Work Text:
Jinx was having a difficult day.
She’d spent most of it sequestered in her workshop, toiling over an exceedingly stubborn collection of parts. Hours bled into one another, bringing very little progress. This was not unusual—her craft was an intricate one, and frustration was inevitable. But, as she lost count of her failed attempts, Jinx’s spirits began to flag.
Distortion flickered at the periphery of her vision; as though nonspecific figures crouched just out of view. That was also not unusual. Jinx ignored the apparitions, instead intensifying her focus on the haphazardly assembled prototype.
Back when she was a kid, her inventions had never worked. But as the success rate of her explosions skyrocketed, along with their sheer magnitude, Silco was compelled to find her Jinx her very own laboratory; capable of handling the fury of any detonation. Now, at fourteen, Jinx had several years of triumph under her belt. She refused to admit defeat to this hunk of nuts and bolts
Jinx took a deep breath and hunched over, chewing her lower lip as she tried to figure out the cause of its failure.
It was intended to be a bomb on legs—a little device that could be sent off in a particular direction to cause diversions. At the present moment, it looked like a metal egg with feet. Feet that were currently stuck in the “on” position, whirling wildly of their own accord and pinching Jinx’s fingers. She angrily ripped off the flailing legs and chucked them back into a bin of scraps. Clearly, internal fixes were needed before the thing was ambulatory.
As failures mounted, the flickering distortions became audible. Whispers wreathed Jinx’s head as she hunched over her tools, darting close to hiss at her before fading into background clamor once again.
Thorny fingers of dismay sunk into Jinx’s chest—constricting her breathing into shallow, insufficient pants. What was she doing wrong? Why wouldn’t the stupid thing work?
You really can’t do anything right, can you?
From somewhere beyond Jinx’s right ear, Mylo’s garbled, disembodied voice jeered at her—gleefully joining her self-flagellation.
With a cry of frustration, Jinx hurled the explosive as hard as she could. It hit the fan-blade floor with a loud, metallic clatter. The newly re-added feet popped off, flying in two different directions as the round body bounced straight off the blade and plummeted into the abyss below.
Gonna cry about it, huh, Powder?
Mylo mocked as Jinx took an unsteady breath. She rose, jerkily, from the chair and paced a tense circle atop the fan blade, fists clenching and unclenching. She muttered to herself, voice dipping in and out of the audible range.
“Whatever, it’s fine! It’s not a big deal. I’ll just tell him the lil legs aren’t legging. I’ll—oh, shut up a minute, would you?”
Jinx flapped a hand at the words buzzing like flies about her head. Despite her attempt to disregard them, shards of failure stabbed Jinx’s chest and throat. And there was that familiar ringing—at once too loud and too quiet, like being trapped underwater with only the desperate thud of your heart.
No. No, no; Jinx refused to let her head float away into hypnotic horrors.
On unsteady legs, she made it back to her work station. The vivid sketches pinned pell-mell around the central column swam in and out of focus. Each crayon-scrawled stick figure seemed to engorge and warp. Jinx shook her head hard, trying to fight back the nauseating tide of unreality. When that did not suffice, she smacked herself sharply on the temple. Once. Then again. Each spark of pain was clarifying, grounding.
Jinx reached for one of her little cups of assorted tools, knocking another one prone in the process. Miniature wrenches and pliers spilled out onto the paint-splattered workspace. It didn’t matter—she’d found what she was looking for. The thin, curved blade that Jinx held aloft glinted in her workshop’s patchy light.
Relief and anticipation warred against the rising tide of overwhelm. Jinx flopped onto the stool, crudely cuffing one leg of her pants as high as it would go. Her hands shook, fumbling with the thick material.
This would help. It always helped.
Jinx took a shuddering breath, almost giddy, as a line of radiant pain erupted beneath the metal.
Then again.
