Chapter Text
Who told you what was down here?
Come along if you wanted a peek
I’ve seen your face around here
Come alone, tell me under the table
What do you seek?
Welcome to the playground
The Lanes never sleep.
The sunken streets may lie beneath Piltover’s heavy shadow, and it's faults are numerous and deadly, but no one can claim that the Undercity is boring.
There is always colour to be found, if you know where to look.
It’s something you pride yourself on; the ability to see what others can’t. Some mistake it for simple optimism. But you know it’s more than that. It’s the thing that’s kept you alive this long, in more ways than one.
The bass-line is loud in the club. It beats through the concrete floor like a thunderous heart and vibrates through the thick rubber soles of your boots. The room lights up with strobing flashes; the kind meant to disorientate, to amplify the effects of alcohol and other such substances until you have no idea who or where you are; only that you’re still alive, and for now, at least, you feel good.
You’ve been working here, serving drinks at The Griffin’s Head, for a few months now. Though you’ve been a bartender much longer; since you were legally old enough to consume the drinks you pour. It’s a vocation you enjoy greatly, and you’re damn good at it too. It takes a lot more skill than people realise. There’s a science behind making a drink good enough to keep them coming back for more, and you have a knack for cracking even the toughest of customers with your easy banter. By now, you’ve worked half the bars in the Undercity, never stopping in one place for too long. It’s a bad habit of yours; giving in to the itch beneath your skin that’s constantly craving the next thing. Listening to every tug in your gut that insists something big is on the horizon. That if you keep moving forwards, one day, you might finally get close enough to reach out and touch it.
You flip the bottle of vodka up behind your back, allowing it to twirl in the air before catching it and pouring a line of shots along the counter in front of you without spilling a single drop. (The cheap spirit would likely strip the gloss off the wooden bar if you did – and that would come straight out of your wages). The party of six cheer and whoop, and you give them a playful little curtsy. They knock back the crystal liquid – clearer than the water down here – and the miniture glasses return to the counter with polyrhythmic thuds. You palm their coin, and turn to cash it safely in the till.
A new presence arrives behind you at the bar, and their energy gives you pause. It's distinctly different from anything you’ve encountered before, and like a tuning fork struck on the edge of a table, your very bones seem to vibrate with a sudden, deep certainty that the horizon you’ve been blindly seeking has just moved a little closer. That it lays not in front of you, but at your back.
You turn, and are greeted by a decidedly unexpected sight.
A blue-haired girl - perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old - sits at the bar, grinning at you like she’s known you her entire life. Two thick braids tumble down her back and disappear from view.
You raise an eyebrow, and lean your elbows on the countertop, “Aren’t you a little young to be in here?”
“Ehh,” she shrugs dramatically, rolling her neck all the way back and around to fix you with a sideways grin, her face half-covered by a triangular flop of hair. You cock your own head so that she's right-ways-up in your vision again, and grin back. You can’t help it. Her energy is infectious.
“I’m not serving you,” you chuckle good-naturedly.
“Didn’t ask ya to,” she counters playfully.
Her eyes are almost as blue as her hair, and there’s a sharpness in them that intrigues you. Her gaze darts over your face, assessing.
“Is there something else I can help you with?”
The constellation of freckles across the girl's nose and cheeks stretch as she cracks out another wide grin, “Yes, actually, there is!” She pushes off the counter, sending herself spinning several rotations on the twizzling barstool, before coming to an abrupt stop by slamming her hands back down on the bar. She fixes you with a businesslike glower, “I want you to come work for me.”
You snort a laugh and fold your arms, “That so?”
“Well, not me exactly, my dad.”
“Right,” you smirk, popping a hip as you rest your weight onto one leg. The bar isn’t overly crowded tonight, and there’s enough staff around to serve the other patrons whilst you indulge this kid for a few minutes. Besides, you’re quite enjoying yourself.
“He owns a club. It’s kinda like this one, but a lot better.”
“And your dad sent you here to offer me a job?”
“Mmmmmmmm,” she scrunches her face and makes a weighing gesture, “Not exactly. S'more like I’m taking initiative. He needs another pair of hands behind the bar, but he’s too busy to find those hands himself. So I’m finding ‘em.” Her cheeks balloon out as she suppresses a sudden, violent laugh. The result is a lewd snort.
“What’s so funny?”
“Something about pairs of hands – you wouldn’t get it yet. So d'ya wanna come work for me or what?”
“I already have a job,” you gesture vaguely around you.
“The one I’m offering is much better.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“How much ya make shakin' bottles here?”
You laugh out loud at the intrusive question. “Ten an hour.” Not a great wage, but definitely not the worst you’ve ever had.
“My dad’ll pay you twenty.”
You pause. That’s way overpaid for a bartender. You fold your arms on the countertop, narrowing your eyes at the girl. Her smile only widens.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Business is booming and my dad pays fair."
“Why me?”
“I like the look of ya—” she leans right into your space, bringing her face a little too close for comfort, “—and I have a good feeling, in here.” She pokes her stomach. “Do you believe in that kinda thing?”
Your skin prickles, “Yeah, actually... I really do.”
She nods sagely, as though you’ve just said something deeply profound. But you can see the quiet triumph in her blue eyes and the slight upward tilt of her mouth; she knows she’s got you hooked.
“What bar was it you said your dad owns?” You ask warily.
“Oh just a lil' ol' joint called The Last Drop.”
Your blood turns to ice.
It's forced sluggishly through your veins only by the hard, erratic beat of your heart, which in turn replaces the pounding music in your ears. The girl watches your expression carefully. You peel your tongue from the roof of your suddenly bone-dry mouth.
“That’s Silco’s place.” Your voice is barely a whisper, yet the girl somehow hears you over the din of the club.
“Yup! That’s Pops.”
A small, hysterical laugh bursts from your lips, and you can’t help your paranoid glance around the room – half expecting to see a pair of glowing eyes peering out at you from the shadows. You were born and raised in the Lanes, and like every other gutter-baby you know exactly who Silco is. The Industrialist. The Eye of Zaun. Some of the more zealous down here refer to him as King of the Underground. You’ve heard every story there is, and then some.
You know he’d kill anyone who so much as breathed to his disliking.
“I’m Jinx, by the way. So can ya start tomorrow?”
“Absolutely not,” you choke.
She pouts, “How come?”
You battle the desire to grab the nearest bottle and start chugging.
“I serve drinks. I don’t want anything to do with anything else,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. Shit, this is Silco’s daughter you’re talking to. You need to remain pleasant, and end this conversation as quickly as possible.
Jinx either doesn’t notice your sudden change of tone, or chooses to ignore it, “And you won’t. Trust me – dad already has specific people working shimmer sales,” she drums an erratic rhythm against the wooden counter. “You’d be a barkeep, nothing more. Pretty please?”
She gazes at you with a painful amount of excitement. Her eyes sparkle, big and blue, and she gnaws at her lower lip as though she can barely contain herself.
Shit shit shittidy-shit.
Can you really say no? If you turn her down, you run the risk of incurring The Eye of Zaun’s wrath by disappointing his daughter who is, for whatever bizarre reason, evidently dead-set on you taking this job. If you say yes… you’ll be running the risk of incurring his wrath simply by being in his vicinity. In his employ.
…But at least you’d get paid twenty hexes an hour for it.
There’s also the matter of your gut – your stupid gut that’s seemingly intent on getting you killed. The impossible-to-ignore inner voice that's all but screaming at you to stick your hand into the fire. To grasp every opportunity this short, smog-filled life offers. To peer over the precipice and chase the rush of the fall.
And so, in a daze, you take the plunge.
“Alright then.”
Jinx whoops and does a little victory dance in her seat. Your adrenaline makes your head swim, and you find yourself laughing at the wiggling teenager despite your lingering trepidation.
“Perfect! So I’ll see you tomorrow…” she trails off and raises her eyebrows in question.
You offer your name, and she smiles.
“9pm sharp, don’t be late,” she says sternly, rapping her knuckles on the bar, before spinning on her heel and bouncing away with a full-bellied cackle. Her thigh length braids and pink-striped legs disappear quickly into the undulating crowd.
You blink at the newly empty stool and try to comprehend what has just happened. One of the other bar staff jostles you as they pass to reach for a bottle, and your brain clicks back into gear. You need to find your manager and hand in your notice. Not that there’s much notice to give. You’re pretty sure your contract specifies two weeks, but once he hears who your new boss is you’re certain he’ll be eager to be shot of you.
The Last Drop.
Ho-ly shit. Your blood thrums with terror. But also… exhilaration.
You try to focus on the latter.
Maybe the stories you’ve heard about Silco are exaggerated for effect… I mean, he’s raised such an effervescent kid…
Really, how bad can the guy be?
You stare in horror at the broken man being roughly thrown out the side door of The Last Drop.
His face is covered in blood – a coating so thick that his features are barely distinguishable beneath. Silco’s enforcers leave the man crumpled in a puddle of muck on the corner. The only signs that he’s alive are his quiet sobs. Your throat tightens.
You’ve made an awful mistake.
And there’s no way to back out now.
You’ve accepted the job and you’re expected for your shift. A no-show would drastically increase the likelihood of ending up just like this poor bastard. You trample down the human part of you that wants to offer aid. You know better than to help someone who’s clearly pissed off the bigwigs - it would be a one way ticket to the gutter with a knife between your ribs.
You avert your gaze – especially when you notice him clutching a freely bleeding stump where a thumb ought to be - and instead look up at the sign above the entrance: The Last Drop. The roundel is encased in vivid neon green. Long jagged bulbs depicting a giant eye - blazing, ever-watchful, down the main strip of the Lanes. A reminder to all who dwell here that there is no shadowy corner dark enough to escape Silco’s gaze.
You summon all your Undercity-born bravado, - cultivated from years of experience and survival - and make for the entrance with your chin held high. Jinx must have given the doormen a heads-up, because they step wordlessly aside, granting entry despite the club not being open to the public for another hour. 9pm – early by Underworld standards, practically lunchtime for you. Your days are always like this, due to the nature of your profession. You sleep while the sun is up, and work beneath the neon glow of the city signage. You’re not missing out on much. The sunlight never really reaches down here anyway, and at least the night is colourful.
You have an hour to get acquainted with the place before the beautiful and damaged creatures of the city come out to play. Every bar is different, but you already have an idea of what clientele to expect here: There will be those for whom dancing so close to the devil holds a particular thrill: Others who will be scantily dressed and looking for company: Some who will be utilising the loud, relentless pump of the music to conceal their discussions from prying ears. It's nothing new.
But you also know there will be those with purpled veins, desperate eyes, and a wildness about them that is equal parts terrifying and alluring. You’ve never tried Shimmer yourself, and have no desire to. But a part of you watches the effects with a morbid curiosity. The slight physical enhancement, the confidence, the glow, the euphoric state it bestows upon the user. It’s only when the addiction takes over that things become ugly. The in-between holds a disgusting, fascinating kind of beauty.
“Hey newbie!” A whizz of blue latches onto your arm and drags you further into the club, away from the door by which you’d been lingering.
“Hey Jinx,” you greet a little breathlessly as you’re swept along.
You take a good look around. The furnishings are dark, and almost everything is edged in brass. It’s an odd mix of sophistication and grit, and you have to admit the effect is impressive. It feels like you’ve entered somewhere exclusive. You wonder how it will all look once the houselights are cut and the club is illuminated only by the flashing bulbs you spot fitted throughout.
She brings you straight to the bar and rounds the counter, tugging you towards a bulky, heavily tattooed man sporting an acid green mullet.
“Ta-da!” Jinx presents you to him with a little flourish.
He gives you a bored once-over, “Seriously, Jinx? Another one?”
You frown, “Another what?”
He ignores your question. Jinx only shrugs, before plastering on another one of her infectious smiles.
“Plenty of experience – a real whizz. Just point at the bottles and watch her go,” Jinx promises, shooting finger guns at the colourful array of liquors lining the shelves behind the bar. Then, between one blink and the next, she’s gone, and you’re left with who you assume is the manager.
“Jasper,” he grunts by way of greeting. You offer your own name and he jerks his chin in a nod.
“Guess I’d better give you the tour then.”
Your first week at The Last Drop flies by.
And the reason is impossible to deny.
It’s fun.
There’s a vitality to the place - a spark in the atmosphere that you simply cannot describe - the source of that unnamable thing that defines the Lanes. It would be cliché and inaccurate to call The Last Drop the ‘heart’ of the Undercity. It feels more like the nervous system; the centre from which all things are connected by innumerable threads and veins that stretch and weave farther than you could ever hope to comprehend.
And the best part is that you haven’t encountered a single dead or otherwise maimed body yet, which has really helped to put you more at ease.
Despite crossing paths with one of his victims on your first day, it seems that Silco runs a tight ship, and keeps his kingpin business away from the day-to-day workings of the club. It allows you to compartmentalise and pretend that you don’t work for a murderous Chem-Baron.
You haven’t seen him. Or at least you don’t think you have. You don't actually know what he looks like, but you’re pretty sure you’d be certain if you did. Though, you do wonder at the shadow which sometimes slinks across the balcony encircling the second level of the bar, and the prickle in the air that seems to accompany it. But you’re never quick enough to catch a glimpse, before it disappears up the narrow stairway in the far upper corner that you know leads up to Silco’s domain.
Jinx pops by every so often to chat. You seriously like the kid. And true to her word, you’re only ever asked to serve drinks. The music blasting through the speakers is always good, and you’re getting on pretty well with the other bar staff. Even Jasper has warmed to you somewhat. Surprisingly few fights break out on the dance floor, and those that do are swiftly dealt with by people that aren’t you.
