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Powder has noticed that things are getting harder to do.
She used to be able to do so many things so easily, like brush her teeth, make her bed, and even just get out of bed before she’s dragged out. She’s had such a hard time recently, though. Her head has been so mean to her.
It’s not like it’s the first time the voices have gotten loud and the faces have intimidated her. It’s not the second time, or even the third–it’s probably the twenty-millionth time this has happened. Except it’s not normally this bad. Normally, she can ignore their harsh phrases and their scary looks and continue on with her day, making her bed and brushing her teeth, and even showering. It’s hard, but it’s doable and manageable, especially the more it happens, because then she finds new ways to ignore them. Like hanging out with Vi tends to quiet them down (unless she messes up), and working on her inventions helps sometimes.
But her limbs feel really heavy today, and her body really doesn’t want to leave the warmth of the covers, and her mind really doesn’t want to do anything beyond suffocating her face in her blanket. It’s probably light outside by now. She hasn’t lifted her face from the blanket. It’s hot under it. Her breath fans over her face because it just bounces off the fabric. It feels weird, uncomfortable, and she doesn’t like it, but she hates the idea of moving much more.
Vi had probably woken up a few hours ago. She normally keeps the curtains closed whenever she gets up so that Powder can sleep in a bit longer, but she had ended up falling back asleep, so it must be a few hours later. She doesn’t take short naps. Maybe it's noon. Maybe it’s later. Vi does get up early. No one else really comes into their room, at least not often, and Vi must not have come by at all aside from when she left, because otherwise she would’ve gotten Powder up. Right? She would have. She wouldn’t let Powder just sit in bed all day and waste the day away.
Her stomach hurts from not eating. Or maybe eating too much. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening, but she ate so much that she thought she’d never recover–what wishful thinking, obviously she would be hungry again. She could really go for some of those little chocolate balls that Vi had made for them a while back. Using forgotten ingredients, Vi had made the most incredible snack she had ever had. That was the only time they were able to scrounge up the materials.
Would Vi make them again if she asked? Go out of her way to get cocoa powder and whip them up? Maybe she would have the motivation to actually get out of bed and get ready if the reward was the most delicious food she’s ever had. No, that’s asking for a lot; she shouldn’t ask for that. Vander can barely get the funds to afford food–The Last Drop has been steadily dropping in customers, she knows it–and asking for something extra? That’s just putting more on his plate that doesn’t need to be there. It’s unnecessary and selfish. How could she do that?
She silently cries as the voices grow louder, berating her for even considering asking Vander to get it for her. How could she do that? “You shouldn’t be so selfish,” it says, louder and louder, repeating words and phrases that seem to never end in her head. She wishes her thoughts could be quiet. The face pops up even though she’s under the blanket; there’s no real face for it to take over. But it does anyway. She wishes she could grow used to the loudness and the craziness she experiences every day, learn how to overcome it so she can stop having people worry about her. Or maybe no one actually worries about her. Maybe she’s just imagining it. She’s just imagining it. What would people even get out of caring for her? Especially when she’s in such a useless state, unable to even get out of bed. Get out of bed. The simplest of tasks! And she can’t even do that! What is wrong with her, seriously?
She wants to apologize, but she’s not quite sure who she should be apologizing to–
The blanket is taken off her head, light protruding a bit. She closes her eyes and whimpers, a voice finally stopping the ones that are all she’s been able to hear for hours now. Before she can really understand them, though, she sits up and looks over at the window and realizes the light is from the sun setting. It’s now at least six in the evening. She finally tunes back into what Vi is saying, squinting her eyes as she looks above at her looming but comforting figure.
Instead, though, Vi is crouched down and slightly shorter than Powder, so she actually has to look down a bit. “Powder?” she hears, blinking away the sleepiness. “Are you okay? You’ve been in bed all day, the sun’s setting now.”
Powder nods and adjusts her body, stretching and looking sort of blankly at Vi before she speaks. “Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry.”
Vi sits on the bed, holding Powder’s limp hand in her own strong one. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out of it all day. Vander says he hasn’t seen you at all, and Claggor peeked his head in a few hours ago and said you were still asleep. Did something happen?”
She shakes her head. The voices are louder, meaner. “You made her worry,” they say, calling her selfish and a horrible person. “No,” she says weakly. She wants to tell the voice to shut up, but then Vi might look at her weirdly, and she’d have to confess these stupid hallucination things. She doesn’t think anyone would understand, though, and she’d rather just experience these weird days where she can’t get up if it means no one knows. Maybe Vi has them, though, or if she doesn’t, maybe she would understand.
“..der? You back?” Vi is talking. Powder shakes her head and looks at her.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Is something wrong?” Vi repeats.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Powder lies through her teeth. “Just really tired. I don’t know why.”
“Pow-pow,” Vi says sympathetically. Powder leans into her hand when she cradles her face. “Something’s wrong. Your hair’s all greasy, and you haven’t eaten today. This isn’t normal.”
The thing is, it is normal. Powder just never lets it get this bad. She always forces herself to do what she knows she needs to do instead of just. Not doing it. It makes it so that no one worries about her–plus, she always feels a little bit better after actually doing those things. She knows she could get up right now. Go take a shower. Clean her room a bit. Work on her bombs. Eat some food. But it’s so hard. Her body feels so weak. Her mind feels so heavy. She can’t tell Vi about this stuff. Vi will think she’s insane. Who has voices in their head? Who can’t even get out of bed in the morning? No one. She’s stupid and different, and she might as well be–
“Powder,” Vi says. She looks up at her, eyes wide. Her sister has always been the strongest person she knows. Surely she can help, maybe listen and understand.
She looks at her lap, plays with Vi’s fingers as she speaks. “Do you have voices in your head that make it really hard to do things? And mean faces that say everything is your fault?”
Vi shakes her head, but she doesn’t look stunned or deterred. “No, I'm sorry. Do you?” she nods. “What do they say? Do you see them now?”
Powder shakes her head. “No. Not now. Earlier, I did. They said really mean things and laughed at me. I didn’t like it.”
“I can imagine you didn’t, it doesn’t seem nice to have so many people judging your every move.”
Powder nods, looking at Vi’s nails. At the bandages that cover her hands and arms. “It’s not nice. I really don’t like them.”
“Do they ever go away?”
She nods again. “When I’m with you, they’re gone, or when I’m working on a bomb. Or just. Stuff like that.”
“When you’re distracted?”
Powder shrugs. “I guess, yeah.”