And again…
* * *
Jinx thumped up the stairs that led from the Last Drop to the rooms she shared with Silco. Her boots fell heavy on each step. She was dejected in the way only a hot bath, or flopping into Silco’s arms, could alleviate.
When she was feeling more chipper, Jinx typically shouted a greeting upon reaching the top of the steps. Today, she simply turned left and headed down the hallway towards the office. Though her mind was quieter than it had been previously, she felt like a wrung sponge.
“Welcome back, Jinx.” Silco said, without looking up from his notes. “Did your explosives learn to walk?”
Jinx groaned noncommittally, shutting the door behind her with a thud.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Silco set aside his documents and looked up, giving her his undivided attention. “Oh, darling, what’s the matter?”
She could never conceal anything, not from him. Silco was remarkably adept at clocking Jinx’s emotional fluctuations; though in this case, the exhaustion showed plainly on her face.
“It’s nothing important. Just that the stupid things wouldn’t walk. And then they wouldn’t stop walking.” Jinx approached his chair and stood there expectantly, arms hanging limp at her sides.
Silco pushed the chair back from his ornately inlaid desk, angling it to face Jinx in the process. The moment he rested his hands on the leather upholstered arms, Jinx clambered into his lap. Though her recent growth-spurts made it more difficult to fold herself into his arms, she was nothing if not determined. Once she’d settled into a ball, Jinx tugged on his shirt sleeve. Silco knew immediately what the request meant and obliged: wrapping an arm around her slim shoulders so that she could relax without the risk of toppling off.
“I’m sorry they proved frustrating. Do you know what went awry?”
Jinx huffed a little sigh, shrugging and shaking her head.
“A puzzle for tomorrow, then.”
She snorted, tucking her head against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was comforting, it made her feel like a creature curled up snug and warm in its nest.
“I don’t think that's possible.” She replied. “It, uh, had an accident.”
“An accident?” Silco echoed, eyebrow raised.
The interest he demonstrated in their conversations never failed to cheer her up. Even when she was a child, and likely not the most fulfilling conversational partner, he’d always managed to make her feel heard; as though he genuinely cared what she was thinking and feeling. With him, Jinx didn’t feel like an afterthought.
“Yeah, it went:” she mimed something falling down, down, down and then exploding.
“Ah. Are there any survivors?”
“Nope.” She popped the p. “It was the only one.”
Jinx nestled closer, closing her eyes. The agitation that had plagued her all day faded, replaced by the soft, sleepy feeling of being held. On so many awful nights, the metronome of Silco’s heart had been her tether—grounding her until sleep finally sent its merciful darkness.
Noticing that she was sliding slowly to one side, Silco hooked an arm beneath Jinx’s legs to scoot her into a more secure position. As his hand gripped her thigh for purchase, Jinx winced involuntarily. She could not stifle the rough intake of breath as pain sparked, bright and clear, beneath his fingers.
Silco released her immediately, his expression sharp with concern.
“Sorry. Muscle cramp.” She replied with sheepish nonchalance.
“Jinx.” Silco did not believe that alibi for a second.
“It’s no big deal! Really, I’m fine.” She flashed him her most chipper smile, hoping he would see it as evidence of her well-being and drop the matter.
“Show me.”
Foreseeing no other way out, Jinx reluctantly began to roll up the leg of her pants. Her heart beat a sickening tattoo—leaden and stifling. Shit.
“I do wish you’d be more careful when you work,” Silco began. “I understand explosives are difficult to predict but perhaps—”
He stopped mid-sentence when confronted with the cause of Jinx’s gasp. A cluster of raw, jagged slashes adorned her pale thigh. They were of variable depths, some more scabbed than others—but all were undoubtedly deliberate. Others, in various stages of healing, criss-crossed up her thigh and disappeared beneath the cuff of her pants.
“I—” Jinx began, but she didn’t know what to say next. Prickling shame burned her cheeks.
