Chapter Text
It was late—not quite the dead of night, but nearing it—but Silco was not asleep. He sat in bed, reclined against the headboard with a sheaf of papers in his lap. Though his body was tired, his mind remained awhirl, compelling him onward, one page at a time. When he finished these documents, then he would rest. Although…he’d said that about the former stack, now resting on the bedside table, read in their entirety.
Silco’s insomnia was opportune on this particular evening, for it allowed him to hear the soft knock on his door. It was so small a sound that, for a moment, he thought he’d misheard. It was as if someone had begun to knock, and thought better of it. This sound could only have been made by one person:
“Jinx?” He called from the bed. His voice was a bit hoarse, unused for the past hours.
With verbal encouragement provided, Jinx slipped into the room—shutting the door tight behind her with a snap.
“I didn’t wanna wake you up.”
She sounded uncharacteristically hesitant, so different from the brash girl who burst into his office every day to heap affection or demand attention.
“It’s perfectly alright, darling. I was already awake. But even if I was not, you know you are permitted to wake me whenever you need.”
Jinx lingered in the middle of the room like a little ghost. Her pajamas, a loose shirt and a pair of cotton shorts whose hems were exceedingly tattered, looked pale and spectre-like in the dim lamplight. So too was her skin, nearly translucent from a lack of sun exposure. What he could discern of her expression was nervous: all wide eyes and furrowed brow.
Silco threw back the quilted satin duvet and beckoned with one hand for her to join him. Jinx was beside him in a flash, slipping her feet beneath the duvet and burrowing down. She tipped her head back and blinked up at him; quiet, but vibrating with nervous energy. It was an expression Silco was very familiar with—she had worn it for weeks after arriving in his care; after that night he’d carried her bloodied, rain-soaked body home. Though years had passed, Jinx had not managed to shed the expression entirely. It returned on evenings like this, times when her mind returned to the abyssal overwhelm of her childhood. All Powder’s anguish returned in force: her fears of being abandoned, of displeasing him, of being a worthless, foolish little girl who made everything worse.
Though she’d said a mere handful of words, Silco was astute enough—attuned enough to her moods, her expressions—to know what sort of evening he was dealing with. And so, flipping the duvet back atop the pair of them, he extended his arms in open invitation. Jinx took it immediately, scooting to his side, pressing her face into his chest, and clinging to the man like he was her only salvation.
Silco’s hand came automatically to rest at the back of her head, his long, slender fingers cradling her close against him.
“I’m sorry,” Jinx whispered.
“For what, sweetheart?” He murmured, his voice low and soothing.
She didn’t reply, merely made a little whining sound and clung somehow tighter.
“You have no reason to apologize,” Silco tried instead. “I am not displeased with you, and you have done nothing wrong.”
Jinx took a deep, wavering breath, gripping the fabric of his nightshirt tightly in a fist. Sometimes, in such a headspace, he was unable to prevent her from talking. She would chatter on about endless topics, only tangentially related to one another, her face lit from within by a crazed, whimsical vigor. Silco loved those times. He would cup her cheek in one hand, her smile mirrored on his own lined face—unable to contain his affection for the girl. Other times, such as now, Jinx could barely force out words; her throat tight with emotions she couldn’t express.
“I think,” Silco murmured, stroking the back of her head, “it is time for sleep.”
Though he could feel exhaustion tugging at his edges, the suggestion was not for selfish reasons. The longer Jinx was awake in such a state, the more likely it was that she would spiral into less pleasant emotions. He would prefer to avoid a meltdown, for her own sake and his own, and the surest way was for Jinx to fall asleep in his arms. (As she so often did, despite insisting, during daylight hours at least, that she slept in her own room).
“No!” She exclaimed, sitting up with enough speed to inadvertently knock his hand away.