Vi nods. Smiles Powder looks up when she does. “Guess we’ll just have to be together more often, huh?” The way she smiles, Powder thinks she’s meant to be encouraging and hopeful, but Powder just looks down and nods again. Yeah. She guesses they will.
“How horrible for her. How much longer until she hates your guts?” The voices come from inside her head, but its voice echoes from the closet. She looks over there. Vi follows her gaze, asks what she’s looking at. Powder looks downcast at their hands. “He’s being mean,” she summarizes. The voice prattles on.
“The voice?”
“Voices. There are so many,” she gently corrects. There are so many voices.
“How many are talking?” Vi asks curiously, running a hand through her oily hair.
“At least five,” Powder says. “The most I’ve heard at once is seven. Three is how many I normally hear.”
“Sounds like a lot,” Vi says. “What're they saying?”
She listens, making out what they’re saying. “She’ll hate you,” Powder spits. “It’s only a matter of time before she leaves you, too. You don’t deserve this.” She’s silent, listening. Vi can only frown. “Shut up…” Powder finally mutters, face contorted into hurt and anger.
Vi steps in, using both her hands to hold Powder’s face and make her look at her. “How about we get something to eat and get you cleaned up, yeah?”
“I can’t eat,” Powder admits. “My stomach is all messed up. If I eat now, I won’t keep it down.” She wants to eat, but the voices and the anxiety make her stomach churn with unwantedness.
“Then we’ll get you cleaned up first and eat later.”
Vi doesn’t give her the chance to really think about it before she helps Powder out of bed. Strong and thick hands grab onto thin forearms and blankets, almost carrying her out of the comfort of the bed. She frowns, but knows she has to get up. At least Vi didn’t call her crazy and make her leave, or do something that the voices said she would. They walk to the washroom. “The voices are wrong, though, Powder, I hope you know that.”
“Huh?” she mutters, listening and focusing on the way their feet patter on the ground. Vi has boots on, thump-thump. Powder’s feet are bare, pat-pat.
“I won’t leave you. It could be years that have passed. I’m not going anywhere. Remember the flare? That proves it. Doesn’t matter where I am: shoot that thing off, and I’ll come running.” She closes the washroom door and looks at Powder. “I promise.”
Powder nods, mouth hung open slightly. “Anywhere? You mean it? No matter what?”
Vi starts the bath–the water isn’t super clean, but it’ll get the grease out of her hair if there’s enough shampoo. “Anywhere, doesn’t matter if I’m dead. I’ll make my way back.”
Finally, the voices have started to quiet. “You mean it?” Powder asks hopefully, desperately. Please say you mean it, that you’ll find your way back no matter what.
“With every fiber of my being,” Vi says, as if it were second nature to swear to someone–her sister–that she would always find her and be there for her. Being scared about telling her about the voices seems so silly now. “Now, come in the bath. I have to wash your hair.”
“You don’t have to,” Powder says, shy. She undresses down to her undershirt and shorts and sits in the tub anyway. She doesn’t fight beyond the initial comment, especially not when Vi’s hands work at her scalp and get out every spec of dirt and grease. The gentleness is so calming. The voices truly fade, and the faces stop riding over Vi’s pink hair. “It’s quiet,” Powder says after a minute. She has no clue if Vi responded to her initial complaint.
“The voices are gone?” Vi says as she takes a cup to rinse out the shampoo. Another covers Powder’s eyes to protect it from any soapy water. She hums and nods. “I’m glad. Those voices are mean and wrong.”
“Sometimes they feel right,” she says. “Like when I make a mistake, they say that I messed up. It makes me feel sad, but I would’ve said the same thing about myself anyway.”
“Do you say those things about yourself?” Vi asks.
“Sometimes,” Powder responds. “Only when I really deserve it.”
“I don’t think you’ll ever deserve it,” Vi says, scrubbing another round of shampoo into her hair. The scalp gets the most attention once again.
“I think I do sometimes. Like today. I couldn’t even get out of bed.”
Vi nods, “I see where you’re coming from. But you weren’t being lazy.”
“I think I was,” she counters.
“Did you enjoy lying in bed?” She’s quiet because no, she didn’t really. It was too hot, and she could feel her own breath, and she really was getting hungry before she got too hungry to eat, and she really, really wanted to get up and work on a new bomb. But she didn’t. Her limbs were too heavy, and her body just couldn’t handle moving. Her mind couldn’t either.
“No,” she admits. Vi takes the cup and gets out the shampoo again, covering her eyes.
“So were you really lazy?” Powder shrugs. If she put someone else in her position, then no, they wouldn’t be lazy, but she’s nothing except harsh on herself, so yes, she was lazy. However, that isn’t the answer Vi is looking for. Silence is better than lying.
The conversation kind of dies from there. The sound of water pouring down her back and sharp nails cleaning her hair echoes loudly in the closed room, but nothing could be heard from the outside. When Vi adds conditioner to her ends, she also hands Powder soap and tells her to wash her body well. She does, and soon hands wash out the conditioner. They don’t have a lot left. Conditioner is harder to come by than shampoo–they only use it for special occasions. This isn’t important.
“You shouldn’t have used the conditioner,” she mutters, watching as Vi goes to grab a towel to pat the hair. She comes back with an old t-shirt.
She shrugs and motions for Powder to sit on the toilet seat (in an actual towel that Vi just noticed she had grabbed). “I wanted to. You’re worth using it on.” Hands ring her hair of excess water and start to dry what can be with the t-shirt. She speaks as if she doesn’t even have to think about it. As if Powder really is worth using precious conditioner on. Worth wasting.
“Your hair is so messy,” Mylo says in her head. Just a single line. It makes her close in a bit. She kind of likes her hair messy. Mom had cut it before everything, but she was never really good with hair–that’s why both of their hair was always choppy and poorly done. She ignores the voice.
Powder nods as a towel scrunches her hair dry. Vi continues to do this for the next five minutes or so before she decides that her hair is satisfactory. She clips her wild bangs out of the way, braids what little length of hair she has, and kisses her forehead, making Powder look up and smile a bit. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “This helped a lot.”
Vi smiles and nods, reaching out a hand for her to take. “Of course, you can always ask for help, okay? No matter what.”
She smiles and takes it, nodding. “Okay. Can I have orange juice?”
Vi leads them down to the kitchen. “Sure,” she chuckles. “Think about what you want to eat, too.”
