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He has seen her with the syringe a couple of times, admiring the design. It’s a pretty thing, she deems, though a little intimidating. Much like the eye it has been made for.
On one occasion he asks, “Would you want to use it?” He seems nonchalant. Yet she knows already by then that that’s his extremely serious tone, reserved for the special few – like Sevika, the Doctor, and now, apparently, her.
She tries to assume an equally serious expression as she answers, “Yes,” but her enthusiasm surfaces anyway, “Yes! Of course, yes!”
She hasn’t expected, at first, that he would let her use it on him. Actually, that didn’t cross her mind up until the day he called her to himself for that exact purpose. She had almost forgotten about this, assuming he wasn’t going to keep the promise. So, when he puts the syringe into her hands, she’s in a bit of a shock.
“Careful, now,” he instructs, showing her how the mechanism works. “Although I suppose you’ve figured that already,” he adds. She likes it when he sounds like that, like there’s something about her to be impressed with.
He tells her how accurate she’ll have to be, then lets her lean over his eye. She’s standing as he sits down in his chair, which puts her barely at the height to reach it – but she manages. Now the time comes to actually use the thing, and suddenly she is not so sure how to, anymore. She hesitates, trying the mechanism out as she stares into the dark depth of his eye.
It has to be the centre of the pupil. Exactly the centre. She can’t mess this up. Like you mess everything else up.
Her heart feels like she’s been running, but at least her hand doesn’t tremble. She CAN do this. She has to, because to give up now would mean showing him she is WEAK. But she has to prepare, and takes her time to do so. When she finally has her finger on the plunger, holding it ready as she moves her hand over to the eye, he glances at her instead of looking straight ahead.
“Don’t move, silly!” she blurts out, not thinking. “Silco,” she corrects herself, or at least she tries, but it’s already too late. She knows, by the glinting of his black-and-red eye, that he has heard her.
Sometimes she forgets herself. Forgets he is nothing like Vander. Forgets he “could cut your throat if you cry too loud,” like Sevika says. But then, he hasn’t done that yet. And world knows she’s been crying a lot.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, now sure she’s not going to be able to trick him into thinking that wasn’t what she said. Even if it slipped, still bad that it did. He might get mad.
“What for?” Lifting the syringe, she sees there’s a slight smile on his face.
“I—well—”
“You haven’t done anything wrong yet. Although I’d rather you focused fully again before you stick that in my eye.”
“So, you don’t mind?”
His normal eye widens a little, questioning. “Mind what exactly?”
Does he really not get it? Or is he trying to get her to admit to it? “That I called you ‘silly’. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s what scared you?” he cuts in, a shade of amusement in his calm tone. “Well then, no, I assure you I don’t mind. Perhaps don’t make a habit of it, especially around other people, but considering the situation and the fact we are alone, I find it highly excusable.”
He’s smiling, still, when she loads the syringe. That convinces her to repeat the words before she lowers it. She’s heard somewhere (probably from Mylo’s complaining) that amusement is supposed to help with pain.
***
He’s trapped in the chair by his desk, positioned so that he’s “not sitting against the light like some dum-dum.” Well, ‘trapped’ as long as the braids twining around his limbs are counted for ropes.
Jinx is bending over to his face, standing on one leg, the knee of the other resting on the chair’s arm. She claims she’s comfortable and that it “helps her focus”, which he doesn’t contend. Her palm on his forehead, she guides him to raise his head a little, then crouches to delve in her bag for something.
He glances at her as she gets up, holding some new products between her fingers. Having put a palette onto his desk, she takes the stance from before, keeping her balance probably by a power known only to her.
Unable to close his eye if he wanted, he watches her put some fluid on the small brush. She traces it around the scar, very meticulously, then takes a step back, and grabs another bottle, of a different, skin-coloured fluid.
Concealer, he has learned. He is learning a lot, today.
She helps herself a little with her fingers as she distributes the substance over his skin. Once that is done, she takes another brush in her hand, adding what he assumes (or hopes) are finishing touches.
He feels himself twitch as the hairs graze his skin.
“Don’t mooove,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Don’t mooove, silly!”
Easier said than done, considering how the brush tickles the scar tissue.
She leans back to look at her creation again, bites her lip while judging it. “Just a moment more, I swear we’re almost done,” she assures, coming back with yet another brush, the palette in her other hand. As soon as it touches the skin right underneath his brow, he twitches again.
“How is it that you can’t wink, and it still feels like that’s what you’re doing—”
“A reflex movement triggered by you touching the receptor that normally closes the eyelids.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” she mocks, waving the brush around. “Muscles go running when I stab them with a brush – same thing, shorter message.” He opens his mouth to argue, but she shoots him down with a grin, “If you keep talking, I can’t keep working.”
“Right.”
A good few minutes pass, though he might be overestimating, growingly bored. She tilts her head in appraisal, closes one eye, then the other, and finally smiles – before climbing on the chair fully and turning it around.
“Ta-da!” she exclaims, reaching to hand him a mirror. He grips her other arm while she does that, rather afraid she might slip and break her neck. “Ha, thanks! But I told you I won’t hurt myself with any of that,” she reminds as she jumps off the chair and promptly climbs onto his desk.
“Hm,” he mumbles, studying his own reflection.
She’s watching him and soon asks, impatient, “Do you like it?”
“I do. Very much. I simply haven’t… seen myself without that scar for a very long time.”
“Well, I couldn’t mask it whole—”
“It’s enough, what you did. Thank you.”
“I can show you, later, how to do that yourself,” she promises, smiling brightly. “I mean, it’ll never be as good as when I do it—”
“I am certain.”
“—but you’ll still look very presentable. Not that you didn’t, before—”
“Jinx. I’ve told you – I like it very much, no need to watch your words.”
“Right.” She tilts her head from one side to another again, her braids swinging with the movement. It must be helping her judge her creation, though he’s not sure how exactly. “You really look great,” she deems, snapping her fingers, no longer curled around a brush.
“I’m glad.” He returns the smile. “Thank you.”
She comes closer to the chair again, just as he gets up from it, deciding they have made Ran wait for long enough.
Jinx makes absolutely no movement to get out of his way. The opposite – she blocks it, smiling still. Proudly, and rather disarmingly if he’s honest. “I can hug you with dirty fingers, right?”
“As long as you don’t touch the vest.”
“Pfff, don’t be such a swell. But okay, I won’t,” she swears, splaying her fingers in a variation of the ‘hands-up’ gesture. Silco opens his arms.