Yes. By the end of your first week, you’re able to tentatively admit that things are going well.
Until a surprising new aspect of your job arises from nowhere.
It’s around 3.30am and the club is now closed for the night. The music has been switched off, and the lights raised to uncover any spillages that need tending to. You’re just finishing up your shift, giving the bar one final wipe down, when Jasper places a bottle in front of you, halting the sweep of your rag across the brass countertop.
“What’s this?”
“For the boss.”
Your heart jumps into your throat, and you make a confused, strangled noise. Jasper laughs.
“Once a week. A fresh bottle for his office.”
“Why me?” You splutter.
“Because I sure as hell ain’t doing it,” he says, already turning away, “The newbie shovels the shit. It’s tradition. Better hurry,” he speaks the last two words in the same way you might try to freak out a kid with tales of the boogie-man.
You fight the urge to flip him off, and instead snatch the bottle off the bar and drag your feet up the stairs to the balcony. You examine the bottle in your hands. Bourbon. Expensive bourbon. The cap is sealed with black wax, and the label is printed on thick cream paper with gold font. The amber liquid within is so deep and vibrant that, in the low light, it could be mistaken for watered-down blood.
You arrive at the ominous, guarded stairwell. The hulking bouncer registers the expensive bottle in your hand and steps wordlessly aside. You pause, a little lost.
“You’ll know which one,” the man offers gruffly.
You nod. With every step upwards you curse Jinx for ever having found you in the first place. Of all the damn bartenders in this damn city she just had to pick you. Inhale. Exhale. You gotta bury your fear away fast, or he’ll smell it on you. It’s a dog eat dog world down here, and animal instincts apply.
When you reach the top you’re met with a hallway lined with closed doors. You exhale humourlessly. Yup – you know which one. At the very end of the hall is a black, lacquered door with a shining brass handle. The wall alongside it is decorated with plenty of dents and scrapes that might be caused when trying to force a reluctant visitor in or out of the room. Or by the slam of a doorknob when the occupier is pissed.
It’s surprisingly quiet up here. You make your way forwards, listening for any sounds that might indicate someone’s presence inside. You hear nothing but silence, and the pulsing gush of your own blood in your ears.
Maybe he’s out. Maybe you can just slip in, leave the bottle and go. That would be ideal.
You take a moment to breathe, and to try convince yourself that he’s not at home, before raising your fist and knocking twice.
Your entire body seizes at the deep, smooth voice that responds.
“Come in.”
Something cold and electric walks its way up your spine. Your hand is frozen in place. An age seems to pass. The voice doesn’t speak again, but you can feel his irritation at your delay seeping through the wooden door.
Your brain snaps back into gear. You fumble the handle and enter.
Silco.
The Industrialist. Eye of Zaun. King of the Underworld.
You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. A distinguished, middle-aged man. Striking, really. Dark hair styled neatly back with silvering strands at his temples, and a silk tie perfectly knotted at his slender throat. His deep crimson shirt is crisp, with intricate cuffs at the wrists, and his waistcoat looks expensive; exquisitely tailored and edged with golden details.
If you didn’t know any better, you might think he was part of the Piltovian gentry.
He sits behind a grand, mahogany desk in a quilted high-backed chair – well placed in front of a sweeping halo of glass and iron that make up the expansive windows at his back. They frame him, casting the sharp angles of his face with imposing shadows, and bathing the office with an ominous green glow from the neon bulbs just outside.
The only thing about his appearance that matches perfectly with the stories you’ve been told are his eyes. One of sea-foam green, that you’re certain under different lighting could also be considered blue. The other of deepest, burning orange; an inferno, set within endless obsidian black.
And both of which are currently honed on you.
Silco regards you in silence, and his face could be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which only makes him all the more terrifying. Your feet are rooted to the spot, and you try your best to remember to keep breathing.
After what feels like forever, his gaze drops briefly to the bottle in your hand. He reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two long fingers, before going back to the paperwork in front of him.
Huh.
You move tentatively forwards, and place the bottle down exactly where indicated. He doesn’t pause in what he’s doing, or spare you even another glance.
He doesn’t fling a knife into your back as you turn.
And none of his enforcers leap from the shadows to brain you with a crowbar as you exit.
You make it back down the stairs safely, and let out a long, shaky breath, leaning on the balcony railing as your knees wobble and you try not to throw up. You hear the quiet laughter of the bouncer behind you. You head back down into the club, grab your coat, and scarper home as quickly as possible.
Suddenly the streets of Zaun don’t feel as threatening to you. Not now that you’ve faced the most dangerous thing down here and lived to tell the tale.
You visit Silco’s office several more times in the coming weeks.
A fresh bottle of bourbon for His Majesty every Friday at the end of your shift. After the first time, he no longer bothers to look up from his work when he bids you entry. Neither does he bother to indicate where to leave the bottle.
Even so, it only becomes marginally less terrifying each time you’re sent up.
Other than having to endure this weekly nightmare, you find yourself falling deeper and deeper under the spell of The Last Drop.
You avert your gaze at every pink vial that passes between palms. You focus on your work, on the bass-heavy music, on the pulsing lights and the electrically charged atmosphere. The selection of drinks on offer here is vast, with imported liquors available to those with the coin. It allows you to be creative with your concoctions; a freedom you haven’t been granted in many of the other bars you’ve worked at. You begin to make a name for yourself as a mixologist, and to build rapport with the regulars. You learn names and faces and the usual drinks orders that accompany them.
The social aspect of bartending has always been something you’re good at. You have a particular talent for reading people, which comes in handy in this line of work.
Although there are some that like to imagine themselves difficult to decipher – such as the tall, dark haired woman who you’d come to learn pretty quickly is Silco’s second in command, and the butt of Jinx’s secret ‘pair of hands’ joke.
You remember your first interaction with Sevika vividly. It had happened only a few shifts in – she’d approached the bar, her poncho offering only occasional flashes of her metallic limb. She’d glowered silently at you, as if in some sort of challenge.
You’d assessed her wordlessly, and without breaking eye contact had reached slowly back for the vodka. The corner of her mouth had tightened, almost imperceptibly. Your fingers had danced along to the tequila instead, and her mouth had loosened. You’d pulled the bottle from the shelf and poured two fingers worth into a salt-rimmed glass. No ice, no lime.
She’d taken the drink with a smirk, “Impressive. Maybe you’ll last longer than the others."
You’d decided not to question that statement at the time, as she’d knocked back the drink and left you with the empty glass.
You do, however, decide to question Jinx on it today, when she comes bouncing up to the bar.
“Thirsty,” she says by way of greeting.
“What can I get you?”
“Surprise me.”
Jinx hasn’t requested any drink from you in the month and a bit you’ve been working here, but she’s an easy book to read. You grab a clean glass, sugar the rim, and load it with a handful of maraschino cherries – the kind that live in a jar and are more syrup than fruit. You add a splash of grenadine, and then top it off with soda water. You stick a straw in for good measure.
Jinx looks ecstatic.
“The last one was so stingy with the cherries. I knew I was right to hire you.”
“And why did you hire me,” you ask, leaning your elbows on the bar.
“Told ya,” Jinx replies after taking a long slurp of her pink drink, “Had a good feeling.”
“What did Jasper mean by, ‘not another one’?”
Jinx shrugs.
“And Sevika said I might ‘last longer than the rest’. Who are the rest and why didn’t they last long?”
“Old bar staff,” Jinx says dismissively, “They all moved on before too long. I didn’t pick ‘em right.”
“What do you mean?”
The girl is clearly avoiding sharing some vital piece of information, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that even you can’t decipher for all your talent.
“Gotta dash,” she says, skipping away with her drink.
“Bring that glass back when you’re done,” you call after her.
You sink into the flow of your work, but at the end of your shift you’re brought crashing back to reality by the thump of the bourbon bottle in front of you.
You groan at Jasper.
“Isn’t it someone else’s turn yet?”
“Do you see any other new hires?”
He snorts at the look you give him as you grab the bottle and head for the stairs. In and out, just like always. It really isn’t so bad – it’s the anticipation that’s the worst bit. The walk up the stairs, the eerie hallway, Silco’s disarmingly velvet voice.
It plays out exactly as it always does.
You knock.
He bids you entry.
He doesn’t look at you, merely continues to read through the papers in front of him.
You move forward and place the bottle on his desk.
And, God damn it, you pause.
Because something in your gut whispers to you again – the same tug that brought you to the lion’s den in the first place. You can’t help but notice the lock of hair that has escaped his careful styling, and rests against his forehead. You can’t help but notice the tense set of his shoulders beneath his dress shirt. The way his mouth is pulled just a little tighter than usual.
Silco senses you lingering, your fingers resting on the neck of the bottle, and he slowly raises his gaze. Fire and ice settle on you with a sharpness that could cut.
“You’re stressed,” you say simply.
He doesn’t respond.
What the hell are you doing? You’re practically signing your death warrant. If you listen to your gut, you’re gonna get stabbed in it – that’s what your dad had always said… before he’d been mugged and stabbed in the gut.
“Do you always drink alone?” You tap the bottle of bourbon, the delicate clinking of your nail on the glass fills the deafening silence of the office.
His expression hasn’t shifted an inch, and you start to wonder if you’ve just made the biggest (and last) mistake of your life. You’re about to turn and bolt when he responds in that rich, smooth voice.
“I find there to be a distinct lack of decent drinking partners in Zaun these days.”
Your heart beats a little faster. Your gut whispers a little louder. And like an idiot, you take another insane risk.
“And what constitutes a decent drinking partner?”
He stares long and hard at you. Just like Sevika, you sense the challenge, and you don’t back down. You hold his gaze, and keep your expression as cool as possible, despite the panic raging beneath your skin.
To your credit, you do not flinch when he finally moves – opening a desk drawer and pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers. He places them on the desk.
“Let’s see if you can remind me, shall we?”
Notes:
Hello reader!
Welcome to my Silco meltdown. I'm so excited to be kicking off my second AO3 account with this story, and there will certainly be more Silco and Viktor fics to come.
I'm planning to update regularly, around once a week, and I can't wait to share this story with you.
Chapter 2 - In which you find yourself drinking with a shark
Come say hello on Tumblr - ink-and-dagger.tumblr.com
Chapter lyrics: Playground - Bea Miller
Chapter Text
What brings you to the lost and found, dear?
Won’t you pull up a seat?
Everybody got a price ‘round here to play
Make me an offer, what will it be?
Oh, what will it be?
You attempt to swallow away the dryness in your throat, and search to find your voice again.
“You keep ice up here?”
Silco gestures lazily towards a drinks cart set to the side of a red leather sofa. You take the two tumblers from his desk – weighty, made even heavier by the metal embellishments around the rim and base – and walk gingerly over to it. While your back is turned, you take the opportunity to blow out a shaky breath as you add a few cubes from the mini icebox.
Silco’s eyes track your every move as you return to the desk, place the glasses down, and twist the cap from the bourbon, breaking the wax seal around the neck. You pour him two fingers worth, and the ice makes a satisfying snap when the amber liquid touches it.
You pour yourself one finger – it wouldn’t do to overstep, especially when drinking with a shark.
“It’s not typical to take ice with bourbon, you know,” you say lightly, “Some purists might frown upon it.”
“Then why offer?”
You forget yourself for a second and your lips quirk upwards a little, “It’s my talent.”
“Knowing when someone takes ice?” His voice offers all the nuance his face refuses to display. Playful; but in the dangerous way a cat might toy with a mouse.
“Yes,” you cap the bottle and place it to the side, mercifully managing to keep your hands and voice steady despite your nerves, “And their liquor of choice. What mixer they want, if any. What type of glass they prefer. Whether to garnish their drink. When they can easily be convinced to shell out for a more expensive brand, or for a triple over a double,” you finish pointedly.
His brow rises slightly, the first change in facial expression you’ve seen from him. He reaches for his glass.
“Cheers,” he intones, with a sardonic head tilt.
“Cheers,” you echo, reaching for your own.
He drinks, ice tinkling against the glass, and you watch him savour the expensive whiskey a moment before swallowing – throat bobbing above his neatly knotted tie.
“Are you going to remain standing?” He asks dryly.
You hurry to grab the wooden chair that lays off to the side, and almost spill your drink in your panic to seat yourself opposite his desk. He lets out a whisper of air that might indicate some form of amusement. You clutch your glass tightly in both hands like a child might, while he quietly appraises you. It occurs to you suddenly that he’s waiting for you to take a drink. You do so, and the second the liquid hits your tongue, you pause. It’s rich, spicy, and complex. You let out an appreciative hum before you can stop yourself.
“Imported, from Palclyff,” he says, by way of explanation.
You swallow, “It’s good.” Silence reigns. You remember your manners, “Thank you.”
The leather of his high-backed chair creaks as he reclines, idly swirling his own glass. The ice cubes scratch along the inner surface of the tumbler – unbearably loud in the quiet of the office.
“You seem a little on edge,” he comments.
“Just a tad,” you deadpan, taking another swallow of drink for emphasis.
“May I ask why?”
You almost laugh at the loaded question. He knows exactly why you’re nervous. He didn’t get to where he is today without being fully aware of the kind of power he holds over people, and how to wield it to devastating effect. But you get the feeling that he’s testing you. That he’s curious. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that people like Silco value honesty; so you hedge your bets on that.
“Because you’re scary.”
The very corners of his mouth crease upwards, ever so slightly, “Yet you were the one to initiate conversation.”