Silco was surprised, but recovered quickly, using the rejected hand to tuck a strand of wispy blue hair behind her ear. Over the years, he had grown used to Jinx’s fluctuations. Even in her most violent meltdowns—where she’d sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, lashed out at him with desperate flailing hands, or screamed as though she was being tortured from within—Silco was her anchor. He rarely raised his voice, and he never, ever, left her. Her protest at the prospect of sleep did not rattle him.
“I am looking at the clock, Jinx, and it is very late.” It was true, his voice even and measured. “Tell me why you don’t want to sleep.”
“I don’t want to!” Her voice rose, shriller, more petulant. The distress was visible in her wide blue eyes.
“I know you don’t want to, I heard you.” Silco lay a gentle hand on her back, coaxing her into his arms again. Lying down was better than upright when it came to guiding her towards sleep. “Can you tell me why not?”
She didn’t respond, just grabbed his shirt as tight as before. Alright, that was fine. Silco could work out the puzzle of her needs with minimal aid. The answer was often deceptively simple.
“Hmm. Let’s see.” She cuddled closer, enjoying the vibration of his voice and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Are you afraid of going to sleep tonight?”
“N-no.” Her voice was full of the bravado children donned when faced with a needle in the doctor’s office, the kind that thinly veiled fear.
Silco had guessed it in one. Now, the question remained: why. He had some guesses. After all, this was not a rare occurrence. He rubbed his thumb in slow circles over her shoulder blade.
“Tell me why you’re scared. I can’t help you feel better if I don’t know what’s the matter.”
Jinx thought about this, eyes closed and his shirt scrunched in one fist. She made a little humming noise that indicated consideration was still continuing. He waited, all the while rubbing light circles on her back.
“Dreams.” she admitted at last, mumbling into his shirt.
Of course, he should have known. In the years since she’d come to live with him, Jinx was plagued by nightmares more often than not. They were a tolerable evil on the nights she was seventeen, but when she was little they were unbearable—like terrors sent from the hells. Unfortunately, since he could not prevent them from occurring, all Silco could do was remain by her side; ready to hold her should things go sideways.
“I know your dreams are scary, darling, and I am so sorry.” He would do almost anything to take them away, were it an option. “But sleep is non-negotiable. Just lie down, close your eyes, and I will read aloud to you. How does that sound?”
Jinx shook her head emphatically. She loved when he read to her, particularly on the occasions when she cajoled him into doing voices, but right now the offer did nothing to assuage her anxiety.
“I don’t want to!” Her voice wavered, nearly cracking with the force of her refusal.
She was struggling more than he’d initially thought, a maelstrom of emotion swirling just below the surface. It was now apparent that exhaustion and anxiety had sent hairline cracks through her psyche.
Silco didn’t attempt to reason with her. Explaining the importance of sleep to a child was next to pointless. In the end, she had no choice in the matter and they both knew it. He was her guardian and his word was law, especially when she was in this particular state. But this knowledge did not mean that Jinx would comply immediately, nor peacefully.
“I know you don’t.” He repeated, sympathetic to her plight but unyielding, an immovable pillar in the face of her storm.
Silco could practically feel the distress radiating from her. Jinx’s face was pressed against his chest, her back more and more tense beneath his gentle caresses. The force of her emotions was uncontainable in the present moment, spilling out as sheer restless energy.
Jinx made a frustrated noise halfway between a whimper and a growl. Silco was untouchable by the vicissitudes of her temper—a fact both comforting and infuriating. Once more, she wriggled away from his embrace. Kneeling on the bed beside him, Jinx’s blue eyes shone in the lamp light with unshed tears.
“Y-you can’t make me!” Her words were retaliatory, but her voice was thin and scared.
“Come lie back down, darling.” Silco murmured, extending a hand to her. He did not lay it upon her; instead he held it aloft, hoping she would accept the offer of her own volition.
“No!” Jinx’s voice rose, whining—a sound that he knew preceded a tantrum.
