Chapter Fourteen Jonah #2
"Your turn," I tell Jagger. "Something no one knows."
He's quiet while he thinks. "I keep a photo. In my wallet. It's from when we were children, before the Foundry. Jace and Jinx and me, standing in front of a building I don't recognize. We're smiling."
"I didn't know that existed," Jace says.
"I found it in Marcus's things after he died. It's the only evidence that we were ever children. That we ever smiled like that."
The room goes quiet again, but it's a different kind of quiet. Heavier. More meaningful.
"Can I see it?" Jinx asks, his voice uncharacteristically normal.
Jagger pulls out his wallet, removes a worn photograph, passes it around. When it gets to me, I look at three small boys, grinning at the camera like they don't know what's coming. Like they still believe the world is a safe place.
"You were cute," I say.
"We were doomed."
"Both can be true."
The photo makes its way back to Jagger, and he tucks it away carefully, like it's the most precious thing he owns. Maybe it is.
"You're staring," I tell him.
"I'm observing."
"Same thing."
"It is not." He reaches over, brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. "You look happy."
"I am happy." The words come out easier than they should, alcohol loosening my tongue. "I didn't think I could be happy again. After everything. But here I am. Drunk in a cabin with a bunch of assassins. Living my best life."
"That's a low bar for best life."
"My standards have adjusted." I lean into him, let my head fall onto his shoulder. "Is this weird? This should be weird. You broke my brain and now I'm cuddling you."
"It's very weird."
"I'm okay with weird."
"So am I."
From the floor, Jinx groans. "You two are going to make me vomit and it won't be from the alcohol."
"Jealous," I say.
"Absolutely not. I'm happily unattached. Committed to no one but chaos."
"That's sad."
"That's freedom." He rolls onto his stomach, props his chin on his hands. "What about you, Jonah? Before my brother scrambled your brain and stole your heart, what were you besides a journalist? What did you want?"
The question catches me off guard. I think about it, digging through the fragments of memory that have been slowly returning.
"I wanted to tell the truth," I say finally. "I wanted to find the things people were hiding and drag them into the light. I thought if everyone could just see the truth, things would get better. People would be better."
"And now?"
"Now I know it's more complicated than that. Some truths destroy people. Some lies protect them." I look at Jagger. "And some truths are worth destroying everything for."
"Deep," Jinx says. "Very deep. I'm too drunk for depth."
Jagger's arm tightens around me. I can feel him warm against my side, solid and real and here. Here, despite everything. Here, because he chose to be. I lean into him further, letting myself have this moment of peace before the storm.
"I have a question," Elliot says suddenly. "For Jinx."
"Ominous. I love it. Go ahead."
"When are you going to admit that you're not actually happy being alone? That the 'committed to chaos' thing is a defense mechanism?"
The room goes very quiet. Jinx's expression flickers, something vulnerable appearing for just a moment before the mask slams back down.
"That's not a question. That's an attack."
"It's both." Elliot doesn't back down. Drunk Elliot, apparently, has no filter. "I've known you for a year now. I've seen the way you look at people when you think no one's watching. You want what they have. You just won't let yourself have it."
"That's a lot of projection for someone who spent most of his life as someone else's property."
"Takes one to know one."
The tension crackles. Jace puts a hand on Elliot's arm, cautioning. Jinx stares at the smaller man with an expression I can't read.
Then, slowly, the tension drains away. Jinx laughs, though it sounds more tired than amused.
"Maybe you're right," he admits. "Maybe I do want it. But wanting something and being able to have it are different things. Some of us weren't built for love, Elliot. Some of us were built for other things."
"That's bullshit and you know it." I'm speaking before I realize I'm going to. "Look at your brothers. They weren't built for love either. They were built to bring destruction. And yet here they are. Loving people. Being loved back."
"They're the exceptions."
"Maybe you could be too. If you stopped being so afraid of it."
Jinx goes very still. For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. Then he tilts his head, studying me with those unreadable green-gray eyes.
"You're interesting," he says finally. "I can see why my brother likes you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation. Make of it what you will."
"I think," Elliot says carefully, "we should maybe go to bed before someone says something they can't take back."
"Too late for that," Jinx says cheerfully. "We're well past the point of no return. But yes, bed sounds good. I'm going to hate myself tomorrow."
"You hate yourself every day." Jagger chuckles.
"True. But tomorrow I'll have a hangover to go with it."
We untangle ourselves, help each other up, make our way to our respective rooms. Jinx claims the couch again, waving off offers of actual beds. "I sleep better with exits visible," he explains. "Old habit."
In our room, Jagger helps me undress, which is necessary because my coordination has completely abandoned me. I flop onto the bed and watch him move around the room, checking the windows, the door, the angles.
"You're still doing that," I observe.
"Doing what?"
"Security sweep. Even now. Even drunk."
"It's automatic." He strips off his own clothes and slides into bed beside me. "I don't know how to stop."
"Don't stop. It's hot. Very competent. Very 'I'll murder anyone who threatens you.'"
"You find murder hot?"
"I find you hot. The murder is incidental."
He laughs. It's quiet and surprised and one of my favorite sounds in the world.
"You're drunk," he says.
"Very. But I'll feel the same way tomorrow. When I'm sober and hungover and regretting the absinthe."
"You should regret the absinthe. It was a mistake."
"No regrets." I curl into him, press my face against his chest. "None. Not a single one. Not the absinthe, not the shots, not you. Especially not you."
His arms wrap around me. His lips press against my forehead.
"Go to sleep, Jonah."
"Say something nice first."
"I love you."
The words are quiet. Almost whispered. I don't think he meant to say them.
I tilt my head up. His gray eyes are wide, startled by his own confession.
"Say it again," I whisper.
"I love you." Steadier this time. More sure. "I didn't know I could. I was designed not to. But I do. I love you."
"I love you too." The words come easy because they're true. "I know it's fucked up. I know we're fucked up. But I love you anyway."
He kisses me. Soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey and the absinthe I'm definitely going to regret tomorrow.
We fall asleep tangled together, and again, there are no nightmares.
Just warmth. Just peace. Just this fragile, impossible thing we've built in the space between destruction and hope.