They walk to the kitchen in silence, but when they get down there, Vi whips up some mushrooms and fish, as well as some apples on the side. When Powder comments on the amount of food, Vi says she’s eating too (hence the two meals, because quite frankly, Powder doesn’t like fish, but she doesn’t have a choice half the time), and eating seems a lot more pleasant now that someone’s joining her. The apples are cut and snacked on, and the fish and mushrooms are cooked perfectly (overcooked on the mushrooms, but Powder would never say that), and together they feast and laugh. The voices leave Powder alone for once. The quiet is nice. Being with Vi is nice.
Silco took over the last drop, and even though Jinx has moved rooms, sometimes she likes to come into her and Vi’s old room, or go down into where they all used to congregate under the building. She doesn’t do much when she’s down there–sits on the couch, looks at the drinks stocked–and when she’s in her room, she doesn’t do much either. She sits on the bed, stares at her old drawings and fairylights, and looks at Vi’s bed, and sits on that too. Sometimes, when she’s really missing her sister, she reaches into her closet and puts on her clothing. Her jackets are too broad and too short, but she wears them anyway and pretends she’s eleven again, and that Vi is fourteen, and that Vander and Claggor and Mylo are alive and a room over. Secretly, she pretends that things are how they would’ve been if she hadn’t gone that one day. If Silco had never picked her up, if Vi had come home from the mission with everyone in tow. But no, the jinx just had to go and ruin everything again, didn’t she?
“Such a jinx,” she mutters before the voice can even talk. They always come whenever she’s in their old room. Always. Vi’s always joining them. The jacket makes her feel strong and protected. Like nothing can come in and harm her. It’s almost as if Vi’s arms are around her, and her back is to her chest, and her hands cradle her face.
Almost.
That’s not reality, however, and she’s reminded of this when the door creaks open and her dad (never tell him she calls him that in her head, or when no one’s around) walks in. “Jinx?” he says, closing the door behind him and walking over to her. They both sit on Powder’s old bed, back to the wall. His legs are in front of him while hers are to her chest. “What’s the matter, child?” he asks, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him, imagining that it’s Vi’s arm around her shoulder–or maybe in her head, it’s more like a mix of Vi and Silco (and Sevika, but she would really be dead if the woman knew that), and Vander and Claggor and Mylo, and Mom and Dad. Everyone who made her feel safe.
She shrugs. A lot of things are the matter, she wants to say, but how is she supposed to describe to the man who knows her best that her head is too loud, and her body is too heavy, and she kind of wants to not be here anymore. She’s eleven again, unable to get out of bed, pathetic. Vi helped her once. She hid her depression from her sister better, so that she never felt obligated to help. Forced herself to get over it.
It’s like that one day, though, that she couldn’t move. The memories are too horrible. So instead of talking, she shakes her head. “Injections?” she asks instead. He always seeks her out for them; the big baby can’t even do it himself anymore. Where would he be without her? Probably flailing his arms to try and do it himself.
“They can wait,” he says, weird injector off to the side. Peeking out from her legs, she can see the state of his eye. It can’t wait. The pulsing and purple glow in his veins makes her cringe, so instead, she forces herself to get up again. Sit across his lap and put the injection over his eye. He braces himself. Stab. He hunches over momentarily, blinking to adjust to the new dosage. “More than normal,” Jinx comments after a minute. “Normally it’s ten milliliters. Now it’s thirteen.”
“Singed recommended an upgrade after I told him of its worsening state,” Silco explains. She nods and sits back where she was before, legs still to her chest. It doesn’t really matter what he’d say. It’s almost hard to hear what’s going on around her when Mylo’s so loud and Vi’s voice is exemplifying his. A small voice that sounds like Ekko’s sticks up for her. It gives her a headache and kind of makes her want to cry. Ekko was always so nice. He must hate her now. Especially after their stupid fight. Her body is all fucked up now because of the shimmer in her veins—like father like daughter, she guesses. Maybe Silco should’ve left her to die.
He’d be better off without such a jinx messing up all his projects anyway, right?
Why did she name herself Jinx again? Powder may have fallen down a well, but she could’ve been revived. If not Powder, then why not Mouser? Or some other shitty name? Why didn’t Silco name her? Jinx, Jinx, Jinx. She used to be so creative.
Fingers are gliding through her colored hair. They’re taking out the hair ties and golden pieces and carefully undoing each chunk of hair. It takes her out of her mind. Her feet are cold. Her fingers are numb. When did it get so cold in their room? Vi, why are your fingers so warm?
A brush runs through her hair. She’s in bed. When did Vi go get a brush? Wrinkled and tanned hands remind her it’s not Vi, and she’s not eleven, and she needs to be strong. Except her body isn’t listening, and she’s been meaning to redo her braids since forever. Asking Silco to. Her dad. She never learned how. Silco used to say he learned from her mom. She always was enthralled.
Bottom to top, he brushes thoroughly. Then he takes out her other braid—when did she move? She’s facing the head of the bed. Her old crayon drawings are on the wall. The stuffed animals that are coated in dust, unmoved for years. The fairy lights don’t work. The blanket isn’t clean.
When both her braids are undone and brushed, her hair dangles on the floor due to its length. Silco has his wrinkled and old hands run through her hair, scratch at her scalp. She closes her eyes and breathes. Mylo and Vi shut up. Ekko does too. She wishes he’d keep talking.
“Feels good,” she says sluggishly. She feels eleven, under the covers for half the day. A bath run for her. A single braid is done.
“I’m glad,” Silco says. He parts her hair, starting on the braids. They take a while. He’s tired, she can tell. It’s late. Did he just finish work?
Right over middle, left over middle, right over middle, left over middle. Continue all the way down. He pulls to make sure they’re tight and don’t come undone. He doesn’t do them often. They have to be perfect. He thinks so at least. She doesn’t really think they have to be anything. Maybe braided. Doesn’t need to be good. They’re never good after more than two weeks. Sometimes she goes a month without redoing them. Schedules don’t align, not enough time for more than his injections.
One side is done. He rests it over her shoulder. She plays with the tip. “Your hair is beautiful,” he says before braiding, immediately starting to section it after saying so. “Long and blue, catches people’s eyes.”
“Mhm,” she says. “I like it.”
“I’d hope so,” he says. “It’s your hair. If you didn’t like it, we’d have to cut it all off.”
“In your dreams,” she says. He’s making playful banter with her. She tries to reciprocate it. She likes the lightness in the air. Makes the heaviness in her chest seem easier. “Never cutting my hair, not for anything.”