Silco did not wince at its shrillness. Jinx seized the pillow beside his own, intended for her, with both hands, digging in her chipped pink and blue nails. Her whole body shook from the ferocity with which her fingers gripped the pillow. Unable to do it harm, Jinx hurled it as forcefully as possible into the corner. The pillow made a muffled thump as it struck the wall, then another as it hit the floor. She was breathing in shallow pants, staring at Silco with a look bordering rabid.
He did not scold her. Her juvenile action was unimportant to him. Silco overlooked her outburst entirely and pressed ahead, focusing on the fear at its heart.
“I will be with you all night, Jinx. I promise.”
Despite every indication otherwise, he knew what she wanted. It was what she always wanted: care, comfort, and the reassurance that he would never leave her. The tears that had been threatening to form now filled her eyes, affirming his decision. Her narrow shoulders sagged.
“Come here, child.” He murmured.
Her pillow was gone, but it didn’t matter. Jinx crawled forward, lamplight briefly illuminating the swirling tattoos on her lean arms, and collapsed. Her head fell to his chest, her body ragdolled across the bed, her fight ebbing into grief. Jinx didn’t resist as Silco wrapped his arms around her and drew her close.
Rather than pulling away, raising her hackles once more and raging at the prospect of rest, Jinx let out a little sob as he cradled the back of her head.
As she shook in his arms with muffled tears, Silco placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. He knew she would not resist again, not tonight.
“I know you’re afraid, Jinx, but I promise, the night will pass and you will wake unharmed. I will be with you every moment.”
“P-promise?” Jinx’s voice wavered, desperate for reassurance.
“I promise, darling.”
His vow dragged forth a whimpering sob as Jinx clutched the now-damp fabric of his shirt tighter still.
“Would I lie to you?”
She shook her head, no. Her cries were ebbing, but each breath she drew shuddered.
“No, I would not. Just as I will not leave your side.”
Silco could feel her relaxing, exhaustion dragging at her. Between a day of characteristic hyperactivity and an evening of whirlwind anxiety, she had complete and utterly worn herself out. Jinx was like a windup toy: buzzing, buzzing, buzzing until she ran out of charge and fell to pieces. He suspected sleep would come for her in minutes, if only she allowed herself to slip into it. It was touching, really, how quickly she could fall asleep in his arms. Silco never tired of how it felt to hold her—he didn’t think it was possible.
“Close your eyes, now. Can you do that for me?” His low voice was soft in a way that was only for Jinx.
“Mmhmm,” mumbled Jinx, sniffing loudly. It was highly probable that his shirt had gotten both snot and tears on it, but Silco was unbothered. Shirts could be cleaned, his priority was the girl now cuddling closer and taking shaking breaths to steady herself. She sniffed again, a messy snuffling sound.
Jinx closed her eyes, as instructed, and let out a deep and tremulous sigh. Silco routinely marvelled at how expressive she was. Her joy, her anger, her grief: every sound and movement exuded technicolor liveliness. She had scribbled across his world—literally, in the case of his ashtray and mug—with neon and glitter. He himself was as austere and glassy as deep water by comparison. Even now, utterly spent, she packed so much feeling into a single sigh.
“That’s my girl.” Silco rubbed her back lightly as she melted into him, kissing her head once more before continuing: “Are you ready for me to read you a story?”
“Mmm.” replied Jinx.
Silco’s head throbbed at the temples with a dull headache. His pillow was calling. But before merciful sleep could come and wash away the grueling day, he needed to ensure Jinx would be able to join him in it.
“Is that a ‘yes’ I hear?” He inquired.
“Mmhmm, yeah please.” Jinx mumbled into his damp shirt, before twisting to peer up at him with red-rimmed blue eyes. She sniffed again, then wiped her nose and eyes in one clumsy swipe of her wrist.
Her recent distress was still evident—her eyes, lips, and nose were reddened from crying—but Jinx’s mood had shifted. She was prone to fluctuations even on a typical day. But when little, she could be expected to have five such shifts before breakfast. But these moods, no matter how overwhelming, receded as quickly as they overtook her. Ten minutes after sobbing on the floor, clinging to Silco’s ankles while begging him not to leave, Jinx could be found scribbling happily in her notebook bursting with haphazardly inserted items and colorful sketches.