Silco took a deliberate breath, and Jinx watched emotion flicker across his face, too quickly to interpret. That not-knowing scared her. He must be furious. Or disgusted. Or, or, or…her eyes flicked back and forth across his angular face, desperately searching for any indication of what he was currently thinking.
“Have you cleaned these properly?”
Jinx blinked. That was it? No lecture. No anger. Just concern for her infection risk.
“No, I was gonna do it when I got home.” She said quietly, fiddling with a ragged bit of skin at the edge of her nail. Then, after a pause: “So no.”
“Let's do that first, then, shall we?”
“But aren’t you…”
“Mad?” Silco finished. “No, darling. Once you’re taken care of, I think we need to have a talk. But no, I am not mad.”
“A talk?” Jinx echoed, fear lancing through her at the vagueness of wording. A talk could mean a reprimand, or a talk could mean I never want to see you again .
“You’re not in trouble,” Silco repeated, helping her gently from his lap. Jinx stood, hovering, unwilling to take her eyes from his face or her hand from his jacket sleeve. “I promise.”
Jinx felt both hollow and abuzz as Silco led her down the hallway, through his bedroom, and into the attached bathroom. The pictures on the walls seemed to float past, unmoored.
She sat, mute and numb, on the cold, stone countertop; waiting while Silco fetched antiseptic and bandages from the closet. The bathroom was chilly and illuminated by a single chemtech lamp. The light it gave off was green—which turned Jinx’s baggy pink shirt a peculiar muddy color. Goosebumps broke out across her pale arms.
When Silco returned, setting supplies down on the stone beside her, she still didn’t speak. Her heartbeat was far too loud, but the room felt distant; warped by dread. I think we need to have a talk. The words echoed like a death knell.
“May I?”
Jinx nodded, and Silco gently rolled her pant leg higher, carefully not to graze her wounds with the coarse material.
The antiseptic he poured on a bit of clean rag looked noxious under that strange green light.
“Are you ready?” He asked. His tone, and creased brow, warned of the sting to come.
Jinx nodded again.
The world returned with sudden, shocking clarity as he touched the rag to her thigh. She hissed as the alcohol burned, bright and vivid. Like an animal whose leg was snapped tight in a trap, Jinx flinched away on instinct.
“Apologies, darling,” Silco murmured, unceasing in his task. “Try to sit still for me.”
Jinx drew an uneasy breath and held still, tears of guilt burning at the back of her throat. I think we need to have a talk.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out as Silco finally set the rag aside. Her leg smarted fiercely, the alcohol biting into her cuts.
“Shh, you don’t have to apologize. Now hold on, I’m almost done.”
Jinx watched, her vision swimming with the threat of tears, as he carefully unfolded a length of soft bandage. she blinked hard, wiping her eyes roughly with the back of one hand. Grease, from the little bomb, was still smeared across her wrist and fingers. This new reminder of failure made her throat constrict.
“I’m so sorry.”
Silco took a moment before replying; during which time he wrapped the bandage delicately around her thigh. When it was secure, he straightened up and seemed to collect himself. Jinx watched, fidgeting with the ragged edge of one fingernail, waiting for him to speak. The chasm between them, the agony of not knowing exactly how he felt, threatened to engulf her entirely. Jinx’s chest ached, strangling her, and she feared she might drown in it.
“It’s alright, Jinx,” he murmured absently in reply to her latest apology. Silco sighed and ran a hand over his neatly slicked hair, trying to find the correct words for a delicate situation.
He did not look angry, but Jinx reeled nonetheless, her mind leaping and whirling—how could she fix it? She needed to fix it. Otherwise Silco would think she was too weak to control herself. Weak, useless little girl . He probably thought she was an incompetent wreck; a mess for him to clean up again and again. Embarrassed irritation warred with panic; setting her teeth on edge as adrenaline tore like poison through her veins.
Mylo’s laugh clattered all around like an out-of-tune piano.
She had to do something . Waiting for The Talk felt like suffocating. Her mind raced with a hundred thousand awful things he might say; things that would shatter her forever. Jinx didn’t realize she was breathing in ragged pants until Silco murmured for her to take a deep breath.
