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It had been a month since a certain incident had put Jinx into Silco's care. Not that he was sure that was her real name, given her sister's vicious last words to her, but the child refused emphatically and sometimes hysterically to go by any other name, so Jinx had stayed.
In all honesty, Silco had no experience being a father, and even less with children in general, so it helped that the girl was so mature for her age (no doubt due to the tribulations of her childhood but still) and that she was generally inclined to be quiet. He noticed how she carried herself: head hung, arms folded, perpetually pouting. Since her family had died, she spent her weeks simultaneously distancing and attaching herself to him, as though she certainly desired closeness but was horribly afraid of it at the same time.
This involved a lot of literal hand holding and even more scrupulous observation from the shadows. She was never not near him, and when she was afraid, which was often, engulfed his hand with determined little fingers, regardless of who was there and what they would think.
The only time she would let him close was when she was too hysterical to notice his presence. The girl had a habit of breaking into delirious crying fits, punching her own face and wailing continually. She would throw things forcefully in any direction, sometimes at people, and retreat into secluded corners where she would curl up in a foetal position, and yell at invisible presences to leave her alone or just shut up. Toward the end of an outburst she would mutter to herself, something about it being an accident or a mistake and just wanting to help.
He didn't know how to help her at first, nor did anyone else, but he was learning and he had the advantage of having a vague idea of what she was going through, even if she kept the details hidden from his sight. Granted, at the moment all he could do was grab her and hold her close, preventing her from hurting herself and hurtling objects in various directions while she sobbed and shouted at her apparitions. Sometimes she would squeeze him hard enough to hurt, or dig her nails in and draw blood, and on one occasion she bit him to cover a scream, but he was not angry. If her impassioned apologies and delirium were any indication, he knew she had no ill-intent, so getting angry at her would have as much a point as anyone being blamed for what they didn't do. Instead, he whispered reassurances in low tones and - when she could muster some focus - aided her in returning her breathing to a regular tempo, which was often just enough to ground her to reality.
This could take between 2-10 minutes depending on the severity of the outburst and in what state he found her, but he always spared the time to help and she thanked him viscerally for it.
In any case, he was used to her company.
One of the times the pair found each other's presence the most comfortable was during the afternoon paperwork session. For Silco, a monotonous task became the favourite part of his day. It wasn't so much that he had someone to talk to, rather just the presence of another that gave him comfort. What would have been a dull hour punctuated only by the ticking clock, became a peaceful two hours filled the consistent sound of crayons making contact with paper, a gentle humming, and intervals of pleasant conversation.
This entailed him getting the sudden impulse to glance up, to which he would catch her eye and then ask what she was drawing. With a small smile she'd pick herself up off the coffee table and shuffle over to him, before presenting to him whatever 2D creation was in her hands, her eyes gleaming with a need for approval which he satiated immediately and with genuine interest and enthusiasm. At this, she would beam at him, and skip back to her table, chucking it into her ever growing pile of drawings.
But today was different.
It was a particularly warm Sunday afternoon. Any kind of warmth was unusual for the undercity, but warm weather was a miracle to behold.
And yet here Silco was, indoors, borne down by a hefty heap of urgent paperwork. He had been there for about half an hour but was only on his third page of Shimmer finances. He rubbed his temples and groaned; all the numbers had blurred together and imprinted themselves into his brain in a tumultuous unorganised mess. All the while the clock ticked away tauntingly, a reminder of how many hours he had lost and was losing to this utter monotony.
Wait.
The clock. Why could he hear the clock? Where was the scraping of crayons against both paper and hardwood, the gentle humming of an ancient lullaby, the tapping of a scroungy boot?
He looked up and jumped, letting out an involuntary 'ah!'.
There she was. Right in front of him. Just... staring.
He coughed and composed himself. "What's wrong?"
"My oil crayons ran out," she mumbled, playing with her hands and bearing into him with those big blue eyes that looked right into his soul and then planted a piece of herself there.
"Oh," was all he could manage. He supposed it should have been expected, given just how much time she spent drawing. "That's a shame," he sympathised. "I have some time this evening; we'll go buy some new ones."
"Ok," she said, not moving.
"Ok," he said, assuming she'd find something else to do. She was independent enough that he could often rely on her to entertain herself.
But she didn't. She just stood there and stared and stared and stared. Every time he looked up, expecting to see her gone, she was there, staring. Every so often she would get brave and shuffle forward a little, or open her mouth to say something, but her courage never seemed to last long enough. Eventually, after maybe about five minutes of staring and awkward eye contact, she fixated on the floor. Yet she did not move, and despite herself, her eyes flicked sheepishly up and down.
Silco exhaled long and deeply, leaning back in his chair and contemplating the ceiling for a moment. What did she want? For about half a minute he mulled over this question, inhaled, and leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk.
"I know you have your reservations towards me," he started, selecting each word with care. "You are afraid to put your trust in me because trust has only caused you pain. But you must know something, Jinx: I was you, once. I, too, was betrayed by the person I trusted most in the world. And, just like you, I trusted no one, thinking that it would inevitably end in the same way. And yet, like you, I needed someone," he paused to pick his next words. "Now, the difference here is I understand. No one understood me, Jinx, but I understand you. No one else will, Jinx. No one else. I know you're hurting, and I know you are afraid to be hurt again. But I won't hurt you, because I know this pain and I would not will it on anyone, anyone. And that, Jinx, is how I hope you’ll know I won't betray you."
He paused, letting her take it in. He watched her face change, contorting and furrowing and twisting as her little head absorbed the words and let them marinade with her own thoughts.
Then, she looked at him again, and good God. The way she looked at him. Somewhere inside his heart a chord was struck, and he felt his own face melt so that it reflected his feelings back to her. Tentatively, he leaned back, not breaking eye contact. Then, without saying a word she told him what she wanted; she glanced at his lap and, taking the hint, he patted his knee in permission.
She didn't even go around the table, instead scrambling right over it. She perched on his right knee and he put an arm around her, pulling her close, letting her know - needing her to know - she was safe. She acknowledged this by resting her head on his shoulder, and at the edges of her pout a half-smile formed. As he pulled in his chair to continue his work, he felt her arms wrap around him and her head nuzzle his shoulder. For the first time in a while, she spoke:
"You'll never leave me, right?"
"Of course not," he replied, not needing to look up from his work.
"You promise?" she whispered, and this time he did look at her.
"I promise."
And then in an impulse of affection he pressed his head against hers, and it occurred to both that it wasn't just the table she had scrambled over. In knocking down all that was on the table, she had knocked down the wall of distrust and scrambled over the debris between them, leaving them on the other side and into something neither recognised just yet but both had felt before.
Love.