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“... Someone worth building it for.”
Tired pink eyes look him up and down, from the glowing chamber at his side to the soot on faded facepaint, the fresh cut marking the corner of his brow. Her chest rises with the smallest intake of breath, and when she releases it even the will to end flushes out of her.
He waits for permission. A small flick of the eye to the side, a slight loosening of grip gives it to him. One, two steps closer. Fingers loosen wider around the blinking bomb. A third step, smaller, and the base of her neck gathers inwards, pulls the top of her arm back. He waits again, raises his hand low between them, turns his palm to face up. Is it okay?
Her shoulder unfurls, lowers so slowly until she finally allows herself to reach out. He extends ever so slightly more, just to make it a little easier. Her fingers are frail, pale, raw and hurt and red at the edges but for the one of cold scratched brass. They reach out, tentative and scared until the points meet his glove and grasp it tight, the heel of her palm digging into its centre. He closes his thumb over taut, cold knuckles and helps her hand sink in.
Can I? he holds, and the bomb slips out, its pulsing pink glow swallowed by the depths.
Now she lets her elbow curl in for him, uncoils the vines in her back so it can crumple into his nearing embrace. He gathers her arm in his, covers her hands into the palm of his glove and up to the shallow heaving of her chest. The feeling is of a past life, an old memory, how he reaches around and pulls her back, holds her close, how warm and gentle it all is. Everything was heavy but for now she can't feel even a single ounce, and she's able to loosen her shoulders and lift her lips.
Eyes shut, neither need them right now. Quiet breaths, deep and slow as they want. Nothing to chase, nothing to run from. They don't even need to move. She can feel for the creases of his gloves or the knitted seams of his skin and he's right there, content just in knowing she's at ease.
“Tired,” she murmurs, eventually.
“Okay.” His brow nods against brittle partings of blue. His other arm moves back from her collar but she pulls him in again.
“No... here.”
“Alright... I got you.” He shifts his hold to the top of her arm and offers it a reassuring squeeze.
They move in a slow, careful ballet. He helps her turn until she eventually faces him, though she keeps her chin pointed stubbornly low. He guides her gently down, his palms cradling her elbows and her nails clamped tightly to his forearm. They both kneel but she still doesn’t look at him, just slumps onto him, head resting in the crook of his neck. He holds still for her, supports her sides as the top of her back rises and falls with quiet breaths. When she wants to move again he helps her do so, lowers her carefully to the floor, rigid and stiff as she may be. And then he joins her right there, just opposite her on the harsh steel.
Now there’s nothing, nothing to do other than be with her, watch over her. How her half-lidded eyes wander from the floor to him; pupils in foreign dull pink, set in sockets running with dark marks of recent tears. How her arm lays still and limp over her side; joints too stiff, skin too scarred, nails too worn. He wishes she’d find some other place to rest, any place other than the unforgiving steel floor that digs into her bones. It hurts that she finds enough comfort to lay on that floor. It hurts that the soul has been stripped bare from her clothes and cut right out of her hair. But still he watches over her. When she sleeps, when she wakes, when she tries to sleep again; he’s still there.
Eventually it's clear she can't rest easily anymore and he reaches out between them, knuckles flat on the floor, palm facing up again.
“Come with me,” he whispers.
She stops fidgeting and her hand slides slowly, roughly towards his, stopping just as their fingertips meet. “Where.”
“Somewhere safe,” his thumb feels softly for hers, “promise.”
She searches him again and he tries to show her the truth. He fears she won't see it, his eyes won't be enough to show all the care he wants to give her. But her hand finally lays over his, closes around it with the slightest pressure.
She lets him help her up, lets him pull his own jacket over her shoulders and crouch to offer his back. She takes it, loops thin arms loosely around. He hoists her up and carries her out of the dark and into the grey, through meandering lanes emptied by the looming shadow of war. She doesn't utter a single word the whole way, just hangs her head over the front of his shoulder.
Scar guides him to his room without so much as a questioning look when they finally arrive, out of sight of the rest of the sanctuary already over capacity from refugees.
Ekko sets her down on his bed and she instinctively pulls her knees to her chest, buries her face in them. He sits just to be close for her, close enough to see the picked skin around her nails, the shadows of neglect along the thinned contours of her joints, the evidence of tears painted dark on her cheeks. The jagged scars along her arm.
“Stay,” she croaks when he stands.
“Just getting something from the other room,” he whispers, reassuring her with a grounding touch to her shoulder, “I'll be right back, okay?”
He pats her arm lightly and her gaze follows him all the way as he crosses past a wall by the top of the bed. She takes comfort in the sound of the muted shuffling of his feet; he's keeping to his word, he's still close. Why is he? Why for her? She almost killed them again. Has he forgotten that?
He returns a minute later and joins her side on the bed. He sets a small bowl on the bedside and brings a thick towel between them. “Can I?”
She only lowers her head and stares at the thing. She won’t reject him, no energy to. He can waste his time on her if he wants.