Jinx smiled up at him—that dazzling, sweet, beautiful smile Silco would never, ever grow tired of. He considered himself incredibly lucky that it was so often elicited by him. Looking down at her, tenderness softened the harsh lines of his face.
“Story!” Exclaimed Jinx after a long moment of silence, impatient with his appreciation of her. When he didn’t instantaneously materialize a book and begin reading, she added: “Story, Silly!”
Silco was loath to tear his good eye away, but he was not about to keep her waiting. Jinx’s patience was fleeting to say the least, and its decline directly correlated with the intensity of her fussing.
“Hush, darling. If you want a story, I must get a book.”
“Noooo,” she drew out the protest as he tried to lean towards the side table, clinging all over as though she had six hands instead of two, and hindering his progress almost completely.
“Jinx,” he said in warning, voice firm.
She let go at once, curling up on the bed and staring up at him with very round eyes.
“I am not mad,” Silco reassured, and Jinx’s little smile returned. “But you cannot insist on a story and then prevent me from getting the book.”
Her smile became a wry grimace, playful but apologetic. She ducked her head, looking up when Silco lay back beside her. He opened his arms once more and Jinx cuddled in immediately, letting out another contented sigh.
Silco, too, was nearing the end of his allotted energy for the day. Nevertheless, he poured what remained into his recitation. Jinx was, as always, an excellent audience for storytelling. On some occasions, days where she had more energy than the present, she would gasp aloud and her eyes would practically bug from her head at the particularly exciting parts. Now, tired as she was, Jinx still managed appreciative little noises, corresponding to pivotal or amusing plot points.
As Silco read onwards, his voice pitched low and smooth, conducive to sleep, Jinx’s engagement tapered off. She was drooping—like a plucked flower whose vivid petals had gone limp from lack of water. For a short while she kept her eyes open by sheer force of will. One would flutter closed while the other held vigil, then they would change; never relieved of their watch at the same time, lest she fall asleep.
Then she stopped responding entirely.
Silco finished the page, for he was not one to cease a task unfinished, before closing the book silently. He set it aside atop the duvet, for he was unable to lean towards the side table without disturbing Jinx. The bed was large enough that it was no matter—especially since Jinx preferred to sleep as close to him as possible. Silco often woke, overheated and cramped, with her body sprawled half atop his own. He would never have tolerated such imposition with anyone else. But she was his little girl, his Jinx, and for that reason he did not mind.
“Jinx?” He murmured, hoping she would not respond.
She did not. Both eyes were closed, her face relaxed as it rested against his chest, lips slightly parted. Her breath was even, slow. With each steady exhalation, a bit of his own stress unspooled. Silco let his head loll back. His muscles, wound tighter with each hour of the day, finally were allowed to loosen.
Across the room, the ornate glass lamp was still lit. Near its carved base lay the pillow Jinx had attempted to maim; discarded, limp. The lamp’s radiance cast sections of the wall into warm relief and others into inky shadow. Silco’s clock and photographs (several of which were colorful illustrations Jinx had drawn for him) were indiscernible, save for their shapes.
The bedroom had only one window, an architectural decision befitting the building’s location. There was not much worth seeing in Zaun, not to most people at least. It was a beautiful window, though: circular, intersected with swirls of leading, each slightly opaque windowpane a different shape. Through it, a glow permeated—green in color, noxious as gas and intoxicating as absinthe.
Silco closed his eyes to all of this. He would not, could not, rise to extinguish the lamp—it was doomed to remain lit until morning.
Morning would find him stiffer than if he’d slept alone, in a position more natural. But Jinx would wake beside him, her pep restored. She would rattle off a thousand harebrained schemes, alongside a thousand more utterly brilliant ones.
Silco would sacrifice much more than a night of comfortable slumber, if it meant Jinx could have one.
And so, with another soft stroke of her hair, he let himself fall into absolute darkness.