“Not even for perfectly made sandwiches?”
She laughs. “Not even for perfectly made sandwiches.”
(Once, long ago, and maybe if things had gone differently, she would’ve cut her hair for a date if it meant perfectly made sandwiches. Like the ones in Piltover. But in that world, things would’ve needed to be different. She can’t cut her hair when the ends still hold Vi’s delicate touches. At one point, a part of her was cradled in unconditional love without manipulation and rose colored glasses. How could she ever get rid of the one part of her that still has remnants of her sister, when sometimes, all she wants is to remember if Vi has cold or warm skin.)
Silco chuckles, “Your hair must be precious. I remember when you would’ve traded any invention for just a slice of nice bread.”
Jinx rolls her eyes. “That’s different. That hasn’t changed. I’ll trade any invention for a perfectly good slice of bread. Not even the most perfect sandwich for my hair.”
“Have you eaten today?” he asks, tying off her hair. She doesn’t answer. She hasn’t eaten in much more than just the past few hours if that’s what he’s implying, no matter the time of day. She hasn’t eaten for days. “Come down, I’ll have Theorem make you a sandwich.”
“Can’t Chuck make one?” she asks. She continues to play with the ends of her hair. She loves sandwiches. Silco must really know something is wrong inside her head. He never offers her sandwich materials. They’re expensive and hard to get.
“Chuck doesn’t work here anymore,” he says. Because he doesn’t. Chuck hasn’t worked at The Last Drop in years. When she was eleven, Chuck worked there. Now it’s Theorem, and he gets paid maybe half of what Vander offered. Money is money, though, especially in the Undercity. Maybe if things were like how Silco wanted Zaun to be, the value of currency could be fixed, and ten coins an hour could be a livable wage. Theorem never denies tips.
She shrugs. “Still want Chuck to make me a sandwich. I bet he’d cut the cheese thin.”
“Show Theorem how thin you want it,” Silco says. “Chuck isn’t coming back, and you always say you’ll show Theorem another time, the next time you have a sandwich. Now’s as good a time as ever.” He towers over her next to the bed. His feet are planted on the floor. Her body still faces the headboard. Mouser and Whisker’s friends’ corpses are on the floor. Their faces are on the walls. Vi’s old rabbit sits on her side of the bed, where she’d crawl in after one of them had a nightmare.
“I don’t want to show Chuck today,” she says.
“Then come downstairs and eat a sandwich with thick cheese,” Silco says.
She’s still so cold. “I want a blanket.”
“Stand up,” he says. And with help, she does. She stands hunched, shoulders in, and body shaken. She’s skin and bones. Can she even stomach a sandwich, she wonders? A blanket is draped over her shoulders. The cold is fended off for now. Her shield makes it more bearable to go downstairs.
Together, father and daughter sit at the bar. Theorem startles upon seeing them both. He doesn’t comment on Jinx’s blanket or pajamas, asking what they both want and getting to work. A drink for Silco and a sandwich for Jinx. An orange juice too, in her favorite cup. Drinks were out soon enough. She got a straw. She feels childish. Silco drinks his booze out of a fancy cup, sitting next to her on the barstool.
Her sandwich is served. The cheese is too thick. Silco looks amused as Jinx pulls it apart, scowling at the thickness. He waits for her to tell him to redo it. When she doesn’t say anything, Silco asks instead, and this time, Theorem asks if the thickness is how she wants it. When it’s right (after the third try), she can’t help but smile a little as she eats her perfectly made sandwich and her orange juice.
She’d never give up her hair. Not with Vi’s delicate touches on her tips, or Silco’s old fingers deep in every strand. Not even for this perfectly made sandwich.
Is there anything more undoing than a daughter?
Silco had called her perfect in his last moments. Said he’d give up everything for her. At that moment, Jinx thought she would never understand how someone could want to protect someone so much, even if they cause them harm. She thinks now she understands.
She has a kid. She has a goofy smile, eyes that are much too bright, and brown hair that bounces with every step. She has a silent laugh and expression-filled hands, and so much love in her heart that it reminds her of Powder. Especially when she dyed her hair blue (they still have to have their rematch, Stinkmaw needs to make his great comeuppance and take first place!), insisting that she wanted to be like Jinx. She asked for new clothes slowly and wanted to know everything about Jinx. Things she hadn’t really ever thought about.. Her favorite color is green (but she likes pink too), her favorite food is sandwiches, and her favorite animal is tied between a bunny and a monkey. Vander always called her monkey, she explained, and Vi had a toy bunny. Isha said her favorite colors were orange and blue, she doesn’t have a favorite food, and she’s taken a liking to bunnies as well. She insisted on having a pair of bunny ears to wear around, and that one of them had to be flopped over. Jinx gave in and made them for her, and when she wasn’t wearing her helmet, she was wearing them.
She wanted Jinx to fix up her helmet, too, but said it was too boring. Together, they made one eye an X for Jinx, the other a spiral for her, and they added blue spikes and white teeth. Pink paint got on it from spray painting. Isha never tried to wipe it off, saying it made it better. Jinx added an X on the back, and Isha just about screamed in delight.
So Jinx thinks she understands now what Silco had meant months ago, when she had shot him by accident. It’s been about eight months. Isha’s hair has grown out, just long enough to be braided, but hardly long enough to keep them in the style. Jinx insisted that her hair shouldn’t be braided yet. “It’ll just keep coming out, kid, then Sevika will have to redo it all the time.”
Isha made a face, saying how she didn’t honestly care and just wanted to have two short braids. Sevika teach me, she signed. Jinx sighed. “Ask her yourself.”
Isha did. Sevika showed her. After a few times, she got it down pat and always had her hair in two short braids, redoing them multiple times a day since they always fell out. Eventually, Jinx asked Sevika to teach her, too, and the woman had just laughed. “Finally taking yours out?”
“No,” Jinx said. She hadn’t taken them out since Silco had last braided her hair. Months. Her hair is filthy, but she can’t seem to find the strength to leave something so special behind, no matter how dirty. Maybe one day. “I wanna braid Isha’s hair, she’s been getting frustrated lately at how much is on the ends.”
So, Sevika sits down with Jinx and teaches her on her bang piece. Her hands, so used to meticulous detail, have a hard time at first with such easy motions, but after five minutes, she can do it with her eyes closed. She thanks Sevika, leaving, promising to pay for a drink.
