can, or at least occupy his mind with something other than the touch.

While Kaz isn’t as musically inclined as Birdie is, the background noise is nice. Another anchor for his mind to grasp onto rather than let himself be plunged into the past. While his bad leg is extended out, he folds his other long-limbed one closer to him to make room for Birdie to scoot her seat beside him. He doesn’t know that she’s tried to warm herself up for him literally, but she always manages to be a warm presence to him figuratively. His eyes track her movements, not holding the usual predator expression feasting on prey but rather like he simply doesn’t want to let her out of his sight for his own survival. He flexes his hand again while thinking he’s not normally like this. Kaz Brekker doesn’t act out of uncertainty or off his back foot. It’s irrational, but a part of him worries she’ll think less of him for it.

He’ll think less of himself though if he doesn’t go through with it.

Very slowly he reaches out and simply cups his gloved hand over hers. It’s featherlight to start, and he doesn’t feel any coldness thanks to his gloves, but he can tell her skin is soft and how her smaller hand fits beneath his. His gaze falls down to their hands, his expression one of concentration and determination. It’s just a handshake. Then another. Then another. Just a series of handshakes without letting go in between. He keeps telling himself this in his mind, hoping it’ll make a difference.

Her talking also helps. The conversation is a welcome distraction, even if his mind isn’t fully on it. “One was with my floor manager. They wanted to talk about hiring a new dealer, one of ours gave notice as they’re moving out of the country. Another was down at the harbor, a ship arrived without being registered. Nothing on it was contraband, so I’m thinking something might have been taken off it just before it arrived, or before it was finally checked. I have some people looking into it to see what they can turn up, it takes someone with quite a death wish to play games in my territory.” He finally spares time to take a breath. “How was your night?”

There really isn't any less to think. Birdie may rage about change and progress, but when it comes to individual people, particularly the ones she cares about, they are as they are. Whatever Kaz's hesitance and limitations and aversions, they simply are. She'll take them as they come, or don't, despite how much she may want to reach out through them and skip ahead.

But he reaches first, and Birdie takes his hand. Just a handshake, a series of them all in a row, and she keeps her hand moving just a little to help differentiate. Changing the pressure of her fingers against his gloved hand in small pulses, finger by finger following the melody of the music coming from the radio.

"Well," she inhales, needless and performative, before she goes on. "Got up after sunset and headed over to the club. You've got a new crop of pigeons there, very agreeable ones. More agreeable now, though I'll only take partial credit. The bartender was a little heavy handed on his pours at the start of his shift. Good tactic, because by the end of the night he can just give them water and grenadine and call it a new mix, they'll be none the wiser."

It’s a nice trick, the changes in pressure as she adjusts her hand against his. He can focus on the different squeezes and reprieves rather than one long, lingering touch. He doesn’t move his hand, he’s just focused on not pulling away. On trying to relax. He counts his breathing, which naturally falls into somewhat of a similar pattern to the pressure changes of her fingers and the beat of the music. There’s a look of deep concentration on his face. It’s not his scheming look, but more akin to the one he wears in battles. He is in a fight right now, it’s just one that’s internal. He’s not alone though this time, and for right now, he’s managing to hold himself together and keep the lapping waves of the harbor’s past from drowning him.

Money and profit are a great way to draw Kaz’s focus back. Nina once used an incorrect payment figure to bring him back from a state of shock after nearly drowning. Hearing about the pigeons draws Kaz’s laser focus from where it’s been situated on their joined hands to meet her gaze. “I didn’t even have the floor manager tell the bartender to do that. I do appreciate someone who knows their job well and acts of their own accord.” It’s a little scammy and shady but Kaz always figures anyone who walks through his club doors is there for the gamble that’s involved on every level. There’s always a price when someone wants to escape reality for a while or make a fortune.

Kaz also likes that Birdie is getting along with his staff. Or at least seems to be. He’s not surprised given her personable nature, but he also knows she has quirks that not everyone would accept - that some might get nosy about never seeing her during the day or ever eating. The Dregs though by and large know to keep their own counsel, most having a past they don’t want poked at. Loyalty and money flow matter far more to them in the end.

His wrist twitches a little, a small flex, but he keeps holding onto hers. With a quick shake of his head he says, “I’m fine.” He is, so far. “I’ll have to let the bartender know their efforts weren’t in vain once I look over the night’s totals. I actually had a thought about starting to do a specialty drink that pairs with certain regular performances at the club, or special touring ones. I’d say there are people who come to see you sing for example, and on those nights, they’d try a drink that paired with the night’s performance. People also just like limited offerings in general, they feel compelled to try them before they're gone.”