Ekko dampens the towel and brings it slowly to her, smooths it gingerly on the back of her hand. There are those old memories again. Warmth, softness.
He takes her hand in his and pulls the towel along smudged scratched skin, smooths over the redness of her knuckles. He soothes the raw half-moons of her cuticles, her stiff fingers; the fibres catch in the sharp joints of brass in the middle digit. He swallows a lump in his throat when reddish brown pollutes the towel and he turns it over to use the other side. He returns to her, to her palms, her wrists, her shoulders. He takes his time tending patiently to every inch and she lets him; truth be told, there’s a pleasure just in being clean.
But he’s not done, he needs to do more. He raises a thumb to her jaw, caresses it, gently raises it in a request. It takes a moment, but a slow blink gives him permission. She watches the unearned tenderness in those sparkling brown eyes, the ones dwelling in the dull pink in hers. He dabs at her distressed brow, at her strained temples. He finally reaches the sunken pits under her eyes, and her lips part slightly when he traces ever so slowly those dark streaks running down her cheeks, fading shade by shade until they’re finally gone and he can breathe a little easier.
“Here,” he unfurls a bundle of fabric with a roll of bread in it but she turns her head away. “Come on, just a bit.”
She keeps herself hunched inwards. “Wanna sleep.”
“You can, just this first. Shouldn't sleep hungry.”
She takes a few moments to make her mind up, then finally pulls some chunks off the bread and washes them down with sips of a sweet drink from Ekko’s flask. She doesn't eat much, less than Ekko had hoped, but enough to settle his nerves.
When she does lay down it's stiff and unsure, her eyelids refusing to stay still and her breath unwilling to slow. She said she wants to sleep but she doesn't know how, like she’s pretending she likes that horrible fearsome thing. But then she feels the weight on the mattress shift and a warm hand envelop her own. Now it all feels so much easier.
Ekko watches and waits as she allows herself to rest, as she accepts the blanket draped over her guiding her to sleep. He remembers the steel floor of her hideout and wonders how long it’s been since she slept in a bed.
He doesn't want to move in fear of disturbing her still fragile sleep. So he stays for as long as she needs, until her hand under his is warm enough and the rise and fall of her chest is soft enough.
***
Nascent dawn wakes him and he hums in relief that she’s still there. He rises stiffly from his chair and pulls the patched curtains shut to protect her sleep. He shudders to think how long she’s gone without it.
A soft homely scent meets her first. Warmth radiates from its direction and melds with her own sheltered body. She doesn’t recognise the feeling, not now or before. It probably isn’t real. But when her eyelids finally creep open they’re met by a gentle orange glow swaying in the dimness. The blanket is tucked neatly around her and another is draped on a seat by the table. Low bumps sound quietly from somewhere until a shadow peaks at the wall and spots her stirring.
“Back with us, hmm? Had enough beauty sleep?” comes a smooth hum from the shadow.
She shifts and curls under the sheets, still a little sore. “Still dark.”
“Hah,” huffs the voice when Ekko reaches the bed and kneels beside it, “dark again, you mean.”
She blinks a few more times. “What?”
“You slept almost a whole day,” he smiles, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, “seems you really needed it.”
“Eurgh,” she moves and feels that stiffness again, “why didn’t you...”
“Wake you up?” he chuckles and nudges lightly at the blanket over where her hand is. “Why would I need to do that?”
She shakes her head into the pillow. It’s so fluffy and warm—everything here seems to be like that. There’s a pause and the voice changes a little. “You feeling better?”
She breathes in the pillow—it smells stale. Finally something familiar. She nods into it nevertheless.
A quiet rustling, then a soft pat on the blanket over her. “Want some water?”
She hunches deeper into the blanket—that thing is heavy. A few moments later something even heavier presses the mattress down next to her and strokes what’s left of her hair. “C’mon.”
She wants to ignore it but he’s nothing if not persistent. Actually, that’s wrong—he’s frustratingly gentle as well. Persuasive is the better word. So she finally takes the hand offered to her and pulls herself up to sit back against a heap of pillows. She takes the water; a few small sips at first, quickly followed by greedy gulps. Ekko takes the empty cup and sets it aside, then returns closer next to her.
“Right here if you need anything.”
“I don't.”
“Sure? Got a stew that's been goin’ for hours.”
She lolls her head on his shoulder in answer, trapping him there. She's limp and heavy against him but not vacant, not lifeless. Just safe.
Long moments and minutes pass by. He can't move but his mind is still restless, and it returns to dwell on what he'd seen when she finally let him get close. He feels for her left hand and finds it, squeezes it, only separated by the blanket between them. The outline of the unyielding metal shows clearly through the thick fabric.
Jinx watches him shift her arm out of the side of the blanket and raise her wrist level with his chin. His eyes are fixed on the prosthetic, and in the brief moment he glances at her she notices they're shining with moisture. She can't help but huff softly through her nose.