Gasps became deliberately timed inhales. In, hold, out, hold. Silco counted them for her, his voice low and gentle. Every fiber of Jinx’s being waited for the other shoe to drop—for the anger, the rejection, and the mocking. Mylo was positively salivating for it. He waited, flickering and gnashing at her periphery.
“I cannot say that I don’t understand,” Silco began once she’d steadied her breathing. He spoke slowly and each word sounded measured. “I do. Some forms of pain are preferable to others, and we will do anything to avoid the least bearable kinds. You did what you felt you needed to. Believe me, child. I know.”
There was no ridicule in his statement; it was a concession to fact. A rather personal sounding one, at that.
“But I am concerned. Particularly that you felt a need for secrecy. Can you tell me why?”
“Because…because…I mean, I know it’s a bad thing to do, I just couldn’t—“
Jinx tripped over her words and cut herself off. Silco hadn’t actually said that her actions were horrible and wrong. On the contrary, he’d said he understood.
“I—“ She felt twitchy, utterly unable to articulate the tangle of thoughts and feelings gnawing at her insides.
Jinx opened her mouth, then snapped it shut—her words choked off before conception. Her hands shook as she flicked her head to the side to rebuff Mylo’s whispering taunts. They danced in and out, barely too faint to discern as individual words.
Silco waited; offering neither judgment nor assistance, save for the solace of his presence. As always, his question was born of genuine curiosity. He did not presume to know what she would say.
In the face of his composure, Jinx felt like a foolish, inarticulate child once more. Like the little girl who’d taken an eon to sob out her nightmares, words coming in fits and starts. The little girl she’d buried six feet under inside her own mind.
Disarmed by patience, there was nothing left to voice but the truth now searing her throat.
“I thought you’d be disappointed,” Jinx mumbled, plucking idly at the edge of the bandage.
The unbearable prospect of his disappointment had sealed her lips tightly, for many months, despite the fact she told him practically everything else. Silco was perpetually composed. He was respected across the Undercity, even if no one said his name with affection. He was the Eye of Zaun, for god's sake. And she was just…Jinx. A ruinous paint splatter across his immaculate life.
With trembling fingers, she unravelled a long strand from the gauze, unable to meet his gaze. Silco gently stilled her hand.
“Never. I could never be, my darling.” He spoke with such profound conviction that Jinx looked up from her fidgeting.
Oh, but there is. Hissed Mylo behind her ear, making Jinx flinch. He’s lying. He’ll leave you just like she did. Just you wait.
Jinx’s wet, pleading blue eyes searched Silco’s familiar face, so beloved to her, for signs of doubt. Signs of insincerity.
Her lip trembled and her leg throbbed—a dull accompaniment, mostly ignored. Then, leaning forward, his gaze falling soft upon her face, Silco murmured:
“There is nothing you could do that would make me disappointed in you. You’re perfect, just as you are.”
It was the promise she’d always wanted to hear above all others, and it felt like a knife through the heart.
Jinx took a heaving breath and reached for Silco, pulling him into a savage embrace. His words brought such tender relief that it was agonizing. It drove the wind from her lungs. Jinx gulped, tears flowing freely down her pale cheeks. She couldn’t speak; it was all she could do to choke out a whimper in reply, sobbing into his shoulder as he held her close.
Silco rubbed her back gently as he murmured to her; the same soothing consolations he’d used when, as a child, she’d cried and couldn’t stop. I’m right here, it’s okay. You’re okay, love.
This act of tenderness dissolved the tangle of thorns sealing Jinx’s throat and apologies spilled forth—ragged with tears, shaking with relief and regret. Silco’s warm arms anchored her; protecting her from the murky waters that always threatened to claim her as their own.
She clung to him, begging him to never let go.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryimsorryimsorry…”
“Jinx. Jinx, listen to me.” Silco sliced through her incoherence like the blade of a dagger. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just take a deep breath.”