When she gets back to their liar (not hers anymore, not since the little rascal put up drawings on the wall and started to color on the walls, and she added safety railings), she sees Isha in front of the mirror, attempting to rebraid her hair once again. Jinx sits behind her and pulls out the messy style, brushing through her loose strands and making sure to get out all the knots. Her hair is greasy. She needs a bath. “You gotta wash your hair soon,” Jinx comments, separating two halves anyway. Maybe she’s instilling bad habits, but it doesn’t need to be soon.
Isha rolls her eyes and signs You talk, making Jinx snort.
“Maybe I’m one to talk, but at least I can keep my braids in.” She starts on the left, letting what won’t fit in the braid out, and as fluffy as it can be.
Her eyes go wide and offended, slightly embarrassed. Hard me! Short hair.
Jinx smiles softly. “I know, kid, don’t worry. You did good. Just thought I could lend a hand.” She’s making sure to get the braid as nice as possible, down as far as she can, and when the short thing is complete, she grabs a hair tie and secures it. She works on the other side, too.
Feel nice, she signs. Jinx says she’s glad and watches how the girl’s shoulders relax, her body goes slack, and she starts to lean into Jinx’s hands. So loving, trusting, open. She used to feel this way with Silco. Back when she was still Powder, and instead of her adoptive dad, he was her uncle, and she was desperate for some sort of comfort in the fires and tragedy of the monkey blast. It’s weird to see so much of her younger self in Isha.
When she finished the other side, Isha’s face lit up again. She puts on her miner’s helmet and hugs Jinx, making the taller almost fall, still on the floor. She hugs her back, obviously, watching how she leaves once again to admire the braids. She’s practically bouncing off the walls. It makes Jinx smile.
When Isha settles a bit, she motions to Jinx’s braids. Me? she asks.
Is there anything more undoing than a daughter?
Jinx doesn’t think she’s ready to let go of Silco’s braids. Except she knows they’re messy, stray strands, absolutely covered in filth. She knows they need to be washed and redone. They can be washed another day, when Isha washes her’s, so they can do it together. For now, Silco’s fingers can be indented on the strands next to Vi’s and sometimes Sevika’s. Jinx would do anything to make Isha happy, even if it means going forth when she isn’t ready.
“Sure,” she says, “why not?”
She sits where Isha tells her, watching as she grabs a brush and some water. She sits on the floor and takes out the hair ties, making her way up. Watch, she signs. I make new.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Jinx smiles. Through the mirror, she can see Isha work. See her bite her lips, a habit she picked up from Jinx’s own intense focus moments. She smiles, telling her to stop, that she’ll make her lips all chapped. Isha throws the same look from before, telling her to stop being a hypocrite. Jinx smiles and stays quiet.
The only sounds between them are Isha’s hands working, her hair being brushed (including the matted bits, which she has to suppress a wince), and the spray bottle occasionally. Both her braids are loose around her, making Isha smile at the length of them. She runs her fingers through the strands of her long hair and massages her scalp, like how Jinx had.
Isha’s hands are so small as they grab chunks of hair. The girl is so young. Not even eleven. She says she’s nine, but she looks smaller. She held up nine fingers so proudly when she told Jinx that. Jinx had to pretend that it didn’t break her heart to see such a young and small girl on her own, not even double digits. When did her parents abandon her? How did she even survive so long? Many Undercity kids live until adulthood, she knows being one of them, but a lot of the ones who grow up without guidance pass by in the streets from lack of water or nutrition, or even sometimes from the gray and illness.
It’s the little things that make Isha happy, though. Trying new foods, getting a pair of bunny ears, and braiding her hair. The kid is easy to please.
Like, she signs. Color, long, she struggles for the next word, but shows it by holding up her gold casings, accessories.
“Thank you,” Jinx says. “I like your hair too. Your helmet stands out.”
She thanks her as well, smiling brightly. Match later, she shows by putting a hand where her hair ends and then where Jinx’s ends.
“It’ll be a while until we match,” she says. “One day, though. You sure you want this long hair? It can be a burden to care for and in battle.”
The girl nods, taking part of Jinx’s hair and placing it over her own, resting her chin on Jinx’s shoulder. She pretends it’s her own, pointing a finger gun and shooting fake enemies, pretending there’s wind blowing it all over by using her other hand. Jinx can’t help but laugh, “Ha! That’ll be the day. Jinx and Isha, side by side, fighting all the bad guys. Just don’t go running off without me, okay? I gotta teach you how to avoid getting pulled by the hair. Hurts like a… bad, thing.”
Isha giggles silently and nods, wrapping her arm around Jinx’s neck, hair still over her own. So peaceful. Isha looks at them in the mirror, cheek leaning on her shoulder now. Jinx isn’t really sure what she’s doing or why she stopped, so instead of wondering, she wraps an arm around the younger girl, staring at her back in the mirror.
They stay like that for a minute. Isha closes her eyes after a minute. She looks so childlike and peaceful. Just looking at her through the mirror makes Jinx want to cry, seeing a child so. Everything. Her guard is down. She trusts Jinx, no matter how much of a jinx she is. She wants to be with her, and she loves her, and before she knows it, tears build up in her eyes. Such a simple moment, reminding her of what unconditional love is. With Vi, unconditional love was caring for one another and the constant encouragement. With Silco, it was soft talks in the dead of night and companionship. With Isha, it’s company. It’s adoration. It’s a do-over. It’s care. It’s gentleness. It’s playful banter. It’s a laugh. It’s cuddling. It’s a sassy look. It’s encouragement. It’s everything and more.
Isha settles more, sits in Jinx’s crossed legs. She’s nestled perfectly, her legs bent over Jinx’s. Her back rests against Jinx’s chest. Her tiny arms are resting against her stomach, in the V that her body makes. Jinx takes pieces of hair and places them on Isha’s shoulder, watching as she smiles and fidgets with the pieces in her fingers. Small, young. She’s seen so much hate and anger, yet it seems like her small body holds none of it.
Jinx wraps her arms around Isha’s, leaning her head on the girl’s shoulder now. Isha turns slightly, raising a hand to wipe away the tears that are escaping Jinx’s eyes. Neither says anything. Isha just kisses her cheek and leans into her warmth, into the body that holds her with so much care. Into the body that would sacrifice anything for her.
She’s sure she understands Silco now. Isha may not be her daughter, maybe she’s something more adjacent to a sister, but the small girl that is sitting on her lap means more to her than life itself. She’s found joy again because of this small body. She’s found a reason to smile again. A reason to wake up in the morning. Maybe that’s what Silco saw in her: a reason to smile. A thing to protect.