“What's got you all gooey?”
He strokes the link between metal and flesh. “Your finger...”
“I'm fine, didn't need it anyway,” she tries to dismiss, to no avail.
He shoots her a glare. “Who did it?”
Jinx’s face twists in disgust. "Count Hatula and her overengineered hexgun..."
"Huh?”
"Vi's piltie mutt."
"I don't...?"
"HER GIRLFRIEND!"
"WHAT??”
Jinx’s cheeks puff in a fit of cackling laughter, only spurned on by Ekko’s resolute scowl. “What's so funny...”
“Your face!” she giggles, “you look like an angry puppy!”
He shakes his head and stays focused on her hand, turning it over and running his thumb reverently over the spires leading to her knuckles. Before she has time to react he lifts her wrist and presses his lips to the base of the desecrated finger.
Her breath catches at the faintest sound of lips parting skin as he slowly pulls away. But shortly after she meets his eyes his cheek lifts in a lopsided smirk and he hums a low chuckle.
She bristles at the noise, “What’re you laughing at?”
His smile widens into a cocky grin, “Your face’s lit up like a tomato.”
Her nose scrunches into a furious pout. “I am not blushing!” she lies, ears so hot they may as well be billowing steam.
“If you say so,” his smile softens again, lowering her hand again but still holding on. “Is it okay now?” he asks after a pause.
She rolls her eyes. “It was months ago, quit worrying.”
He exhales softly through his nostrils. “There’s so much more I’m worrying about.”
“What else—" she starts, quickly silenced by him bowing his neck and pressing his forehead against her arm. “Are these what I think they are," he mutters, warm breath fanning against the scars marring her tattoos.
“Don't know what you mean," she lies.
He pulls back and runs his thumb along the jagged depressions of skin. “They're from the bridge, aren't they?” That was the last time he'd seen her after all; unconscious at his feet after that explosion on that Godforsaken bridge.
She looks away, doesn't answer, and that's answer enough. Enough for Ekko to freeze his face to try and hold it together.
“Not like you did it," she finally says.
“I know," he really does. They were fighting to the death, both of them, “but—it still happened."
“It was my bomb," she replies, exasperated now.
"What about your eyes?”
She flinches at the bluntness, curls in on herself reflexively at the memory.
“Jinx?” he's confused. She'd perked up a little just a minute ago.
“Don't wanna talk ‘bout it," she stammers out. It seems worse than that to Ekko, that she can't rather than won't. Her body has turned stiff, her expression brittle. How could it be even worse?
“Okay," he pulls his arm over her again, "you don't have to.”
But she does have to.
"I-it was after the bridge," she stutters out, the fragments of each memory jolting her every syllable. Ekko wants to soothe her, wants to distract her or take it on himself. But she just wants to let it out.
“I g-got taken and
the table
tied down by some psycho
the needles
he had shimmer
the pain
and it got put into me
the pain
I couldn't move
the pain
it was like acid, he was putting ACID into me my blood was acid my eyes were acid I just wanted to die I-”
She's engulfed in warmth, in strength, held so tight as if else she'd shatter. He helps her give herself in to sobs, and when she does so her voice is hoarse again, and she realises she'd been screaming. She wishes he had just let her do it, that she wouldn't have to remember this again.
Why did I push her to say it. Why am I so selfish. Doesn't matter what I want to know if this is the result.
She relaxes a little in his grip, her sobs become a little less like coughs, and he softens his hold, leans his cheek slightly more into her cropped hair. And it soothes them both.
“I'm sorry... I just—just wish none of this ever happened to you,” he mutters, his voice still tinged with shame. From the bridge again, because of course it was.
Jinx shifts slightly in his grasp, her head resting on his chest, and he thinks her lips brush against his skin. “Hadn't talked about it before," she says, her voice muffled against his arm.
He lets out a quiet breath. “You said you didn't want to."
"Felt like I could tell you... even though I'm a freak.”
He raises his head and pulls back, nudges her to do the same.
“What did you say?" he says, his brow furled tight when it finds shimmering pink.
“My eyes, they're—"
“Beautiful," he cuts in. “They're beautiful."
Her lips part for a moment and she shudders, trying not to believe him. "But they're... different. Not like before.”
"They're still your eyes," he breathes, his palm cresting the top of her arm, “so I still love them."
Her expression falters. “Don’t lie. You’re lying.”
His eyes take hers in defiant softness. “Never, never to you. But I swear,” his hand reaches the junction between her shoulder and neck, grounds her there, “if anyone tries to hurt these eyes again, I’ll kill them.”
Tears finally overtake her and force a choked laugh. He can smile again when he sees it, broken as it may be.
“You got me,” she admits, and leans into him again. This time it’s her turn to reach for him, around him, hold herself onto him.
“Always.”
She scrubs her eyes into his sleeve. “Loverboy.”
“Lovergirl,” he retorts. It earns him a headbutt.
“Always."