Jinx was terrified Silco would recoil from her wretchedness; rebuffed by her failure, her self-turned violence, the viscera of tears and snot now sullying his expensive silk shirt.
But he did not.
She wept, holding onto him with truly violent force.
But still, he embraced her.
Silco had never seen Jinx at her best. He’d never met the girl Powder could have grown to be, had so many things been different. The mythical could-have-been girl that Jinx compared herself to in the mirror; scribbling lines of self hatred across her reflection.
But he cared for her, regardless. Her, in all her misery.
Only after her tears died to residual sniffles and she leaned back against the bathroom mirror, rubbing at her irritated eyes, did Silco release her.
A bit of hair, disturbed from its usual resting place, fell into Jinx’s face. She blew a huff of air at it, but it flopped right back again. The blue strands plastered themselves to her tear-streaked cheek in an unpleasant way. Jinx made a face of displeasure.
With the utmost gentility, Silco reached forward and brushed it free, then tucked it behind her ear—ensuring it would not bother her again.
She shot him a weak, watery smile—a bit sheepish and deeply appreciative.
“You, uh,” Jinx sniffed and took an uneven breath. “You’ve probably got work stuff to do, right?”
As her overwhelm receded, there came a sudden awareness that they’d probably been in this bathroom a while. Cold from the marble countertop had seeped through her pants, raising goosebumps on Jinx’s arms and legs. She felt emotionally sore and frazzled, like she’d been caught up in a tornado full of meat tenderizers. But, nevertheless, a burgeoning relief slowly stilled her hands and smoothed her breathing—ushered in by those two words: you’re perfect.
“Yes, I believe I do.” Silco busied himself with straightening his dress shirt; erasing all evidence of her dismay and allowing Jinx a moment to try and collect her composure. “Would you grant me the honor of your company for the rest of the evening?”
Jinx nodded, hopping stiffly down from the counter and mirroring Silco by rubbing wrinkles from her own oversized pink shirt. Her boots made a loud thud as they slapped against the tile. She felt a bit unsteady on her legs, like a baby deer. In the past year or so, Jinx had shot up several inches in height, but failed to put on substantial mass. She looked scarcely different than she had at twelve, save for a slight sharpening of her jawline and the length of her hair—which now reached past her waist.
Silco’s emotions were not written on his sleeve as hers were, but she knew him well enough to tell he was relieved by her acquiescence.
“I mean, I can’t have you getting all lonely with nothing but boring papers for company.” Jinx sniffed, clumsily wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
Regardless of the real reason he’d asked her to stay, all Silco said, as they retraced their path down the hallway, was:
“Thank you, Jinx.”
And so their evening passed companionably. The ticking of the clock blended with the dull clamor of music and laughter seeping up from the Last Drop. It was a familiar soundtrack to Jinx; one that had accompanied many evenings spent drawing and reading and tinkering.
Silco smoked as he read; wreaths of smoke curling lazily from his cigar’s glowing tip. Jinx lay, flat on her back, atop his desk. The proximity to him made it preferable to the rafters, even though Silco had been forced to evict several stacks of books to make room for her. She doodled on her pale arms with a marker: loose, swirling cloudlike imagery. In places, smiley faces and roughly-sketched animals punctuated the abstract colors.
The sky blackened to pitch and the drunken laughter below grew raucous before Silco broke the silence. He cleared his throat, tapping ash off the end of his cigar.
“I would like to have breakfast tomorrow. Just the two of us. We can talk about—”
Jinx interrupted with a sigh of “do we have to talk about it more?”
“Yes, we do. I would be remiss if I did not insist.”
“‘kay,” Jinx said quietly, letting her decorated arms drop to her sides, limp.