At first, he definitely wanted to use her. Vander always said that Silco would do anything to gain an edge in the world. But as time went on, there was more than just manipulation. Big baby could do his injections, just took him forever, and was an emotional toll. It was easier to have someone else do it. Plus, he always asked her how she was. Made sure she showed up. He didn’t need her for anything, though. Didn’t need to give her a liar either, or keep the ashtray she painted, or let her in on conversations she definitely wasn’t supposed to hear. He listened to her gossip too, about everything going on. Said it kept him in the loop, but every time he hummed or went wide-eyed at her information, it was hard to believe it wasn’t also to make her feel heard, like even her silly thoughts are important.
So maybe the love she has for Isha is different. It was never manipulated, and more so annoyed, before it quickly turned to fondness—much faster than Silco’s love for her. She and Silco never had bug fights, and he joined her in inventing, or even the light and easy banter that she’s learned to love.
She shakes her head. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She understands. She’d never let Sevika undo her braids, or sit in her lap, or wipe away her tears. She’d never let anyone in her life get this close to her. But with Isha? It’s second nature.
“You’re a cute kid, y’know that?” Jinx smiles softly, reaching her hand up to pinch her cheek playfully. She moves her head to the side to get out of it, scowling (except it’s not really a scowl, it’s more of an… annoyed frown?).
Stop, she signs, as if that would prevent Jinx from taking both her hands and pinching both cheeks. Isha stands up and looks down at Jinx, rubbing her cheeks. Hard.
“Sorry Ish, didn’t mean it,” she apologizes, watching the girl from the mirror go behind her and start to separate her hair, continuing her task from earlier. She nods in lieu of acceptance and has Jinx hold the left side of her hair so it stays out of the way.
Isha, with her small hands, takes the big chunk of wet hair and starts to braid it, soaking it in more water if she deems necessary and brushing through knots when she finds them. It’s a methodical action, taking her five minutes to get the base how she thinks looks best. Working her way down, she adds the bullet casings whenever she decides it looks right. The first one ends up near her elbow, the second near her mid-thigh. The pieces of divided hair are hard for her to work with. Her hands really are small.
She reaches the end. It takes her about twenty minutes, with constant restarting or redoing. Over double how long Silco took to do one side near the end of his life. Even more than when he was first learning braids. She appreciates the care that Isha’s putting into her.
Then she works on the second braid. It goes by a little faster, but her fingers still struggle. Through the mirror, Jinx watches her. Her face, her eyes, her helmet, her hands, her body. She sits on the floor as she works on the end, right next to Jinx, making sure to cross the right pieces. Her eyebrows are furrowed, her lips are chapped. She ties off her hair and adds the bullet casings after this time, one near her stomach and the other on her knee. When they both stand, Jinx admires the quality of the braid, sees all the dedication that the girl has put into it. They’re neater than Silco had ever done.
The bullet casing, the one around her stomach, is about the height of Isha, which she points out as she holds her hand to her head and levels it with the accessory. “I see,” she says. “Better not get any taller than me, how will we keep track of your height, hm?” she jokes.
Isha shakes her head. No want.
“You don’t wanna be taller than me? Why?”
No— she shows her by hugging her waist.
“Why wouldn’t you get hugs?” she asks, confused, bending down so she can hug her properly.
She shakes her head, using her hands to adjust Jinx’s position. Her head rests on top of Isha’s, her arms casing her to her chest, while tiny arms wrap around her shoulders.
“Ah,” she croaks. “Yeah, I see what you mean, Ish.”
If she were taller, she feels as though she wouldn’t be safe, finding absolute solace in Jinx’s hold. She ducks her head to fit in the crack of Isha’s shoulder, holding the girl as close as she can to her body.
Together, they embrace, Jinx finally seeing just how undoing a daughter can be when she breaks down into tears.
The hair that Isha had braided so wonderfully is thrown against the rotten floor as guards linger above her, their rough fingers tugging at the strands without care. Without the knowledge that she hates when people touch her hair. Knowing the last person to braid her hair took an hour because she wanted to add flowers and hair clips. Now, instead of only being touched by Vi, Silco (and at times Sevika), and Isha, it’s being disrespectfully torn apart by randos.
Their fingers waste no time threading through her hair, removing the bullet casings—the one that marked her height. It moved up an inch. How tall is she again? Up to her ribcage?
By the time they’re done with her hair, they remove her lace and anything else that she could’ve used to potentially harm her. As if she can’t just strangle herself with her long hair anyway.
Her hair is tainted as they throw her in the cell, body heavy and unmoving. She lands on her side, slowly crawling to the farthest corner and sitting there, knees to her chest. Long, blue hair scatters the floor. Tainted. Forever bad. Unsaveable.
She should just chop it all off. Maybe the harsh memories would fade away, too. It might become easier to breathe if the weight of her hair were removed. But then all their touches would fade too. Is it worth it?
Days pass. She doesn’t move from her spot.
The guard brings her food—fed once daily, her meal is a bowl of rice, a small slice of bread, and a glass of water. Except this time, it’s not the normal guard. It’s Caitlyn.
Their conversation is quick. “I didn’t know she was there” sums up everything. She had no idea the matriarch of the Kiramman’s was there, sitting at the table with everyone else. She was just consumed by grief and hatred. She only saw red. The only thing on her mind was to launch Fishbones and destroy what kept Piltover as the powerhouse they were instead of becoming like Zaun. What made them continue their rule over the Undercity.
She has no idea if Caitlyn understood what she meant. She only knew that when Vi came later, she had to leave her locked in the cell. Tricked her into trading places. “You don’t need to feel guilty anymore; you can be happy.”
She has to break the cycle. For Vi. For Piltover. For everyone else who’s been cursed by her jinx. The last thing she hears as she escapes is Vi’s pleas for her to stay, but she doesn’t turn back. Continues forward.
By the time she’s back in Zaun, she has to hide in the alleyway so she can break down. Her knees give out, and she relies on her arms to keep her upright. Ugly sobs leave her mouth and her body. Like the time she was eleven and she fucked up everything with her monkey bomb, or the time she killed Silco on steroids. Everything is hitting.