“I did,” you concede, “doesn’t mean I don’t find you scary.”
“What is it you think I’m going to do?”
You give him a little shrug, “On my first day here I saw a guy leave without his thumb.”
Silco cocks his head a little, like a bird of prey considering a small animal in the grass, “If he left without his thumb, my guess is he displeased me. Have you displeased me?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then you have no reason to be nervous,” he responds, smooth as silk, raising his glass to his lips. A little of your tension eases.
“And for future reference, you would know very swiftly, and with absolute certainty, if you had displeased me.”
Your tension comes right back.
A midnight chuckle floats towards you, and raises the hairs at the nape of your neck with its caress.
“I’m making you nervous again. It should reassure you to know that Sevika handles dismemberments. Given her current absence, your thumbs are safe.”
“I hope so,” you quip, “I’ve grown rather attached to them.”
Another small quirk of his lips; there and gone again within a blink.
The conversation lulls, and you offer your name as something to fill the crushing silence.
“I’m well aware.”
“You are?”
“I make it my business to familiarise myself with all under my employ. Although, my daughter certainly makes it a challenge, given her habit of hiring new staff when my head is turned,” he finishes pointedly.
You shift awkwardly in your seat, “It’s a regular occurrence then?”
“A necessity, I suppose,” he concedes, "Your particular position seems to be an ever rotating carousel of faces; never staying long before vanishing.”
“Is Sevika around when they go missing?”
Another velvet chuckle, “Nothing sinister, I assure you. Only a consistent stream of resignations, the common factor behind which appears to be the weekly duty of refreshing my personal drinks cart. As you’ve pointed out, I make people feel ill-at-ease."
You know better than to think him even remotely offended by such a notion. In fact, his tone seems to indicate that he finds the idea of terrifying a consistent stream of bartenders to be rather entertaining. But you feel a small pang of guilt regardless. After all, not twenty minutes ago you’d been wishing you could sack-off this particular aspect of your job, and now you’re here, having a perfectly civil conversation with the man.
“As of last week, you are the newest record holder.”
An odd sense of pride swells your chest, and you can’t help the pleased tilt of your mouth, “Well, I’m not planning on vanishing. I like it here.”
“Glad to hear it,” he shifts in a way that suggests he’s just crossed his legs beneath the desk, and he leans an elbow against one of the arm rests of his chair, “My daughter has taken quite a shine to you.”
That makes you smile, genuinely, “I like her too. She’s a great kid.”
The way his eyes soften is very subtle, but the devotion that shines in them is clear as day, “Thank you for noticing.”
What a bizarre thing to say. What’s not to like about Jinx?
“Why did you linger tonight?”
The question pulls you sharply back to the present. Any softness in his gaze is gone again, and is replaced only with sharp interest, like you’re an enigma he’s attempting to unravel.
“Because you’re stressed about something.”
He considers you a moment, before raising his free hand to smooth back the stray lock of hair from his brow. When he does speak, his tone is wry, “And you thought I might wish to confide?”
“No,” you huff a laugh, “I thought I might provide a distraction.”
The dark brow above his good eye arches slowly upwards.
“Conversation,” you clarify quickly, belatedly realising how dodgy that sounded, “Company, from someone you don’t work so closely with… I’m assuming I have nothing to do with whatever’s pissed you off? Considering I still have my thumbs?” You wiggle the appendage at him.
Again, his lips quirk, and his gaze remains steady on you over the rim of his glass while he polishes off his drink, “Well. I appreciate the… distraction.”
You’re surprised with yourself when you readily accept a second drink, instead of making your excuses and leaving.
You’re surprised when Silco pours it himself, despite your offering to do so.
You’re surprised when you find yourself beginning to relax, and by how easy it becomes to talk to him as time wears on.
You’re surprised how quickly two hours pass.
You’re surprised at the small twinge of something not dissimilar to disappointment when your little tête-à-tête draws to a close, and be bids you farewell.
You stare at the cracked ceiling above your bed that night, unable to sleep. You listen instead to the groaning of the building around you. Your dingy apartment is situated at the top of one of the wonkiest blocks in the Undercity, and you half expect it to collapse every time a stiff wind finds its way whistling down into the Fissures.
Your mind churns and churns with all that had happened in the suavely furnished office not far across the city from where you currently lie.
The conversation hadn’t been anything to write home about; polite chit-chat mostly. But there had been an undercurrent of something more complex and intense – as though two conversations had been happening at once. One spoken, the other silent. And Silco had regarded you the entire time like you were a puzzle he'd been intent on solving.
You wonder if he realised at all that you’d found him to be equally as intriguing.
Once it had become clear that he genuinely didn’t hold any intention of harming you (tonight, at least), you’d been able to set your fear to one side enough to observe him more closely.
The way in which he moved; elegant and poised at all times, despite remaining still for the most part. But when he did reach for his drink, or prep a cigar, or alter his position, it was purposeful and self-assured.
The way he spoke; measured, considered, as though hand-selecting each word one-by-one. How even the simplest of sentences felt composed, like a poem. The intonation of his voice; rising and falling in all the right places. How you’re certain he could speak even the dullest of words and make them sound interesting, important, inspired.
His face. Carefully curated in its impassivity, and yet remarkably expressive at the same time. Perhaps because of the neutrality; every quirk of his eyebrows, every twitch and shift of his facial muscles, every curl of his lips seemed more pronounced, no matter how small the change or how quickly it passed.
And those eyes. Terrifying. Piercing. Depthless. They’d remained on you from the moment he’d first looked up, until you’d shut the door behind you as you left. Although, interestingly, you’d observed how he had never seemed to look at you head-on. Always down the length of his nose as he reclined backwards. Or from the corner of his eye, with his head turned slightly to the side. Or, most disconcertingly, from beneath his brow; chin tilted downwards and eyes blazing up at you, as though able to see straight through your skin to whatever lies beneath.
When you do finally manage to fall asleep, the fog of your dreams holds the memory of that mismatched gaze, and the purr of a smoky, feline voice.
And you're surprised.
Because you wouldn't necessarily consider them to be nightmares.
Jasper looks at you as though you’ve risen from the dead when you walk through the door of The Last Drop the next day. You raise your eyebrows at him and shake your head slightly in question.
He blinks from his stupor, “What happened to you last night? I waited for an hour but you never came back down.”
“Awh,” you tease, giving his massive bicep a quick squeeze, “you were worried about me?”
“No,” he says gruffly, “Just would’ve been pissed if you’d gotten yourself killed is all.”
“Sounds like you were worried to me,” you call over your shoulder as you hang your coat on one of the nails that sticks crudely out from the wall out back.
“Yeah, well, thanks to you I’m now in the dog-house for coming home so late.”
“Sorry,” you say breezily as you reenter the main area of the club and begin to pull the chairs off the tables, setting them right way up on the floor, “Why don’t you bring your partner in sometime? I’ll make him a nice expensive cocktail on the house to make up for your tardiness.”
“Stop deflectin', you still haven’t told me why you were up there so long.”
You focus on the task at hand and try to sound as casual as possible, “I guess I just got chatting to Silco and lost track of time. I didn’t think you’d be waiting—”
“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?”
You turn, still holding a chair in your hands. Jasper’s face is horrified.
“You were up there an hour—”
“Two, actually.”
Jasper swears under his breath and runs a meaty hand through his mullet, “How you’re still alive after wastin’ two hours of his time—”
“Hey,” you interrupt sharply, resuming your work in placing the chairs back under the small tables, “I resent that. Takes two to hold a conversation.”
Jasper watches you work in baffled silence.
You ignore him, and simply continue to get the club ready for opening. Eventually you hear him empty his lungs in a defeated sigh, “I hope you know what you’re doin’,” he says quietly, heading out back, no doubt to check the kegs in the taproom.
Not really, you think privately.
The whole week, you find your attention consistently drifting towards the balcony, up the stairs, and along to the office behind the black painted door.
You can’t quieten the questions and thoughts that swirl and eddy in your mind like silt stirred from the riverbed. You can’t help the way his voice haunts you, how his gaze lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow keeping watch over your every move. You can’t stifle the pull of intrigue you feel towards the dangerous man who seems to hold the power of the world in his palm.
A flash of blue across the club has you reaching for the jar of cherries, and you have Jinx’s drink half prepared by the time she reaches you.
“It’s Friday.”
“Correct,” you confirm, a little bemused, as you pass her drink over to her. She takes an enthusiastic slurp through her straw.
“Friday is bourbon day.”
You narrow your eyes, “How do you know about that?”
“Sevika just used to just grab him a bottle from behind the bar whenever he wanted one,” she fishes out a cherry and pops it in her mouth, “‘Til I convinced her it was a waste of her time and she should let someone else do it.”
You watch her nurse her drink for several moments, your mouth open slightly in stunned silence.
“So you’re the reason I have to slog my ass upstairs every week?”
“Mhm,” Jinx confirms, sucking her fingers clean of syrup.
“Why?”
“Because my dad is lonely.”
Your heart clenches painfully at the simple statement, and at the way her eyes slide downwards, the corner of her mouth creasing as she pokes a little aimlessly at her cherries with her straw.
It takes you a moment to recover enough to talk, “What does that have to do with bourbon?”
“I just wanted him to have some company.”
“He’s the most powerful man in the city. Surely he’s never short of company? I mean, he has a whole team of enforcers for one thing.”
“Yeah but they have to hang around him. It’s their job. They’re paid to be there. No one spends time with him just because they want to.”
You don’t have the heart to point out that you’re also paid to take his drink up to him. Instead, you tilt your head and give her arm a little nudge, “He has you, doesn’t he?”
Jinx rolls her eyes, her melancholy disappearing, “Family is different. He needs a friend. That’s where you come in.”
You laugh in disbelief, “So this is why you keep hiring bar staff and sending them up to his office? You’re trying to set up a play-date for your dad?”
“Yeah, basically,” she swirls her straw, sending the remaining cherries whizzing around inside the glass, “None of the others worked out. Didn’t pick ‘em right. You gonna hang with him again today?”
You sigh deeply, “Firstly, how do you know we ‘hung out’ last week? And secondly, I don't think he’d appreciate me taking up his time again.”
“Number one,” she holds up a finger, the nail sporting chipped pink polish, “I know everything that goes on in this joint. And number two,” chipped blue polish, “I think he would appreciate you taking up his time again.”
“Jinx—”
“Listen, I know he’s a bit freaky and intense and that he hurts people for a living yada-yada,” she bats away her own worrying comment with a dismissive wave of her hand, before fixing her wide, impossibly blue eyes on you, “but he’s a good guy, deep down.”
You rest a hand on her arm and give her an earnest look, “Jinx, I know he’s your dad and you love him… but he’s not a good guy.”
Her hopeful expression falters, and her disappointment is palpable as she quietly asks, “Does that mean you don’t like him?”
You give her a slow smile, and lean in conspiratorially, “I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”
Her despondency disappears in a flash and is replaced with a dazzling smile, “Great! Say hi from me when you see him later.”
She’s gone before you can argue.
Jinx’s words haunt you for the rest of your shift. As relentless and repetitive in your mind as the pulsing beat of the music.
Because my dad is lonely.
Loneliness is such a human affliction. It’s hard to imagine someone like Silco, who carries himself with the untouchable aplomb of a God, bothering with such a mortal emotion. Although there’s a lot of things you never imagined. You never imagined that you’d willingly stop to engage with him in the first place. You never imagined that you would end up enjoying his company.
When Jasper passes you the bourbon this evening (with a serious, pointed expression), you pause.
Because my dad is lonely.
“Damn it Jinx,” you curse under your breath as you grab two clean glasses. Even though Silco keeps tumblers in his office, the gesture is symbolic; an open display of intent.
Jasper pales when he sees what you carry in your hand.
“See you tomorrow,” you say as you pass, indicating that he shouldn’t wait again.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” he mutters under his breath.
You make your way upstairs and pray to any Gods who might spare a thought for a child of the Undercity that you aren’t about to have your throat slit for your presumptuousness.
You knock gently on Silco’s door.
“Come.”
You steel yourself, and enter.
Silco looks up from his paperwork, and notes the two glasses in your hand. His lips curl in feline amusement – the closest thing to a proper smile you’ve seen from him.
Your own lips pull into a smirk as you spot two clean tumblers, ready and waiting on his desk.
Your eyes meet.
“Jinx told me to say hi,” you offer.
“Oddly enough, she gave me a similar message to pass to you.”
Your tongue works the inside of your cheek to stifle your chuckle, and Silco’s eyes glitter with silent mirth.
There’s no denying it now. You’ve entered into a dangerous dance.
You just hope you live long enough to see the end of it.
Notes:
Chapter 3 - In which Sevika gives you a dressing down
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Chapter Lyrics: Playground - Bea Miller
Chapter Text
Underground Utopia
Dynasties and Dystopia
Fear is never an option so dying’s not a real phobia
I’m beating the odds
Rising to every occasion as if I defeated the Gods
Switch off the mod
Nothing but Champions comin’ all rolled into one little squad
You use Silco’s favoured tumblers to fix both your drinks, leaving the ones you’d brought up from the club to the side.
“So,” you place his heavy, amber-filled glass on the desk in front of him and take a seat opposite with your own, “how was your week?”
“Long. But fruitful."
“Anything in particular to make it so?”
“A number of troublesome business negotiations finally settled. In my favour, of course.”
“Of course,” you say with a small smirk, taking a sip of the beautiful, rich whiskey.