“Good.” Silco lifted his cigar to his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Its billowing dissipation was illuminated by green light seeping through the window. “I am here for you, day or night, Jinx. But you cannot conceal such matters again. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Silco seldom used his business-man voice with Jinx. For the most part, he permitted her near-total autonomy. Anything she wished to have, see, or do need only be explained to him, and he would use his considerable influence to make it happen for her. Jinx could count on one hand the times Silco had laid down the law as he just had. No explosives in the house, (after an incident involving her bedroom door), and no shimmer. Not even a bit, not even once.
Silco’s demeanor softened as Jinx softly replied: “yeah, I understand.”
“Good,” he repeated. “You will never be in trouble. I promise.”
As they lapsed into silence, Jinx stared into the rafters, examining the cracks and fissures and knots decorating the woodgrain. Her gaze lowered to dance around the room. Silco had so many beautiful books; she wondered if he’d read them all. He probably had.
To the right of the desk, a collection of drawings were pinned to the wall: gifts from Jinx, accumulated over the years. Some of them were crisp and bright, others slightly corroded with sunlight. They’d been left on his desk, or pressed into his hands with a hopeful smile. He’d kept them all. Every single one.
The ashtray Silco absentmindedly tapped his cigar into, his eyes locked on the page before him, also bore the mark of Jinx. She’d swiped it off his desk the night before his last birthday and returned it that morning, scrawled upon in colorful paint. It now held a place of prominence on the desk at all times, even when the Barons came calling
On the far wall, opposite the desk, a framed photograph depicted the pair, a year or so back. Jinx’s overgrown bangs fell in her eyes as she smiled crookedly at the camera. Silco’s arm was around her.
Warmth unfolded in Jinx’s chest so intensely that her eyes burned with unexpected tears. She blinked hard, overcome by the sudden realness of the office. Everywhere she looked were her technicolor impositions upon this man’s world.
And he’d cherished every single one.
“Thank you,” Jinx whispered. Those two wavering words carried the weight of a thousand and one.
Silco’s reply, low and sincere, was only:
“Of course, my dear.”
***
Jinx was spinning.
The metal coil within her chair squeaked and squealed as she whirled faster and faster. All around, the workshop blurred into an impressionistic sea of pink and black and blue and brilliant light. Wind tugged at her hair, turning it into a blue cyclone as she spun. It dashed across her face, covering her eyes and beaming smile.
Cacophonous music, so loud it beat within her like a second heartbeat, poured from a large, golden gramophone beside her workstation. The fluid in its chemtech battery lept and danced with the heavy bass. Notes whirled around Jinx, spinning her faster, driving giddy air from her lungs.
Up until yesterday, the gramophone had resided in Silco’s office; where it was content to play austere classical recordings, somewhat warped and fuzzy with age. An ideal backdrop for serious work.
Now, it boomed and shrieked with Jinx’s own perfect soundtrack: one so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. Which, of course, was reason for Silco’s gift.
With her brain filled with joyful noise, and her entire body spun dizzy, Jinx collapsed forward onto her workstation. The world reeled and danced as she giggled. When the stars and sparkles finally ceased swirling around her head, she turned her attention back to the project lying half-assembled on the work surface.
The round little bomb had a scribbled on face and two feet which stuck out at odd angles. Out of its back jutted a wind-up mechanism, which she’d pilfered off of a children’s toy.
“Alright, little guy,” Jinx muttered, brow furrowed. “Today you’re gonna walk.”
The sheer amount of sound bouncing off every surface rendered Jinx’s determination inaudible. Nevertheless, she eagerly snapped on her goggles and grabbed up a small, oddly angled wrench.
If Mylo mocked her sincerity, she couldn’t hear him.
He’d return; that she knew for certain. It all would. All the thoughts and whispers that seeped like poison into the fissures of her mind—whenever she was tired, whenever she was alone.
But right now, all she could hear was the delightful clamor of Silco’s perfect present.
Whenever the bomb finally walked—be it today, tomorrow, or next year—she couldn’t wait to show him.
Someday, she was gonna make him proud.