Her hair is tainted. Disgusting. It leaves her trying to tear out handfuls at a time as she wails and screams, blubbering incoherent words. Stupid Mylo and Vi and voices overlap, making her scream more in the loneliness of the alleyway. She needs to cut off her obnoxious blue hair; the annoying burden needs to be gone now. She huffs her way to stand, forcing herself to go back to her liar, to listen to her hair drag on the floor. Her back is hunched. If she could straighten it, her hair wouldn’t be coated in dirt. The Last Drop is all she can focus on.
And when she’s bathed in the golden glow, she cries in relief. She makes her way through the familiar place. Vander gave her the juice in her mom’s cup, sandwiches at the bar, sitting on the couch below the surface, sitting on Silco’s desk, and going back to their shared room. Everything kind of hits. Downstairs, she goes to her comfort, ignoring the drawings nailed to the wall. The one of Isha and her holding hands haunts her most, but also the one where they’re at a fruit stall eating, and in the library reading, and where Sevika is with them at a breakfast table. All of them are…
She grabs the scissors. Cuts off her hair while looking in the same mirror she always does when Isha braids her hair. Still crying, more tamed, she doesn’t look back. Chunks fall to the floor at a time. It’s up to her shoulders when she’s done, uneven ends and blue stray hairs everywhere. The ground is coated, her body is covered.
The pieces of hair feel so heavy in her hands. All sorts of memories, gone, without any sort of thought.
As soon as the action hits her, she freezes and stares down at her hands, which clutch the blue hair tightly. She did it. She cut off her hair. She cut off the last remains she has of Vi, of Silco, of Sevika, of Isha. All gone. With just a few snips.
The next little bit is kind of a blur. She remembers grabbing anything she could think of to try and reattach her hair. She tried staples, tape, a glue gun, more. All she ended up doing was fraying her ends, making her hair even shorter. She lost more. Vi’s strong fingers from her youth are at the tips, Silco and Sevika share the midsection, and Isha takes the top. Now, instead of a little bit of Isha, there is only where the rando’s had taken her braids apart. Even if the hair was tainted, it was alive and real, and the memory lived on. Now it lies at her fingertips.
In another spur-of-the-moment decision, she looks at her bedside (kind of, she looks at the space where she and Isha cuddled on the couch-bed thing) and sees a bomb. It’s in her hands before she can think of what she’s doing.
Then she’s standing at the edge of the railing. When did she take off the safety railings? Oh, they’re ripped off to the side. No wonder her hands hurt.
The next second, Ekko appears.
Ekko appears?
Genius and Madness are sitting in Ekko’s room in his tree sanctuary. Boy Savior’s saved half the Undercity in the wake of the upcoming war. Who knew.
She’s sitting in front of him, facing a different mirror in his room. He sits behind her, a pair of scissors between his fingers. He saved her after multiple attempts to end her life—she could tell, even if he hadn’t said so, the soot mark on the floor wasn’t there when she originally tried (and when she told him that, he didn’t know how that was possible but went with it anyway). When he told her about the Z-drive, it only confirmed her suspicions. Apparently, she tried to kill herself five times. (Six, really, but neither of them wanted to count the time on the bridge.)
“I’m not that good with cutting hair,” he says for the millionth time, watching her through the mirror the same way she did with Isha.
She looks slightly up at him. “I know, you’ve said this already. Just cut the hair. Worst thing that happens is I go short as hell.”
And that’s what ends up happening. Or at least, that’s what Jinx assumes will need to happen every time Ekko hisses and has to recut a part he already worked on. And she really knows that’s what happened when Ekko finishes and apologies are slipping off his tongue before she can even look. He had her turn around the mirror so it could be a surprise, so when she turns it around, she sees it. It’s short, really short, and it’s uneven and choppy all around, but it’s also completely her style.
“—ry Jinx, I can get one of the girls to try and fix it if you’d like—”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay,” she says. She runs her hand through the short hair, feeling the weight difference. Lighter. She’s covered in hair, but her neck isn’t being touched constantly by a river, and her back feels the cold air. Her whole body feels bare without her signature braids. “I like it.” It’s like Vi’s.
“Are you sure?” Ekko says, running his hands through her hair too, fixing her bangs through the reflection. “Seriously, I won’t be offended or anything if you want Rhea to do something with it.”
“No, I’m sure,” she nods. “But is there a seamstress here? I wanna… change things up a bit, for the final battle. Might as well go all out with the new hair, right?” she chuckles, slightly nervous.
He smiles softly in the mirror and nods softly back. “Yeah, ‘course. Hmmm… Leora might know how to sew. Either her or Swan would be your best chance.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll talk to them later.”
He stays silent and nods in place of another welcome, still messing with her hair. “It’s so weird to see it so short,” he says softly. Because it is. It’s so weird, and she doesn’t really know if she likes it or not, but it’s how it is now, so she has to deal with it.
“It’s definitely different,” she agrees, her fingers joining his own in the mess of short strands. His nails are visible through the strands that are too short. “Can we dye it too?”
“Don’t like the blue?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Nah, that’s not it.” How does she describe it? Everything she’s experienced? Between everything, her hair has become nothing more than a reminder of her burdened past. It had even become a hindrance in battle. Sevika would always make fun of her and pull her hair during their spars. Her fingerprints are in the mess on the floor, along with everyone else she’s ever had history with.
Ekko sees her trying to piece her words together. He lets her, staying silent, reassuringly messing with the newness.
Jinx looks in the mirror at them. “You would’ve loved her,” she says.
“What was she like?” Ekko asks. He has no doubt he would. He’s asked what she was like a million times. Every time Jinx unconsciously smiles—he’ll ask a million times more. She says something different each time.
“She loved messing with my hair, too. She wanted to copy my braids, so she learned from Sevika. One time, she spent an hour just to rebraid them. They were filthy.”
“When it grows, we can do braids again,” Ekko says.
Jinx shakes her head. “I wanna dye it purple. A strand or two. It was her favorite color, even if she never wore it or said so. I know it,” she says. “It was also mom's hair color, and if you combine Vi's and my hair, it’s purple. I think it works pretty well.”
In the mirror, their eyes meet. He nods, settling on his legs finally. “So everyone gets a piece of you but me? What happened to Genius and Madness?” he teases.
She shakes her head and rests it on his shoulder. “Rest is all yours, Boy Savior, but only if I can do the same.”
Teasing the rest of the night, Jinx’s hair is dyed purple (only a stripe though, and Ekko had spent an hour to make sure the piece they got was even and perfect and it made her heart hurt in ways it hadn’t in a while), and Swan finished her outfit, and Ekko has a spray paint can in his hand while she finishes getting dressed.