“On the topic of business,” he says, pulling a sheet of paper from a pile to his right and sliding it across the desk to you with the tips of his fingers, “I notice alcohol sales have spiked rather significantly since your arrival.”
He withdraws his hand, allowing you to switch your focus to the graph in front of you, away from the sharply defined tendons beneath his skin. The line indicating profit margin rises steeply over your first few weeks at The Last Drop, and continues to hold steady beyond that. You give Silco a serene smile and a cocky shrug, “Told you, it’s a talent.”
“Well. Whatever it is you’re doing, keep up the good work.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too widely at the praise, but your spine straightens slightly all the same, “Thank you, Sir.”
The orange of his corrupted eye seems to swirl a little deeper as he takes a swallow of his drink.
“Tell me about The Buried Crown.”
The glow of Silco’s compliment fades, and your brow knits in confusion at the abrupt, impromptu request.
“You worked there for eight months,” he clarifies, retrieving the report from in front of you and filing it to the side again without breaking his gaze from yours, “Far and away the longest period of time you’ve remained in any one place of employ. I'm curious – what compelled you stay?”
It takes you a second to gather your wits, and you reply warily, “I didn’t realise you had so much background information on me.”
“As mentioned – I like to be fully informed on those within my circle.” He reclines back in his chair, watching you, waiting. “So?”
“Uh,” you rack your brain, trying to separate out the blur of bars and clubs you’ve worked at over the years, “I don’t know… I guess the pay was pretty good, comparatively speaking. The other bar staff were fun. It was near the river, so the walk to and from work was pretty scenic...”
“Then why leave?”
“Same reason I always do,” you shrug, “my gut was urging me to move on.”
He considers your answer, “And do you always listen to your gut?”
“Yes. Do you ever listen to yours?”
“On occasion,” he drums a hypnotic rhythm into the arm of his chair. Your gaze is drawn by the gentle tapping of his skin meeting the leather, and is held by the oddly bewitching movement of his fingers, “More often than not I listen to my head.”
His hand stills, and you drag your attention back to his face.
“That being said,” he continues carefully, "The most effective way to survive down here is to trust in a combination of all three: your head, your gut, your—”
“Heart?” You grin, but it falters when you realise with mild horror that you’ve just interrupted the Eye of Zaun while he was speaking. You hold your breath, but Silco only huffs out a cynical puff of air.
“Only fools listen to their heart.”
Your stomach loosens as you exhale, “Then what’s the third?”
“Instincts.”
“Aren’t instincts and gut the same thing?”
“I don’t believe they are.”
You consider that a moment. When you’d paused in Silco’s office last week, it had been your gut telling you to do so. Your survival instincts had been urging you to hightail it out of there.
“I suppose you’re right,” you admit.
“I always am,” he deadpans.
Your laughter is bright in the sullen office.
Silco flinches ever so slightly, as though taken aback by the sound, and he eyes you warily as your sudden outburst softens into a quiet giggle. But you immediately feel much more at ease; like all your remaining apprehension had flown from your lips alongside your laughter.
“Humble too,” you comment slyly, taking a drink of bourbon to cover your lingering grin.
He purses his mouth, but you don’t miss the twitch in his cheek that gives him away.
“Come on then,” you put your drink down and lean forwards, placing your elbows on his desk and resting your chin in the bridge your fingers make, “What other dirt did you manage to dig up on me?”
“Only your employment records,” he says smoothly, raising an eyebrow, “Although, now I’m intrigued as to what dirt you believe is still out there for me to uncover.”
“No more or less than any other Zaunite, I’d say.”
He hums, and reaches for a cigar from the wooden humidor he keeps at the side of his desk. You watch him prep and light it with a practiced ease. The freshly cut tip glows as brightly as his left eye as he takes a deep drag, before exhaling a steady stream of thick smoke.
“A fair bit, then?”
You tut, “Now that would be telling.”
The cloud dissipates enough to uncover his amused smirk.
“In that case, I had better get my shovel.”
“Careful,” you say playfully, casting your gaze over his expensive shirt and vest, “Wouldn’t want you to get your fancy clothes in a mess.”
His smirk only widens, “I shouldn’t worry, they’ve laundered well enough in the past.”
You snort a quiet laugh, and raise your glass to your lips. Silco watches you drink as he inhales another mouthful of smoke. His eyes shine sharp and bright through the lingering cigar haze between you.
You settle into conversation. The rhythm between you has evolved since last week; it’s looser, more familiar. You speak of idle gossip from the Lanes. You share anecdotes from your shifts downstairs in the club. He asks about your upbringing, and is surprisingly forthcoming about his. Both of you were born and raised in Zaun, albeit half a generation apart. But the Lanes are constant, and despite wallowing at the feet of the City of Progress, very little changes down here in the Trenches. You find the similarities between your childhood and his to be striking and numerous.
Just as it had been difficult to picture the idea of loneliness on Silco, you find it charmingly baffling to think of him as anything other than the imposing, grown man sitting opposite you. To try picture him instead as a jet-haired, green-eyed boy; running carelessly through the streets of the Undercity. Stealing food and trinkets from the market stalls, and being subsequently chased by furious merchants. Throwing stones into the river, because no matter how hard you flung them, it was never quite enough to reach the impossibly far banks of Piltover. Playing the countless street games that only a child of Zaun would know; that only a child of Zaun, having grown up with next to nothing, would be able to understand the simple pleasure of.
It is only because your experiences are shared that you’re able to imagine him so. And the clearer the self-conjured image becomes in your mind – of a thin child, with long, sly features, and a knowing cheekiness to his matching gaze – the harder it becomes to remember why it is that you need to remain wary of the man that child grew into.
Once again, the evening seems to wrap up all too soon, despite the clock above the office door insisting that a little over two hours has passed. You gather the unused glasses with the intention of dropping them behind the bar on your way out, but the sound of your name has you pausing in the doorway.
You turn, “Yes?”
Silco chews over the words for only a moment, “See you next Friday.”
He phrases it as a statement; a summons that cannot be ignored. Even his tone holds a sense of command you wouldn’t dare disobey.
But reading people has always been your speciality.
“See you next Friday,” you confirm, answering the not-quite-hidden question which swims in the depths of that one, oceanic eye.
The distinctive grind of metal on metal at your back has you grabbing the tequila, before turning to face Sevika’s wonderful scowl.
You prepare her drink and place it on the bar in front of her. She doesn't take it. Only continues to glare at you, like you’re a dog that’s just shat in her shoe. You cross your arms and wait patiently.
"What's your angle?” She asks eventually.
“I was never too good at maths, Sev,” you quip, “I'm afraid you’ll have to elaborate.”
“Don’t call me that again if you want to keep your blood inside your body,” she growls, leaning threateningly on the bar, arm clanking against the brass countertop as if to accentuate her point, “and I’m referring to you getting chummy with the boss.”
You scoff, “I’d hardly call a few drinks and a bit of conversation ‘getting chummy’.”
“What’re you looking to gain? Power? Money?”
“I’m not looking to gain anything. I enjoy his company.”
She stares long and hard at you, “No one enjoys Silco’s company.”
You frown at her, unable to suppress the small pang of insult you feel on his behalf, “I do.”
Sevika doesn’t look like she believes you one bit. Her expression is one of deep suspicion and open mistrust. You sigh, and lean your forearms on the bar, levelling with her.
“Listen, I get you’re his number two, and it’s your job to look out for his interests. And it doesn’t surprise me one bit that most people who interact with Silco would have an ulterior motive. But I’m content with where I am in the world. I like what I do for a living. I like working here. I get by fine. My apartment’s a piece of shit,” you concede, “but at least it has four walls and a roof, and I hardly spend any time there anyways, so it’s not like it matters.”
Her gaze remains harsh.
“I like him, Sevika,” you insist earnestly, “He’s nice to talk to.”
She looks you up and down, and huffs a derisive snort, “What happened to the trembling little lamb who tiptoed up his stairs every Friday?”
“Guess he isn’t so scary when you get to know him a little.”
She finally takes her drink, downing it in one, before levelling you with a cutting gaze, “Enjoy his company all you like, but piece of advice? Don’t get too comfortable. And don’t lose the fear. At the end of the day, he’s still Silco. Get complacent, and you’ll wind up dead.”
She turns, leaving you with the empty glass, and an icy shiver up your spine.
Your head tells you to listen to Sevika.
Your instincts tell you to listen to Sevika.
Your gut tells you that Sevika doesn’t understand.
How could she? She sees the world in black and white. Whereas you’ve never been able to close your eyes to all the colours in between. And Silco… well, he’s a veritable rainbow. Not that you’d ever say such a thing to his face.
Humans are complex creatures. Most people fall into the habit of oversimplifying others for their own convenience. After all; why bother to consider all the complexities that make a person who they are, when you can just label them an asshole and carry on with your day? Right?
But sometimes in life we owe it to others, and to ourselves, to take the time to pause. To listen. To see.
Yes. Silco is dangerous. He’s ruthless. Merciless. You’ve heard stories of his deadly temper, even if you’ve never experienced it first hand. He’s corrupt. Violent. And to say that his morals are more than a little questionable is a gross understatement.
But he’s also a man who loves his daughter. Who is quietly passionate. Ambitious and driven. Equal parts pragmatist and visionary. He’s resourceful. Painfully intelligent. And he works tirelessly, to advocate for a part of the world that everyone else had been content to leave forgotten beneath the dust and smog.
There is more to Silco than just Silco. And you have a feeling you’re only just beginning to scratch the surface.
However, you’re not ignorant to the harsh realities that accompany a life in the Undercity. You know what it takes to survive down here. And so you do bear Sevika’s advice in mind as you ascend the stairwell the next Friday.
Your head tells you to listen to Sevika. To not get complacent.
Your instincts tell you to listen to Sevika. To remain on your guard.
But when you enter Silco’s office, and he looks stoically up at you, it all disappears. And you’re left only with the indescribable pull in your gut, drawing you to him, as inevitably as a fish caught on the line.
You don’t bother to check in with what your heart has to say on the matter. Silco is right. Children of Zaun don’t have the luxury of such foolishness.
And it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t greet you warmly. Or thank you for bringing his bourbon. Or ask benign questions regarding your wellbeing. What matters, is that he’s set out those tumblers again; this time with fresh ice dutifully piled in each glass. And that he’s moved the spare chair, so it’s ready and waiting in front of his desk for you.
And that’s enough. It’s more than enough.
The weeks roll on.
Winter is fast approaching.
You’re no academy scientist, but you’re smart enough to understand the theory that heat rises. Which means the air that’s left trapped between the tall, narrow streets of the Undercity takes on a bitter bite, encouraging you to wrap your clothes a little tighter around you in a vain attempt to avoid its freezing teeth.
Silco’s office is always warm, thanks to the small heater he keeps in the corner. The whiskey you share certainly helps to heat you from the inside out as well. It’s made leaving his office at the end of the night for the last few Fridays particularly difficult.
You pause on your way up to Silco this evening in order to hand a drink to the bouncer who guards the stairwell.
The bald, muscled man looks at the glass you’re offering, “What’s this?”
“Figured you for a brandy man. Am I right?”
You know you’re right, of course.
He nods, his mouth pulling into a brief, sideways smile behind his dark beard, and takes the proffered glass a little gingerly.
“You know, I’ve been passing through long enough now and I’ve never even caught your name?”
“Vill,” he offers gruffly.
You smile, “Nice to properly meet you, Vill.”
He grunts in response, and doesn’t ask your name in return, but you catch him eagerly raising the glass to his mouth from the corner of your eye as you continue up the staircase. Your routine has become regular enough now that Silco doesn’t bother to bid you entry; you simply knock once to alert him of your presence before slipping into his office.
He’s in his usual spot, working his fingers into his forehead and frowning down at the papers on his desk. A few strands of hair fall across his brow as he looks up, blinking slowly at you as though emerging from a daze.
You raise your eyebrows and lift the bottle, giving it a little shake.
The confusion that fogs his eyes clears, and he looks up at the clock above the doorway. His shoulders sag a little as he sighs.
“I’m afraid I’m busy tonight.”
His voice is weary, and tinged with genuine regret. You gnaw your lip.
“That’s okay,” you say quietly.
He gives a curt nod, and returns wordlessly to his paperwork, elbow leaning on the surface of his desk.
You carry his bourbon over to him, and collect two tumblers and ice from his drinks cart on the way. They aren’t his favourites, but you’re hardly going to go rummaging around his desk for the crystal ones while he’s right there.
You pour him his drink, and his eyes raise slowly to you when you pour yourself one too instead of leaving.
You stroll casually over to peruse his bookshelves with your glass in hand. There’s a huge variety packed into the two wooden cases, so much so that a couple of the shelves bow beneath the weight of too many tomes. Most of the titles aren’t what you’d personally choose, but you spot a small selection of classic novels, and pick one that you’ve always wanted to read. You settle yourself on his sofa with the book in your lap, and turn to the first page.
You’re extremely aware of Silco’s eyes on you.
“What are you doing?”
You look up to find him staring at you from beneath the fingers he’s resting on his brow. His expression is pinched, as though unsure whether to be annoyed or not.
“Keeping you company while you work.”
His right eye blinks slowly, “You don’t have anything better to do?”
“Not really,” you take a swallow of whiskey and settle down a little deeper into the leather, dropping your gaze back to the book and ignoring his continued bewilderment.
You sense him watch you a minute longer, before sighing in resignation and returning to his own work. You smile quietly to yourself, and focus on your reading.