She keeps it up, the changes in pressure, finger by finger as they sit and the music plays. It's idle, mostly, a way for her to move without moving, a way to feel the music playing and pay attention to him. The face he's making isn't as familiar as his scheming face, but she knows it, can guess at why he's wearing it in this moment so far removed from an actual battle. For a moment, her free hand moves like she'll add it in to the mix, hold his one hand in both of hers, but she stretches and crosses it over her elbow instead.

It feels precarious, a thing to not mess up, much as she likes finally being able to touch him even this much. It's tempting to be greedy.

Birdie smiles, wide, when his focus comes to her and the pigeons and the bar. "Yeah, I used to tend bar a while. It's an easy enough trick with ones you know will keep paying, so long as you don't keep overpouring after they're three sheets to the wind." Then it's just a loss, at the end of the night. And possibly a lot of patrons getting sick on the floor.

The flex is noticeable, but she doesn't acknowledge it beyond a squeeze, full handed and brief, before she's back to following the music. "Specialty drinks could be nice. Don't know that I'd be good at helping you come up with them beyond the names. Could make some of them seasonal, or for special events if you ever wanted to start those. Not saying I'm not a special event or anything, but, you know."

“I wouldn’t be good with the flavors either,” he confesses, though it’s not really much of a reveal by now. She knows his atrocious eating habits and waste disposal ways, where he’ll shove anything down to get the job done. Even eating itself is viewed as a job, if not just a necessary function to keep himself going. He renamed himself off of a piece of machinery, and often tries to make himself that rather than a man. Or if not a machine, then a monster. Something larger than an average life. He’s found many ways to cut corners and flip narratives to make it happen.

Right now is one of the rare, few times in his life when he’s facing his vulnerabilities rather than trying to cover them up or turn them into an advantage.

“We usually do seasonal ones, people are willing to shill out a lot when anything to do with Ghezen is attached to it. I don’t think the addition of well-known shows could hurt though, but I’ll talk to him about it. Not for every performer of course, but the ones who draw in a large crowd regularly.” Talking business does make things a little easier, and he’s lasting longer than he thought he would, though he knows it won’t be forever. He can still hear the waves, all but taste the salt in his mouth, but for right this moment he can keep it at bay. Perhaps for a few minutes longer. His brow remains furrowed but he flicks a glance up at her. He studies her like she’s an anchor helping keep him at the shore. “What would you call it, though? If there was a drink made in your set list’s honor.” It’s a somewhat silly question, but he’ll take it right now.

There's not a lot of life in a machine. Certainly not as much life as there is in Kaz, from what Birdie has seen of him. Machines generally don't try to survive, or learn music, or take care of people. For every point of mechanics Kaz puts around himself, Birdie makes a point to see through to the person behind it. Still alive, despite the jokes or monsters.

He's the person beneath now, holding her hand.

"That'd do it, honestly. Or maybe have specials depending on the night of the week. Helps bring in crowds during the lull between weekend revelry." It's easy enough to fall into talk of work, if it helps Kaz hold out. Though she won't keep his hand longer than he wants her to have it, her grip is firm but not tight, fingers pulsing with the sound coming from the radio, even during a commercial break.

Birdie does look away for a second to consider very seriously the question at hand.

"The Hippy Dippy," said with a grin when she turns her attention back to him. "Make it look yellow and serve with some flowers on top. Probably edible ones, though there's the option to put some poisonous ones if needed."

That name does earn a smile for him, one that under different circumstances might have gotten a real laugh. He's a bit too on edge for it now, but the corners of his mouth do flick upwards in a charmed and amused grin, despite the tension at the edges. "You do give off strong hippy vibes, though one would have to be a dip to think it ends there." Case in point, the follow up about possible poison.

"Everyone always says that it's the bright colors in nature you have to look out for most, as a warning. It's an interesting symbolic thought, though not always how it works. Sometimes it's the bright, pretty flowers you have to stay away from, other times its the green or dull brown that blends in that hides a poison among the rest." It's not his most poetic of thoughts, a little rambling even in his own mind, but he's spending most of his focus on the task at hand.

Her hand is at least warm if not possessing a pulse, both from earlier when she warmed his and his glove now. He pulls his fingers back enough to stretch and bunch them, leaving their palm touching, before threading fingers once more. A little sweat is starting to bead at his temples, beneath his arms, and on his back, and he says softly, a promise to them both, "A few more minutes." Of course he's pushing himself to his limit, but his gaze is transfixed on her pale skin, the smooth knuckles, the clean nails. A hand he knows by heart by now, so well he can almost treat it like one of his own.

He lifts his gaze to hers, his look solemn, a little hungry for intimacy, a little in awe at something he hasn't accomplished in so many years. It's hard, it's an internal fight, but it's not one he's waging alone.

"We can go a few more minutes."

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