When the hood is on, he stands in front of her, seeing her in the finished look, beaming with pride. “I love it,” he says instantly, “but it’s missing something.”
“Mark away, Genius,” she says, posing like a starfish with a pink can in her own hand. She plans to paint him in her colors when he’s done.
He covers her in random stripes and blots and hourglasses, and when he turns his back, she draws her monkey on his giant jacket. It’s pink and obnoxious, and it makes her heart swell with pride. She redoes his facepaint and carves hourglasses into the jewelry on his locs.
Looking at them both in the mirror, they stand side by side, pride overtaking their statures. The markings they each left on each other shine brightly against all the faded and dull colors, making them stand out and smile. “We look pretty good, I gotta say,” she says.
“If we looked anything less than chaotic, I’d have thought that you were Powder.”
“As if! She sounds so stuck up sometimes.”
“Stuck up? No!” he laughs. “She was like you except… not…”
“Crazy?”
“Yes!”
“Crazy is like ninety percent of my personality,” Jinx deadpans. “She ain’t me.”
“Crazy is debatable,” Ekko says. “Unpredictable? Yes. Absolutely. Intelligent? Without a doubt. But crazy? That implies you don’t have sanity.”
“I don’t.”
“And yet you’re going to help fight in the war! Seems pretty sane to me.”
“If anything, this proves my point! Batshit!” she shakes his shoulders. “We both are!”
Ekko shrugs. “Kind of in our nature, isn’t it? Zaunites and all.”
“Well fuck, I wouldn’t wanna be a damn Piltie.”
“Exactly, so off to fight in the war we go!” Ekko smiles as he grabs her hood and covers her face with it, scrambling away as she takes it away from her face.
She smirks with an edge of competition. “You’re so on!”
She doesn’t use the shimmer still running through her veins as she catches up to him, lets herself win fair and square. She caught him in a surprise attack from a high branch. Landed on top of him, which knocked the wind out of him, but made her cry out in triumph and get off soon after. He sarcastically laughs and then actually breaks out into laughter when she starts to as well, and they end up on the floor in a pile of uncontrollable laughter for five minutes before Scar calls them over to help with building. They go over without complaint and tease each other the whole time they’re working–well, Jinx is painting the decorations; the bunny ears and the spirals. Ekko switches between helping her and helping secure the rest of the ship in place.
By the end of the night, Jinx rests on Ekko’s floor in the firelight's hideaway, stomach with a full meal and clean hair. Ekko rests in his bed slightly above her, curled on his side. They’re both staring at each other in the silence, and it kind of makes them both want to giggle at being caught staring, but instead, neither of them talks or giggles. They stay silent and look, admiring.
“The short hair suits you,” Ekko says after probably thirty minutes of staring.
“Thanks,” she says. “I had a pretty great hairdresser, but don’t tell him that.”
Ekko laughs, “Never crossed my mind.”
The silence overrules again, and neither tries to take down its tyranny. Until Jinx does.
“Can I sleep in your bed?” Her words slur, her eyes close, but her question still rings loud enough for Ekko. No one not in the room could hear the vulnerability in her request.
Instead of answering, he scoots to the wall and lifts the covers, watches as Jinx places the towel on her pillow in case the dye stains, and gets comfortable. Now they’re closer, looking at each other. Both on their side. Their faces almost touching, their breaths mingling.
Jinx may be the one who reaches her hand out to his, but he’s the one who holds it close and firm against his chest, thumb running along her pale and bony skin. It’s dark in the room. He can see the glow in her eyes from the shimmer. She can see the light from the moon in his.
“It’s nice being here,” she says, as if any word she says could break the softness they have between them. “Warm, fed, accompanied.” She pauses, “I’m scared this is all a dream.”
“It’s not,” Ekko says quickly, hand cupping her face and rubbing the tiredness against her cheeks as it starts to seep into both of their skins. The calming motion is copying his thumb. It’s lulling her to sleep more.
“Seems too good to be true.”
“It is,” Ekko says.
“No way,” Jinx partially teases, partially doesn’t. “It has to be. We’d never be sharing a bed like this in real life. Never be on your side after all this shit. This is something Powder would do.”
Ekko shrugs. “Maybe Powder’s still alive, covered by age and trauma. Maybe she just changed her name to Jinx. Changed her look.”
Jinx shrugs back. “Maybe,” she whispers, looking at their hands. Hers are clasped in his. Held so gently. Almost makes her want to tear up. How can someone, especially someone as great as Ekko, hold her so carefully? As if she could shatter when they both know she will do anything but break. She almost does cry, covering it up as she pretends to get something out of her eye. “Seems kinda scary if she is.”
They writhe in the silence until suddenly, Jinx breaks it again.
“...Would you care if she were alive?”
“No,” Ekko says instantly. Upon hearing the words from his own mouth, he backtracks and stumbles over his words, trying to explain that obviously he would care, but it wouldn’t matter to him because whoever she is is perfect and incredible and all these sappy adjectives that are so not Ekko. She just laughs softly and yawns, laughing more after that.
After a minute of making fun of him, they both still. “I would care,” he clarifies seriously. “But it wouldn’t matter if she were or not. Whoever you want to be, whatever name you want to be called. We’ll go with it.”
“Jinx,” Jinx says. “Call me Jinx.” Her words are saying Jinx, but her posture and her gentleness and her vulnerability all scream Powder, or maybe she’s some combination of both of them now, and they shouldn’t be seen as two people.
“Jinx,” Ekko says.
“Jinx,” Jinx repeats giddily.
So much quiet. Their breathing barely covers the would-be patterns of outside bugs’ footprints. Their eyes keep darting back to one another. Softly. Until they’re both just staring at one another, smiling. Sleep is so close to overtaking them.
He runs a hand through her hair, massages her scalp with his blunt nails. He doesn’t seem to care about possibly getting dye on his hands, smiling when she leans into his hand slightly. He moves her head to rest against his chest, nails still doing God's work and tiring her out beyond belief from the warmth alone. “Feels good,” she mumbles against his night shirt, body warmth exemplifying one another’s and making the whole bed as warm as a bakery.
“Yeah?” he asks rhetorically, absolutely not expecting an answer from her. She nods anyway and slowly starts to close her eyes, holding onto his shirt even in her daze. He smiles and leans his head atop hers, letting their legs intertwine under the blanket. “Sleep well, Jinx,” he whispers.
She’s asleep before she can even respond, and that, by far, is the best night of sleep Jinx has had in a long, long time.