The only sounds in the office are the occasional scratch of Silco’s pen. The intermittent rustle of paper. The quiet tick of the clock that marks time passing. The clink of ice on glass when either one of you drinks. The snip of his cigar cutter, followed by the flick of his lighter. It’s peaceful. Comfortable.
At one point you sense his gaze on you again, and look up to find him observing you with great interest. You smile warmly at him, and the twitch of his mouth indicates that he considers reciprocating it, if only for a split second. You both return your attentions to your respective activities at the same time.
You’ve read a surprising chunk of the book by the time your eyes grow too heavy to continue. Hazy, pre-dawn light filters in through the twisted glass panes at Silco’s back, and the clock above the office door indicates that you’ve been here for three hours.
You look over at Silco, who’s staring bleary-eyed at a report.
“Bedtime.”
His gaze snaps to you, peering up from beneath his brow in that way of his you’ve become extremely accustomed to. You pull on the boots you’d discarded earlier in order to curl more comfortably on the sofa, and stand – placing your hands on your hips and staring wilfully down at him. When he doesn’t move, you raise your eyebrows.
“I’m not finished,” he says, eventually.
“When are you ever finished? Your work will still be here after you’ve slept a while.”
“Last I checked,” he drawls, reclining back in his seat with a heaviness he doesn’t usually possess, “I'm the boss, not you.”
“Okay, boss,” you counter, “I’ll piss off and leave you to your work in peace if you can look me in the eye, without lying, and tell me you didn’t just read the same sentence three times and still not register a damn word that was written.”
He looks you in the eye, and sucks his teeth. You can’t stop the slow, self-satisfied smirk that twists your lips. He makes a small, irritated noise in the back of his throat and unfolds himself from his chair.
It’s a little odd. You’ve been bringing his bourbon to him for months now, and yet you’ve never seen him stand before. He’s tall. Willowy. He heads towards the door on the other side of the office which you assume leads to his bedroom.
“Goodnight,” you chuckle, going to return his book to the shelf.
“Keep it,” you turn to find him lingering by the doorway to his room, “You seemed rather invested.”
“It’s good… have you read it?”
“Several times.”
“Okay,” you nod, and clutch it protectively to your chest, “I’ll return it next week, and we can discuss it.”
“You’ll keep it,” he repeats, “and we can discuss it next week.”
Your lips twitch up into a soft smile, “Thank you.”
He hums and nods, turning from you.
“Goodnight,” you repeat, making your way to the office door.
“Goodnight,” he responds quietly, just before his bedroom door shuts behind him.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 4 - In which your loyalty to Silco is put to the test.
Find me on Tumblr - ink-and-dagger.tumblr.com
Chapter Lyrics: Dynasties and Dystopia - Denzel Curry, Gizzle & Bren Joy
Chapter Text
I wake up to the sounds of the silence that allows
For my mind to run around with my ear up to the ground
I’m searching to behold the stories that are told
When my back is to the world that was smiling when I turned
Tell you you’re the greatest
But once you turn they hate us
Oh, the misery
Everybody wants to be my enemy
Everything has been going well.
Too well.
You should have expected it, really.
It happens barely five minutes into your walk towards The Last Drop, exactly two weeks after your evening of silent companionship in Silco’s office.
A black, nondescript carriage pulls up beside you, stopping only long enough for two pairs of rough hands to reach out and grab. Your scream is cut short by the slap of a palm over your mouth, and you thrash wildly against your captors’ hold as you’re bundled inside the vehicle. It jolts back into motion as the door slams shut; cutting off any chance of escape back onto the streets.
“Need a lift?”
The smarmy voice belongs to a young man, around your age, with the coldest ice-blue gaze you’ve ever seen. Irises so pale that they might blend seamlessly into the whites of his eyes, if it weren’t for the slightly darker ring of cerulean that encompasses them. He sits on a bench opposite the one you’ve been forced onto; sandwiched tightly between two thugs who show no signs of relenting their iron grip.
Where Silco is effortlessly intimidating, this guy is clearly trying much too hard to be so. His white-blonde hair is slicked back, displaying jagged tattoos that frame the edges of his angular face like broken juts of glass. And his horrible, cocky smile shows off teeth that have been purposefully filed to a point.
All in all, a face that’s itching for a smack.
You continue to struggle, fighting desperately for even half a chance to reach for the knife you keep in your jacket.
“Don’t bother,” the man says, leaning forward to rifle through your pockets as you snarl and writhe against the bruising hold of his henchmen. He retrieves your knife and sits back in his seat, playing with the blade, “I just want a little chat.”
You snap your retort into the hand that’s still clamped over the lower half of your face.
“What’s that, gorgeous?”
Cool air hits your mouth, and you’re able to breathe again without being assaulted by the acrid smell of a sweaty, unwashed palm, “I said you should have a little chat with your pal about his hand hygiene.”
You swallow your yelp of pain as the man you’ve just insulted tightens his grip on you, jerking you viciously to the side, but the icy bastard opposite only laughs, “I can see why Silco likes you.”
You abruptly stop struggling, and every hair on your body stands on end. You glare at him with as much venom as you can possibly muster, and hope that it’s enough to hide your ever mounting panic.
“Who are you?” You growl.
“Just a man with a business proposition.”
“I’m not interested.”
His hands, heavily adorned with ink and metal, press mockingly to his heart, and he pulls a face as though you’ve just mortally wounded him, “At least hear me out?”
You don’t deign to answer. It’s not like you have a choice in the matter, it seems.
He rests his forearms on his knees and fiddles with the blade of your knife, pressing the tip into his thumb just enough to dent the skin without drawing blood, “I have a job for you.”
“You know, I’m getting pretty sick of unsolicited job offers.”
“It’s not an offer – you’re already hired.”
“Then I quit.”
“Am I correct in thinking,” he continues, ignoring your retort, “that you’ll be delivering Silco’s lovely little bottle of bourbon up to his office tonight, like the dutiful lapdog you are?”
The dread that had slid beneath your skin the moment he’d first mentioned Silco intensifies and spreads; creeping over your bones like frost, and crusting your organs with its chill. Despite the cold, you begin to sweat beneath your coat.
You flinch when he flings your knife down, causing the blade to stick upright in the floor of the carriage where it vibrates from the sudden, aggressive movement – freeing his hands to reach inside his pocket and remove a small vial of clear liquid.
“Word is you’re an excellent mixologist.”
The insinuation of what he’s asking you to do couldn’t be any clearer.
“The bottles are sealed, dumbass,” you snap, with as much bravado as you’re able to fake through your abject horror, “You think he won’t know it’s been tampered with?”
He twists the delicate little vial in his fingers, so that it catches what little light is available in the dim car, “A little birdy told me that you spend a rather long time in his office each week.”
Your racing heart could rival that of a small, terrified field mouse, and it takes all your concentration to keep it from showing on your face.
“I’m sure you’ll find ample time to slip it directly into his drink while you’re doing… whatever it is you do up there,” he finishes with a slimy grin, showing off every one of his ridiculous teeth.
“And if I decline?”
“There’s no declining this, gorgeous. It’s a simple job, and you’ll be well compensated for your trouble. Two-thousand now, and another five once it’s done.”
“Go fuck yourself,” you hock a glob of spit, and it lands directly on the toe of his boot.
All amusement disappears from his demeanour in a flash, leaving only dubiously reined anger, and ice-chip eyes that are cold enough to burn, “I don’t think you grasp my meaning.”
He reaches down, yanking the knife from the floor and using the blade to scrape your saliva from his boot, flicking it away to the side.
“Someone will be dead come morning. It’s up to you whether that someone is Silco, or yourself.”
Your heart stops beating altogether, and your throat constricts so violently that you struggle to even draw breath.
The man laughs with a humourless cruelty, and thumps his fist three times on the roof of the carriage. Your suddenly boneless body is jostled against one of the henchmen as the vehicle makes a sharp turn.
You can only blink, paralysed and numb, as he shuffles to the edge of his seat and leans forwards, reaching for you.
“It’s odourless, tasteless,” he says casually, stuffing the small vial deep into your coat pocket, along with a weighty pouch that must contain your downpayment, “And slow to act. You’ll have plenty of time to wrap up your evening activities and tottle on home before it takes affect. If you time it right, it'll look as though the mighty Eye of Zaun simply went to sleep and never woke up again.”
Your mouth floods with metallic saliva, and you will yourself not to throw up. You will yourself to just keep breathing.
The carriage lurches to a stop.
“I’ll be toasting your dear boss tonight,” he croons with a vile grin.
And then the door is opened again, and the winter chill of the Undercity hits you all at once, as you’re shoved roughly back out into its loveless embrace. You stumble, and your knees bark as they make hard contact with the poorly paved street. A flash of silver clatters to the ground next to your splayed hands; your knife, chucked carelessly from the carriage that is already speeding away.
It rounds a corner and is lost to sight, leaving you alone; trembling like an autumn leaf that’s clinging to its branch for dear life.
You force yourself quickly to your feet before anyone spots you on the ground. That’s Zaun 101; never show fear or weakness where others can see. Never look like an easy target. You blow out a few rapid breaths, sucking in the sour, frigid air in an attempt to ground yourself. Your mind swims, and the world seems to spin unsteadily around you as you’re assaulted by too many thoughts to process at once. You shake your head roughly to clear it.
Okay. Stop and breathe. One step at a time. First, gather your wits, and find your bearings. Then you can deal with the rest.
You shove your hands into your pockets to hide the way your fingers shake, and wince as you make contact with the vial and money. Breathe. Just focus on figuring out where you are first.
You look around.
And your knees almost give way beneath you again.
You’re right back in front of your apartment building; a cut-and-dry reminder that they know exactly where to find you.
Both the poison and the money are unbearably weighty in your pocket.
Jasper teases you mercilessly for the first half hour of your shift when you refuse to remove your coat, until you eventually spin on him with a snapped, “I’m fucking cold okay? Back off.”
Your trouser pockets would do nothing to hide the contents, and there’s no way in hell you’re letting them out of your sight.
You keep your head down the entire night, serving customers with as few words as possible while you struggle to rid yourself of the image of a lifeless Silco; grey and still beneath the covers of his bed. Would the orange of his left eye fade in death? Leaving only an ever staring orb of darkness? Jinx doesn’t make an appearance tonight, which you’re thankful for; you don’t know that you’d be able to look her in the eye and keep it together.
Your mind churns and churns in time with the music, and your entire body feels slow and heavy. When you’re not picturing Silco’s death, you’re contemplating your own. Would they wait until you’re home again, or accost you on your way from work? Would the blonde man do it himself, or have one of this thugs finish the job? Would he use a knife? A gun? Maybe those sharp teeth aren’t only for show.
There are merciless hands inside your chest, and they squeeze ever tighter as the night wears on. You don’t know how much time you have left until your lungs and heart are reduced to dust under the pressure of that phantom grip; sifting through invisible fingers to pile on the floor beneath your boots.
There’s no comfort or relief when the music is turned off and the lights are lifted.
You’re staring blankly at the bar top when you sense Jasper cautiously approaching. After a moments hesitation, he places the bourbon gently on the counter. But you still flinch as the glass makes contact with the metal.
He sighs, “I can get someone else to do it tonight if you’re not up to it.”
“No,” you reply quickly, snatching the bottle before he can take it away, “No, I’ll do it.”
He gives you a lingering frown, laced both with concern and suspicion, before turning towards the register to cash up.
Your mouth is bone dry as you head up to the balcony, and your boots could be make from lead for the impossible effort each step takes. Vill doesn’t even spare you a second glance as you pass him – likely the reason why whoever that man was has waited until now to jump you.
Easy access to the prize.
The corridor to Silco’s office feels longer than usual; his door an unreachably far speck in the distance. You pass a small, broken mirror on the wall and catch a quick glimpse of your reflection – distorted by the webbed cracks that splinter across its surface. Ashen, with dark smudges in the hollows beneath your eyes. You look dreadful.
“Shit,” you breathe quietly to yourself. Scrubbing your face with your free hand as you trudge the rest of the way to Silco’s office. He’s gonna know something’s up straight away. You try and take a few moments to compose yourself.
You knock and enter.
Silco looks up from his work at you, and his right eye immediately narrows. You exhale a long, deep sigh through your nose, leaning briefly back against his door for support, before pushing off and dragging yourself wearily over to his desk.
You place the bourbon down next to the two waiting tumblers.
And then you place the tiny vial of poison next to the bourbon.
His eyes drop only briefly to the clear liquid, before returning to meet yours.
“What is this?”
“The thing I was paid to slip into your drink tonight.”
There is a lengthy silence. Silco’s gaze is unwavering, and simmers hotter and hotter by the second.
“When.”
“Jumped me on my way in today.”
“Terms?”
You chuck the pouch of money onto his desk. It lands with a heavy thud, and a few golden coins spill out.
“Two-thousand upfront, another five after. And I’d get to keep my life.”
Silco’s narrow jaw works; a rhythmic tick of muscle beneath his skin. And his mouth thins until only a bare sliver of lip remains. The indented scars that run up his left side suddenly don’t seem as deep with the way his face tightens.
“Did you consider it?”
“No,” you respond honestly.
He pauses, and tilts his head a fraction of an inch, “No?”
You shake your head a little, and repeat quietly, “No.”
The air is thick between you with things left unsaid. Questions unanswered. Answers unknown.
“Despite the threat to your life?”
Your lips twitch into a small, tired smile, “I’m kinda counting on you killing them first, Sir.”
There’s something utterly beguiling, and completely lethal about the way his lips curl up into a small, dangerous smile. His gaze hones and sharpens, like an animal preparing for the hunt, “Your confidence in me is flattering, and well-placed.”
