FELICITY
happiness, pleasantness
Jinx likes guns. Jinx likes rockets. Jinx likes the way Lux's eyes curl up in the corners. It's the ever shifting geography of her face - the peak of her nose, the valley of her brow. No, no, that wasn't right. Start over.
Jinx likes bullets. Jinx likes anarchy. Jinx likes when Lux stays up with her, when her rapid fire thoughts riddle her every second, when her every second lengthens to an hour, when everything gets too big and too vast but still too small, much too small - she can't breathe. But Lux is there. She brings her hot tea and corrects her equations and just sits. And waits. She waits till the sun rises, till the pen stops skittering, till all is quiet, so so so quiet again. Then she takes her hand, not tightly - no, never - and guides, not forces - never, ever - back to bed.
And Jinx likes the way Lux laughs, truly and sincerely laughs. It's not like on the Rift, where her every expression is calcuated to misinform and deflect interest. When Lux laughs, an honest to god laugh, it starts out small, like she's not really sure, like she's hiding, like she's shy. It starts at her shoulders then travels down her spine and settles in her gut before bubbling up and out of her throat. She laughs with her whole body, quivering and curling into herself, as if laughing takes everything she has, as if she'll never laugh again, as if she'll never stop. When Lux laughs and when she means it, she looks younger, years and years younger. She doesn't look like she's planning her next move or assessing threat levels or searching for possible escape routes. She looks like Lux, just Lux.
And Jinx loves…
No, no. That's definitely not right. Jinx doesn't. Jinx can't. She's not - !
Except she remembers the moments they spend alone, when Lux thinks no one's looking and her fingers trace the curve of Jinx's neck. It's such a small, quiet thing. But Jinx remember the exact pressure and heat of that touch. She remembers warmth unfolding from her clenching pulse, because it's such a thoughtless, throwaway gesture. It traipsed the line between reflex and instinct, an unconscious act lacking intent. And this was Lux - brilliant, wickedly sharp Lux with backup plans for her backup plans. She never does anything so carelessly. Except she does, when she's with Jinx.
And sitting on her bed, wiping the barrel of her rocket launcher, Jinx comes to a startling conclusion. She is happy. With Lux. Because of Lux.
But no, no, no. That's all wrong. Jinx isn't supposed to be happy. She's Jinx. She doesn't get to - She refuses to - She can't have nice things. Because she only, always, breaks them.