Work Text:
Jinx never could forget about Vi, never bring herself to hate the
older (she isn’t older, she’ll never be older again, you killed them all, you killed
her
)
girl the way Silco wanted her.
No matter how much she wanted to.
No matter how hard she tried, she’d always remember the way Vi would bandage her scraped knees and cut fingers, how she would kiss away the bruises and scrapes from Mylo and Deckard and every experimental bomb gone wrong.
Jinx remembered how, when she was still Powder
still
weak
, still worthless, still let
jinx
be a blade wielded by others to cut and harm rather than a piece of the broken mirror that she kept hold of, no matter how deep it cut her
she worshiped the ground her older sister walked on. Every wrapped bandage was a blessing, uttered praise a benediction, each whispered encouragement was committed to memory.
At her worst, when it was all too much and nothing seemed worth it, Jinx clung to those memories like a drowning woman. When the voices grew too loud, Jinx could almost feel Vi’s hands descending to cover her ears, deafening her to the venomous accusations.
It had been years, but Jinx used to dream about Vi; Vi, coming for her. Vi, apologizing for leaving her.
Vi, screaming and shouting, telling Jinx that she regretted every moment spent with her. Vi, condemning her. Vi, leaving her.
She always left.
It had been years, but Jinx never forgot the way Vi’s hands- calloused, but gentle- would caress her face and soothe her hurts.
Even now, as she sat in her workshop, cursing her sister and the bluebelly bitch she was cavorting around with, she still remembered how Vi took care of her.
Still remembered how Vi would take care when wrapping even the smallest of wounds, still remembered the crack of flesh on Powder’s cheek, still remembered the sight of
her back as she
left you
–
Jinx remembered, and with a start, realized that Vi remembered all that too.
And that was the problem.
She remembered .