He stands in one fluid movement and pockets the vial. He rounds the desk and his fingers brush your jacketed elbow with a murmured, “Come.”
The touch sends a skittering tingle up your arm, straight to your chest, where it joins all the other jangling nerves today has brought. He grabs a long coat from a stand by the door as you exit; dark, exquisite, and perfectly in keeping with the rest of his ensemble.
“Tell me everything.”
And you do. You explain exactly what had happened as you walk together. Silco only nods and hums, occasionally asking follow up questions. You barely register Vill and Jasper’s startled expressions as you pass through the club at Silco’s side, trying to keep pace with his impossibly long strides.
He leads you out back, and downstairs to the slightly labyrinthine basement. The hallway narrows enough that Silco takes the lead, and you follow behind as you finish your story.
“Then they kicked me out the carriage and left me on the curb next to my apartment building.”
He halts and turns so abruptly that you almost walk straight into him. There’s almost no light down here, but his eyes seem to illuminate the space between you all the same.
“Were you hurt?” The question is clinical. But there’s a sharp edge of concern to his clipped words.
“They were a little rough, but I’m fine.”
“Are you certain?” He takes a step closer, looming over you. His hand twitches half an inch, before he stills the involuntary movement by curling it into a loose fist at his side.
Words seem to have abandoned you entirely, so you simply nod instead. His gaze scans over you in an assessing sweep, and he grunts, seemingly satisfied that you’re not lying. He turns on his heel and continues down the dark corridor. You follow in silence.
It’s not long before you arrive outside a door that’s splattered with pink and blue paint. Silco knocks, and a cheery voice bids him entry.
Jinx’s room is exactly how you pictured it to be. A chaotic riot of colour and oddities. Music plays from a small gramophone, and the girl herself is sprawled on the bed, tinkering intently with something that looks worryingly like a grenade. You decide to put a pin in that concern for now.
She looks up, and blinks in surprise when she sees you.
“You should be asleep,” Silco comments.
Jinx rolls her eyes and reaches to turn the music off, “If I was then you would have just woken me up, silly. What can I do ya for?”
“You have a house guest tonight.”
Both you and Jinx look at Silco in surprise. Jinx recovers first, shooting off the bed and racing around the room like a tornado of enthusiasm, clearing away her projects and pulling a spare blanket and pillow from a closet, “Fun! You wanna top and tail?”
You turn to Silco, but he speaks before you can even open your mouth in question.
“You're to remain here until I've removed the threat. Do not leave the premises. Understood?”
You swallow and nod.
“Good.”
“S'been aaages since I had a sleepover,” Jinx chirps, oblivious to your quiet, one-sided conversation with her father. She’s procured some snacks from somewhere, which she dumps in a pile on her bed.
“Take good care of her, Jinx.”
She salutes solemnly and Silco smiles, turning for the door.
A flash of lightning panic streaks through you at the reality of him leaving, and your hand shoots out before you can reconsider, wrapping around the cuff of his coat and forcing him to stop. He turns to you, an eyebrow raised in question. But he doesn’t try to extricate himself. His wrist remains in your grasp; the golden edging of the material coarse against your skin.
Please don’t go, you think.
“Please be careful,” you say.
His face is inscrutable. The quiet seems to stretch, and you can feel Jinx’s attention flitting between you both.
“I always am,” he responds simply.
You reluctantly release his wrist, and he lingers only a moment longer before leaving, closing the door behind him.
When you turn to Jinx, she’s practically vibrating.
You sigh, “I don’t wanna ruin the fun… but I’m pretty tired.”
“That’s okay,” Jinx blurts, herding you over to her bed and chucking a spare pillow down the end of it, “I'll let you sleep after you’ve answered my questions.”
You keep your groan internal as you slip your boots off and prop yourself against the pillow at the foot of her bed. Jinx chucks you a bag of puffed corn snacks which you catch with one hand. You give her a small, grateful smile. Okay fine, you’re pretty hungry, and she is putting you up for the night. The least you can do is stay awake long enough to indulge her curiosity.
“So what happened? How come we’re roomies?”
You pop open the bag and begin to eat while contemplating your answer. You don’t want to scare her, but you also don’t want to patronise her by withholding the truth, “Some thugs wanted me to off your dad.”
“Rude,” Jinx comments airily, entirely nonplussed by the information, as she opens her own bag of food, “But happens more often than you’d think.”
“It does?”
Jinx hums her confirmation around a mouthful of snacks.
“So you often put people up for the night?”
She shakes her head emphatically and swallows, “No. They’re normally outright attacks. Like when he’s on rounds or whatever.”
“So this is the first time someone’s tried to get him from the inside?”
“Again, no,” she uses a corn-puff between her thumb and forefinger to gesticulate her point, “Inside jobs are less common, and they’re mostly planted as would-be assassins from the very start – so they don’t ‘fess up like you did. Actually, come to think of it, I think you’re the only one who has… Come clean, I mean. The rest tend to try see the job through.” She pops the snack in her mouth and chews, “Dad always catches ‘em though. I mean obviously or he wouldn’t still be here.”
Your chewing slows as all that information sinks in, and you frown down at the food in your hands.
“Ya know… if there’s a threat on one of his staff or whatever, he normally just sends ‘em home with a few enforcers for protection,” she says meaningfully, “He must be really worried about you if he wants you to stay here with me.”
You raise your gaze to Jinx, to find her mouth twitching as she tries, rather poorly, to suppress a grin. You narrow your eyes at her and she loses it, snorting out a lewd laugh before throwing herself back on her pillows in a dramatic faux-swoon, “Oh, puh-leeaase be careful Silco.”
You bristle, and make an indignant noise, “I was being nice.”
“He’s King of the Underground. He can handle himself fine.”
“It’s the thought, Jinx.”
She cackles again.
“I might find myself kicking in my sleep if you don’t quit it,” you threaten.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she grins, holding up placating hands, “I just think it’s sweet—” she descends into another fit of giggles.
“You know that’s what friends do, right? They express concern for one another.”
Jinx’s laughter begins to subside and she pulls her lower lip between her incisors – smiling at you with sparkling blue eyes, “So you really are friends?”
“Well… yeah,” uncertainly washes over you, “or I think so. It’s how I see things at least… I dunno that he’d put the same label on it. But that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Jinx nods enthusiastically.
“There you go then,” you shrug, balling your empty packet of food and tossing it over into the wastepaper basket across the room, “Your evil plan worked.”
Jinx nods again, slower this time, contemplative. She looks at you in exactly the same way she had when she’d first scouted you at The Griffin’s Head. Her eyes dart between yours, and you can see something brewing within the blue. Within the small, upwards crease in the corner of her mouth.
“Stop it.”
“What?!” She cries indignantly.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking,” you say, pointing a finger at her, “I don’t like it.”
She gives you a toothy grin which confirms your suspicions that she’s absolutely up to no good.
“Go to sleep,” you say pointedly, sliding down beneath the spare blanket and giving Jinx a sharp tickle in the ribs with your toes as you do. She squeals with laugher, folding around your foot, but settles down too after a moment.
You’re relieved when she reaches over and turns off the lamp. The room darkens, but not quite to the point of pitch-blackness, thanks to the glowing paint that decorates parts of the wall around the door. Depictions of various animals – you spot a monkey, a mouse, a rabbit. Perhaps they’re left over from when she was younger. Perhaps she just likes the comfort of a clearly marked exit when things get dark.
The entirety of the day hits as you lay there, and exhaustion sweeps through your body in a heavy wave that has you sinking further into the bed like a melted wax candle. But there’s still a knotted ball of tension in your stomach that refuses to budge.
A small voice whispers through the gloom.
“Don’t worry 'bout him. He always comes back.”
The ball loosens. Just a little.
“Thanks Jinx,” you whisper.
Your eyes droop
“And he likes you too. I can tell. He may not say it, but you’re probably the best friend he has.”
You’re too tired to question the smile that touches your lips, and the warmth that blooms in your chest; thawing your fear, and wrapping around you to cushion your descent into sleep.
When you wake, you indulge Jinx in the sleepover activities you’d been too tired to participate in the night before.
She leads you to a surprisingly well stocked kitchen, and you end up making a wonky tower of pancakes together. You have to confiscate the syrup from her before she drowns the entire stack, especially since she’d also dumped an entire jar of maraschino cherries into the batter. But they’re good and sweet and filling – likely the biggest breakfast you’ve ever eaten in your life.
You hang out in her room, playing silly games and chatting easily with one another. She does a wonderful job of occupying your attention – of distracting you from wondering where Silco is. And whether he’s okay.
She talks you through her work with no small amount of excitement – showing you the gadget she’d been tinkering with last night (you were correct, it’s a grenade), and some blueprints for new ideas and inventions (mostly weapons and explosives), as well as a promise to take you to her workshop (where she’s apparently allowed to set off as many bombs as she likes), when it’s safe for you to leave The Last Drop again.
It surprises you at first; to discover that Jinx has such an active role in Silco’s operations. But it begins to make sense the more you think on it. In Zaun, childhoods have a tendency of ending early; as soon as you’re strong enough to work the mines, or dexterous enough to take a job in one of the many factories that litter the city.
Jinx clearly has not only a talent, but an insatiable passion for blowing things up. And she’s wild and wilful. You can only imagine how things would go if Silco tried to stifle her. No. Better to openly support and nurture her interests so that she doesn’t feel the need to hide them. Better to put her to good use at his side, under his watchful gaze, where he can personally ensure her safety. Because that’s the thing about teenagers – they always find a way of doing what they want regardless. And if what they want is to build bombs… then it’s better to have total control over which direction they’re flying in.
Jinx may be a lot younger than you, but you find yourself genuinely enjoying her company, despite sometimes catching glimpses of something a little sinister lurking below the surface. You’ve never noticed it before, likely because you haven’t spent an extended period of time with the girl until now. But her head tilts on occasion, like she’s listening for something that isn’t there. And her eyes drift, as if accosted by sudden, unwanted memories. Or dart over her shoulder, as though checking for ghosts. And she has a tendency to get prickly and defensive to an unusual degree if she feels as though she’s not being taken seriously.
But almost everyone in the Lanes has one demon or another trailing at their heels. It doesn’t detract from her joyful disposition, or her cheeky sense of humour, or her spirited vitality. It doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s caring and generous and eager to please.
It doesn’t make her a bad person.
You’re playing pool on the table in the corner of the club when Sevika interrupts, pushing through the swinging double doors and calling your name.
“Silco needs you. Now.”
A pit drops heavily in your stomach, and you’re immediately on edge.
“He told me not to leave.”
“Which is why he sent me to fetch you,” she responds bitterly, clearly put-out at being made to run such a menial errand, “Come on princess, you’re keeping him waiting.”
You shoot Jinx an apologetic look, abandoning your cue to the edge of the table and turning to follow Sevika out of The Last Drop.
“Where are we going?” You ask, a little out of breath already from the brutal pace she’s set as you head down the main strip of the Lanes.
“To see Silco. Didn’t make that clear enough?” She grumbles.
“Don’t be mean Sev, or I’ll start watering down your tequila.”
She scowls sidelong at you and you smile sweetly.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“You love it.”
“Try it a third time, see what happens.”
You snort. You’re cracking her already, you can tell. You’ll have her smiling the next time you use that pet name, you guarantee it.
It takes about twenty minutes of brisk walking until you’re out of the Lanes and entering the most industrial part of the Undercity. A further five until you arrive at an old, derelict cannery. You eye the hundreds of sealed metal barrels lined neatly in the main atrium of the abandoned factory. This must be one of the locations Silco uses to base his shimmer operations.
You suddenly feel in way over your head.
There are a few people milling around; marking up barrels and trolleying them out the goods exit on the far side of the open, high ceilinged space. None of them pay you or Sevika any heed as you make your way through.
You arrive at a sliding door tucked to the side of the factory, and Sevika tugs it open with a sharp pull of her human arm.
The room is empty for the most part. Concrete flooring and a cold, corrugated metal roof high above. Grey light filters in through the half-broken, elevated windows that line one of the walls; illuminating the scene in front of you.
Your eyes go first to Silco, and you hadn’t realised how much tension you’d been carrying until it disappears like a flock of birds taking flight from your shoulders. He’s as pristine and unruffled as ever – unharmed – perching against the edge of a table upon which his coat is carefully draped. A selection of knives are also laid out upon the surface; neatly lined and polished to a gleam.
A few of his henchmen loiter at the sides of the room, looking a little restless.
Finally, your eyes land on the chair that’s placed a few paces in front of Silco. Whoever’s tied to it is facing away from you, but you can still see the pink, bloody streaks in his slicked, white-blonde hair.
“Is this him?” Silco asks by way of greeting, pushing up from his perch to stand with his hands clasped behind his back.
You swallow, and cross the room to stand at his side, giving the chair a wide berth as you do so.
His facial tattoos are already split in several places, and at least one of his teeth has lost its point, as far as you can tell from the way he bares them at you. His ice-blue eyes are filled with vengeance. But beneath that, you can see that he’s lost the cocky confidence he’d wielded so assuredly the day before. He knows he’s fucked. It brings you a grim sense of satisfaction.
“That’s him – Weasel Teeth.”
“You squealing little bitch.”
You jump out of your skin at the flash of Silco’s golden tipped boot. One swift kick to send the chair skidding backwards along the floor, before it inevitably tips – overbalanced by the weight of the man tied to it. His head meets the floor with a sickening crack that leaves him groaning and blinking up at the ceiling with dazed eyes.
“That is no way to speak to a lady,” Silco’s calm response is completely at odds with the viper-like aggression he’s just shown.
He begins to roll up his sleeves with agile fingers, twisting the cuff over and over to expose pale, wiry forearms that flex in time with each purposeful movement of his hand.
“Thank you,” only two words as rare as that would be enough to drag your attention from his newly uncovered arms at this point. If he noticed you staring, his expression doesn’t show it, “You may go.”
You swallow dryly and nod, moving back across to Sevika who’s waiting by the entrance.
You glance back long enough to watch Silco select a knife from the assortment on the table, before strolling, unhurried, towards the up-ended chair; twiddling the long, thin blade between his fingers all the while.
He straddles it and crouches; pressing one knee into the guy’s sternum, and resting his forearm atop the other. The light catches on the knife that he continues to toy with, and he begins to speak to the prone man underneath him in tones so low that you can’t make out any of what’s being said.
Sevika slides the door shut, cutting off your view, and escorts you back through the cannery.
The screams that begin echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the factory don’t bother you.
What bothers you, is that the sound of them makes you feel safe.
Jinx’s tongue pokes out from between her teeth as she carefully finishes painting your last fingernail a vibrant, hot pink.
Your mind is wandering though – you’re not really present at the small, round bar table you’re currently sat at.
The faint sound of the side door to the club opening and closing pulls you from your absent-mindedness, and the thud of boots on stairs makes your ears perk further. You look up, and sure enough, see two familiar figures moving across the balcony above.
“Don’t smudge them!” Jinx cries in dismay as you shoot from your seat, jogging across the club and taking the stairs two at at time. You catch up to Silco and Sevika just before they enter his office. There’s a brief, wordless exchange between the three of you, which ends in Sevika heading back down to the bar with a grunt, and you following Silco into his office.
He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it back on the stand near the door. His shirt sleeves are still rolled to his elbows, and his steps are slow and encumbered by his obvious exhaustion. He sits heavily behind his desk – his chair creaking and spinning slightly under his sudden weight.
“Have you slept yet?”
He shakes his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose briefly between thumb and forefinger, before smoothing back a few stray hairs from his brow. You inhale a quick, inaudible breath as you catch sight of his raw knuckles. The skin split in several places and embellished with blooms of deepening purple.
Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet, “I thought you used a knife.”
“I started. Then I changed my mind.”
Flat. Utterly emotionless.
You tread carefully over to his drinks cart and gather a few cubes of ice into a paper napkin. He follows your progress with a wary eye as you approach, stopping just in front of his chair and settling your hips back against the edge of his desk to take the weight off your feet. You hold out your free hand to him – curling your fingers with a meaningful glance at his knuckles when he simply continues to stare dubiously at you.
The first thing you notice when he places his hand in yours is how warm his skin is. You always imagined he might be cold to the touch. The second is the myriad of textures that slide against your palm; rough calluses, bumpy scar tissue, and a surprising amount of softness in-between.
You gently twist his hand this way and that, examining the damage, before placing the ice carefully onto the worst of the bruising.
“So who was he?”
“A stupid little boy.”
You give him a look, and Silco sighs.
“His name was Garrett. His father was Chem-Baron of a small territory in the outer city, bordering the Wastes.”
Your nose scrunches involuntarily at the mention of the Wastes – the empty stretch of polluted swampland that borders the south-western edge of the city. Filled with nothing but noxious gases, toxic waste, and mutated wildlife.
“Was?”
“He died sometime last year, and Garrett took his place. Since then – arrogant fool that he is – he's taken no pains to hide his dissatisfaction with the size of his inherited territory, nor his lust for greater power. It’s always the young ones who think they can usurp me.”
He doesn’t sound in any way victorious. Only bored and tired. He’s avoiding your gaze, which is highly unusual for him. You shift the ice pack slightly, moving it over a different section of damaged skin.
“I’ve returned what’s left of him,” he continues, “It will serve as ample warning to the rest. You’re safe to return home.”
Your mouth twists to the side, and you keep your focus on icing his hand.
“How many people in the Undercity fit his description?”
Silco doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t need me to come and ID him, did you?”
A brief pause. “No.”
You peer up at him from beneath your lashes. He’s staring down at the armrest of his chair, mouth creased in a slight frown, and brows knitted together a fraction more than usual.
“I understand the way in which the memory of a threat can fester and unsettle the mind. I wanted you to see with your own eyes that he had been taken care of.”
It’s true. You do feel much safer for having seen him powerless beneath the point of Silco’s knife. But something still niggles at you.
“And the informant?”
He exhales a cynical puff of air, “Likely no more than a street urchin paid to keep track of your movements. The bourbon he could have found out about from any one of your predecessors. His ego far surpassed his resources – I shouldn’t worry.”
You gnaw the inside of your lip and nod, shifting the ice along to the knuckles of his ring and little finger. His eyes flick to you briefly and away again.
“However, I’ll have your apartment monitored for a while. To be certain.”
You let out a soundless breath of relief, “Thank you.”
The silence between you holds none of the easiness it did only a couple of weeks ago. There’s something lingering in the air; thick and cloying as the gas from the mines. You watch him subtly from beneath your lashes. He looks relaxed enough in his chair; elbow on the rest so his arm is bent upwards. His hand hovers several inches away from his head, and his forearm ticks as he idly fiddles his fingers; flicking his thumb off each fingernail one-by-one in a repeated pattern. His gaze is fixed on the wall, where he’s staring off into the middle distance.
Something is bothering him.
You’re probably the best friend he has.
Jinx’s words float unbidden to your mind. Once again, it’s her voice, her young innocence, that forces you to face the reality that Silco is simply a man. A powerful man, yes. A Ruler. But still human. And sometimes even a King needs reassurance.
You return the ice to the worst of the bruising. And as you do, you shift your grip, so that you’re no longer supporting his hand so much as you are holding it. Your fingers curl in a gentle, comforting squeeze, and your thumb swipes once along his tendons – avoiding his injuries. You can almost feel the steady beat of his pulse where the tip of your index finger rests against the inside of his wrist, “I appreciate you taking care of things so quickly.”
His eyes finally meet yours.
“I appreciate your reluctance to poison me.”
You laugh softly, and your smile is genuine – you feel it crinkle at the corners of your eyes. And you take pleasure in the knowledge that you’ve done something to soothe him, because he relaxes, and the cloud of unease dissipates for the most part.
He reaches with his free hand for the coin pouch you’d earlier tossed onto his desk, and places it beside you with an incisive thunk that needs no translation.
You shake your head squarely. “I’m not taking that.”
He gives you a long look, “It’s a lot of money.”
“Never finished the job, did I?” You joke drily.
“A reward, then.”
“For?”
“Loyalty.”
The word rolls off his tongue like something holy. Something that holds much greater meaning than three syllables could possibly convey.
You shake your head again.
Your loyalty to him is freely given – and far from the only reason you don’t wish him dead. It hurts that he doesn’t understand this.
“I don’t need or want a reward. Especially not money tied to your blood. Invest it back in the club. Buy more maraschino cherries – Jinx is going through them at an alarming rate.”
He appraises you for several long moments, and when he looks like he’s about to argue again, you cut him off.
“I’m serious, you’re already overpaying me, I don’t need any more.”
“I am, am I?”
“Yes, didn’t you know?”
“I don’t handle payroll for bar staff.”
“Jinx hired me at twenty an hour.”
Silco rolls his eyes so emphatically that his entire head joins in on the movement, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Very well,” he sighs, taking the pouch in his free hand and dropping it into a desk drawer, “Since you are robbing me blind. More cherries it is.”
The two of you fall back into companionable silence, and you continue to ice his knuckles. Every so often, you tighten your fingers around his hand in quiet reassurance, even if you don’t fully understand why. Maybe it isn’t him that needs comfort right now. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you both do.
“Why didn’t you consider it?”
You look him in the eye.
“Because if you were gone, then who would I have to drink with?”
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 5 - In which you both open up a little about your past
They ~held hands~ **swoons in victorian lady** We take the term slow-burn very seriously in this household.
Next chapter is a lot shorter than this one, so should be up fairly soon! Thank you so much for all the support so far!<3
Come find me on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open: ink-and-dagger.tumblr.com
Chapter Lyrics: Enemy - Imagine Dragons
Chapter 5
Notes:
Potential TW: Manipulative, Narcissistic parenting (not Silco)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Know you got my blood running
Turn the heat to 600
Wish I could knock your skull in
But I’m rising above it
Know you’ll crash it and burn it
God knows you didn’t earn it
My friend karma’s a bitch
She’s got some lessons you’ll learn ‘em
You never know what to do with yourself on your days off.
It’s not that you’re a workaholic, it’s that you genuinely enjoy your job, and you hate being idle.
There are only so many household chores to be done in a shitty one-bed apartment, and despite being very socially capable, you don’t really have any friends to meet with. You’ve always moved around too fast to form any lasting connections. It’s never bothered you. You like your own company well enough. And after spending so much of your time immersed in club crowds, conversing with a hundred different faces that approach the bar, it’s a relief to have some solitude.
More often than not, when you become restless within the confines of your apartment, you simply end up walking around the city. Sometimes for hours. It offers you an opportunity to think; your mind and body both free to wander aimlessly. No matter what, you always seem to end up inside one of the public elevators, riding your way up the cliffside towards the upper promenade, and the river that runs alongside it.
The lights of Piltover twinkle through the nighttime gloom; illuminating the lofty spires and neat, uniformed buildings. The HexGate tower rises above it all. The symbols etched into the giant metallic sphere at its summit pulse a gentle blue, even when not in active use.
You scowl at it from your position across the river, elbows on the embankment railing as you lean out slightly over the rushing water below.
In your opinion, the colossal tower is nothing more than a permanent middle finger – directed towards those who undoubtedly mined the stone for its construction. The economic boom that HexTech has brought through tourism and trade has only served to shine an even greater spotlight on the sickening disparity between the two cities. While Piltover prospers more than ever, not a damn thing has changed in the Undercity. Zaun has been left even further behind, wallowing beneath the ever increasing filth and pollution that all these new airships have brought with them. It’s undeniable proof; that the negligence of the Council was never due to a lack of resources. Only a lack of shits to give.
You thrust out your arm, directing your own middle finger towards the mocking structure, and the Council who built it.
A few boats drift lazily along the river, and you can hear the faint bustle of the Undercity in the distance behind you. The promenade is mostly empty this time of night. Leaving you only with the sound of the currents for company; the lulling rush, and the occasional slap of water against the stone embankment below your feet. The winter air is biting. It stings your cheeks and nips your nose, but it’s so much fresher than it is all the way down in the Lanes. So clean that it almost hurts to breathe.
So you light a cigarette.
You tilt your chin up slightly as you exhale, sending the smoke in the direction of the far banks. But the breeze snatches it away before it can sully the precious Topside air. Not that it would ever reach that far anyway.
Your senses prickle at the almost inaudible rustle to your left. You whip your head towards the sound and jump out of your skin, sending your cigarette flying from your fingers and into the water below as you clutch both the railing and your chest; your heart rate spiking violently beneath your palm at the sight of the dark figure that now leans casually on the balustrade next to you.
“Shit Silco,” you hiss, relief washing over you in a heavy, dizzying wave, “you scared the crap outta me.”
His gaze is on the river, but his lips quirk briefly behind the high, popped collar of his coat.
“Force of habit,” he responds dryly.
“Yeah, well, if I’d died of a heart attack you’d be feeling guilty right about now.”
“Only a little.”
You ignore the jibe and reach into your pocket for your cigarettes and lighter. You can sense Silco eyeing the pack in your hand with all the subtlety of a puppy waiting for scraps.
“You’re a damn chimney,” you mutter, removing two and placing them both in your mouth so you can light the ends whilst shielding the flame from the wind.
You pass one off to him and he accepts it readily.
“What are you doing snooping around up here?”
“I don’t snoop,” he says around the filter.
“So pick an adjective you prefer,” you say, blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction, “How about strut? That fits, I’d say.”
His eyes slide coolly over to you, the cigarette sitting between his lips a moment longer before his mouth tightens as he takes a drag. He removes it with two gloved fingers to better speak.
“Had some business down in the dockyard to attend to,” the smoke curls from his mouth alongside his words, “Thought I’d come by to check if Piltover is still standing. Unfortunately, I can see that it is.”
You exhale smoke through your nose with a grim chuckle.
“Do you usually spend your days off making vulgar gestures at the poor denizens across the river?”
You smirk, “I like to come up here and clear my lungs,” you pull deeply on your cigarette to accentuate the point, “And you were snooping, then?”
A whisper of amusement leaves his lips. But he doesn’t deny it.
“No Sevika?” You ask, casting a glance over your shoulder.
“Busy overseeing shipments.”
“Think it’s wise to be strutting around by yourself? Considering you were almost assassinated by a very dangerous woman last week?”
You can tell he’s entertained, despite his blasé expression, “I’m certain I can handle her, should she make an appearance.”
“I dunno,” you sing-song skeptically, “I hear she’s very deadly.”
“I hear she’s a mouthy brat.”
“I hear she can kill a man with nothing more than a clothes peg, a slice of baloney, and her little toe.”
“Toes are easily removed,” he says, casually snapping his free hand in a way that has a tiny throwing knife appearing suddenly in his gloved palm. The blade catches on the far city lights.
You raise an eyebrow, “I thought Sevika handled dismemberments,” you quote.
“I lied. They’re my speciality. I thought I’d spare you the truth before, given you were already looking decidedly peaky.”
You pull a face at him and he smirks, tucking the knife back in place up his sleeve.
“How many of those you carry ‘round?”
“Plenty.”
You look him up and down, “Wherever do you hide them all?”
His tongue works his cheek to stifle his amusement at your suggestive tone, and you chuckle, taking a drag of your cigarette and turning back to face the river.
You both gaze silently out over the water for a minute.
“Do you go over the bridge much?” You ask.
“Not in an official capacity.”
You snort, “When does anyone this side of the river ever go to Piltover in an official capacity? They’re normally doing something they shouldn’t be.”
“In that case, yes, on occasion. Yourself?”
You shake your head, “Only a few times when I was a teenager – you know the drill.”
“I do,” he confirms with a smirk.
You’re referring to a long held Zaunite tradition; a rite of passage, really. A stolen night of revelry with friends, spent running around the untarnished streets of Piltover when a child of the Undercity makes it to their sixteenth year. Living conditions down in the Fissures mean that many don’t. So it’s a celebration. And a fuck you to the City of Negligence.
The underage drinking and general disorderly conduct is fun, but the main aim of the night is to make it all the way to the Purity Fountain; an ostentatious water feature in the centre of the largest public park in the city.
It’s as elitist as it sounds.
The golden plaque waxes lyrical about the Virtue and Integrity of Piltover; all while recirculating water that is ten times cleaner than anything that’s available to drink in the Undercity, simply for the entertainment of those strolling through the park.
And the entire structure of the fountain is a pure, startling white that practically begs to be fucked with.
It’s here that a Child of Zaun leaves their mark on the world in the form of a handprint. A palmful of paint upon the pristine brick base – a reminder to the citizens of Piltover that their entire city is built atop the broken backs of another that they’d rather forget. That one more gutter rat has made it, despite all the odds. Still here; alive and kicking, clawing and toiling beneath their feet.
The tradition spans back so many generations that no one knows anymore who first started it. There’s an old wives tale, that the circular base of the fountain used to be smaller, but that it’s grown in circumference over the years due to the ever mounting layers of white paint they’ve had to add to cover the relentless markings.
And because it’s been going on for so many decades, the park is always well guarded. Therefore it’s a point of pride to manage to leave your mark upon the fountain without getting caught by an Enforcer, and spending the night in a cell. Only the most daring and nimble make it all the way these days.
“Mine was purple,” you say with a grin, remembering how the vibrant drops of paint had splattered onto the uniform of the enforcer who hadn’t been quite quick enough to catch you, “How about yours?”
There’s absolutely no doubt in your mind that Silco would have also been successful.
“Black.”
You roll your eyes, “So emo.”
“I chose it only as the most difficult colour to cover up. I imagine it will have taken more than a few coats to rid themselves of the stain of me.”
Method behind his madness; even as a teenager.
You wonder how many layers of paint separate your handprint from Silco’s.
“My friends and I turned sixteen around the same time,” he continues, “As such, we decided to leave our marks together, all at once. The Enforcers didn’t know who to grab first. We made a perfect mess – green, black, and blue.”
You’re on Silco’s right, so can only see his ocean eye as it gazes out at the water. But there’s no mistaking the wistful expression.
Because my dad is lonely.
“Where are they now?”
“Dead.” The single word is laced with too many subtleties to even begin unpicking.
“Oh,” you respond simply.
There’s a lengthy pause. He knocks the ash of his cigarette off into the water below, “One of them tried to drown me in this very river.”
You have no idea how to respond to that.
“They sound like a hoot.”
A huff of air. “He could be.”
Silco angles himself towards you, still leaning with one forearm along the railing. Both eyes flash in the dark, although the orange one seems to shine just that little bit brighter.
“It’s how I got this,” he doesn’t need to gesture for you to know exactly what he’s talking about.
“From… nearly drowning?”
“From being held beneath polluted waters with my face sliced open.”
Your sharp inhale is involuntary. Silco’s expression is carefully neutral as he watches you process the information.
The left side around his eye is always covered expertly with makeup, but even that can’t conceal the indented scars that map his skin. Your gaze traces the way they crest from cheek to brow like a wave. There’s a horrific beauty to them – just as there is with the rest of him, you suppose.
Perhaps you should be questioning what it was that Silco did to provoke such violence from someone he was so close to. But in reality, in this moment, you find it doesn’t matter to you.
“That must have hurt.”
He purses his mouth slightly, “It healed well enough, eventually. There is residual pain—”
“No,” you interrupt softly, “I meant that your friend would do that to you. That you were hurt so badly by someone you trusted.”
A dozen different emotions dance over his face so fast that an ill-timed blink would have caused you to miss them. He’s quick to school his expression again. Although a little vulnerability remains – softening his features just enough to make your chest ache.
“Yes. It did.” A pause. “It does.”
You hardly dare breathe, lest it shatter this moment.
Tentatively, like reaching for a skittish animal, you slide your forearm along the railing, until your fingers graze over his, and come to rest on the back of his hand. The leather of his glove is cold against your skin, and creaks slightly where he tightens his hold on the railings for just a second.
His brow furrows a little as he scans your eyes; searching for something. You’ve no idea if he finds what he’s looking for.
It’s funny to think that not so long ago having Silco’s gaze on you like this would have been your worst nightmare. And now?
Well.
“In the spirit of honesty, I should tell you that I killed him for it, among other things, several years ago.”
Why doesn’t that scare you anymore? Why doesn’t it bother you? Why can’t you bring yourself to care about the wicked things he does?
“Sounds like he had it coming.”
A rare and surprising flash of endearingly chipped teeth accompany his laughter. It’s quiet, and breathy, and the most genuine, real sound you’ve ever heard him make. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it’s laced with a sadness that runs deeper than even the lowest reaches of the Fissures. There’s a complexity there that you aren’t going to dig at – not when he’s already shared so much.
Why has he shared so much?
You wonder how long it’s been since he allowed himself to be so open. You wonder if the last person he was able to speak to in this way was the one who would go on to betray him. You understand now – why he was so uncertain with you after the poison incident. He’s unsure how to trust again. He’s unsure if he wants to.
“Your eye… it still hurts sometimes?”
“Some days. It’s manageable, with medicine.”
“Can you…” you trail off, suddenly unsure if you should be asking such things.
“Can I?” He prompts.
You wet your lips, “Can you still see from it?”
“I can.” He finishes his cigarette with a long drag – the ring of embers travelling almost all the way to his mouth, before he drops the spent filter to the ground and flattens it beneath his boot.
You nod, finishing your own cigarette and stubbing it out atop the railings.
“Can I ask a personal question?” You venture.
“As opposed to the small talk we’ve been engaged in?”
You roll your eyes a little, but take his sarcasm as consent.
“Why cover it up?”
He appraises you before answering, “The damage has gradually worsened over the years. I find the scarring to be both unsightly and an unwelcome reminder of things I’d rather forget.”
“I bet it isn’t as unsightly as you think it is.”
He gives a small, noncommittal shrug of one shoulder.
“I think it’s roguish.”
He huffs a small, silent chuckle.
“Really adds a flair to the whole broody kingpin vibe you’ve got going on.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“See, you may think that people are scared of you because of your penchant for murder, but actually they’re cowering from how badass you look.”
He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
“I kinda hate that you feel the need to hide it all the time,” you blurt suddenly, frowning up at him.
Again, he looks at you with that silent, intense gaze that burns straight through you. As though he’s able to see your very soul. But in the process, he’s inadvertently left himself wide open too.
There’s no conscious decision behind why you do it. In fact, you probably only realise that your finger tips are reaching for the left side of his face in the same moment that he does.
You gasp in surprise when he grabs your wrist, stilling your hand in the air between you, and yanks you sharply towards him. His grip is harsh and bruising, and his expression is hard and cold, as though he’s slammed a steel shutter down over the vulnerability he’d dared show you. His face is only a handspan from yours, and his voice is unnervingly calm, and gravelly in a way that spikes your heart rate for all the wrong reasons.
“I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. But you won’t find it. There is not a good man lying in wait beneath the surface, ready to be coaxed out. If that’s what you think, then I’m afraid that you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I’m not hiding anything, sweetheart. I’m very much a monster, and perfectly content to be so.”
Your breathing is shallow, and his body heat feels stifling, despite the taunting sliver of night that still separates you. His grip borders on painful, and you find yourself utterly lost within the swirling inferno of his eye. You can practically feel the flames licking at your skin.
“That doesn’t scare me,” you breathe.
He stares at you for the longest time.
“It should.”
He releases your wrist, and is gone as suddenly as he arrived – sweeping back in the direction of the Undercity and leaving you reeling from the loss of his grip, and his presence.
You’re immediately angry with yourself for pushing it too far; for prodding at wounds that are clearly still too tender to be touched. For potentially ruining all the progress you’d made with him this evening. You’re not content to wait until Friday to fix this.
“Silco.”
Your call of his name isn’t loud, but it still halts him, as thoroughly as though his ankles had been pinned to the spot. He turns his head slightly, one black and orange eye peering back over his collar.
You reach into your pocket and retrieve a single cigarette. You hold it outwards; a peace offering.
“For the walk home.”
He remains stock still for several moments, before turning slowly and approaching with careful, measured steps. His face is still hard and closed off, his mouth turning down at the corners as is his wont. When he’s close enough to reach out and take the cigarette, you twirl it over the backs of your knuckles in a flourish and catch it in your closed fist.
He meets your gaze with no small amount of irritation.
“I like you just the way you are,” you say simply, before unfurling your fingers and offering him the cigarette.
He eyes you, but the tension eases steadily from him, and those steel shutters crack back open, just a little. He plucks the cigarette wordlessly from you, placing it between his lips and reaching for his own lighter as he turns and begins to walk away again.
You watch him go – the river-wind tousling his hair and the ends of his coat.
You whistle appreciatively towards his retreating back, “Would you just look at that strut.”
He doesn’t turn, merely makes a vulgar gesture over his shoulder.
You grin.
It’s a few days later that you find yourself scowling at a different building entirely. One much less impressive than the HexGate.
You force yourself to knock on the front door of the ramshackle bungalow, and try to push away the familiar dread as you wait for the occupant to answer.
“I thought you were coming later.”
“Hello to you too, mother,” you mutter bitterly towards the already retreating back of the woman who has just let you into your childhood home. You kick the door shut behind you.
“Dinner isn’t ready yet, why are you so early?”
“I have to be at work in a couple hours.”
“Work?” She asks, peering over her shoulder as she leads you to the small, dingy kitchen, “I thought Fridays were your day off?”
“Not anymore, new job. Tuesdays now.”
“Nice of you to let me know,” she snips, as she begins to pull out pots and pans, “What if I needed you for something and couldn't find you? And why is it you can’t hold down one job?”
“This one pays better.”
“Is it still bartending?”
“Yes,” you say tightly, already knowing the response you’ll get.
She rolls her eyes, “Surely there’s something better you can be doing with your time than wasting it serving drinks to hooligans.”
“Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?” You ask, diverting the subject away from your chosen vocation.
“No.”
You don’t bother asking again. You take a seat at the worn kitchen table; held level only by the small stack of stained playing cards beneath one leg that’s kept it from wobbling for as long as you can remember. Your mother huffs around the kitchen; sighing and passive aggressively banging the pots.
“Sure you don’t want any help?” You ask pointedly.
“No, it’s fine. You just relax.”
You set your jaw and close your eyes – trying your best to simply ignore her.
Once everything is cooking away, she joins you at the table and casts a cold, judgemental eye over you.
“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten a haircut since you last bothered to visit.”
“I’m growing it out.”
She hums, and raises her eyebrows briefly, making damn clear what she thinks of that decision.
“What have you been up to?” You ask, refusing to play her mind games. Like she wouldn’t find something shitty to say if you had gotten a haircut.
She shrugs, “What is there to do? I'm all alone here.”
“So go out.”
“Where? There’s nothing out there for an old woman like me.”
“You could go shopping?”
“With what money?”
You hold your hands up in defeat, “For a walk then.”
Your mother sniffs.
As usual, an uneasy silence falls between you. Punctuated only by the sound of boiling water on the stove. You tap your finger idly on the table and click your tongue rhythmically inside your mouth. You rove your eyes over the room. Nothing’s changed since you lived here.
“Am I boring you?”
“No. Sorry,” you say, bringing your attention back to the dour woman opposite you, whilst also silently berating yourself for apologising without reason. An old habit that always seems to make an appearance when you visit home.
“Any other news you’ve forgotten to mention? Or was the new job the lot?”
“Nope, nothing else.”
“Pity.”
“You want me to have some other news I’m hiding from you?”
“Is it too much to hope that you might’ve finally met a nice man at least? That I might stand a chance of having grandchildren before I die?”
You somehow manage to control your eyes from rolling into the back of your head, but you’ve no idea why you hesitate a split second before saying, “Well I haven’t. And have you already forgotten about Jerril? I may have only had that hamster for three weeks, but I loved him like a son—”
“Stop being childish. I raised you - do you think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Are you ashamed of him?”
“I’m not seeing anyone, mother,” you insist through grit teeth.
“Don’t take that tone, it isn’t my fault you can’t meet someone decent to settle down with. You won’t be young forever you know. I’d been married to your father for five years already when I was your age. You need to get a shift on – being alone isn’t so fun when you’re old and nobody cares about you.”
You dig your thumbs into your eyeballs as she turns away to bumble over to the stove and check on the food.
You grind your teeth and check the wall clock. You’ve been here fifteen minutes. You let out a silent whimper, resting your forehead briefly on the cold table. Time always slows to a crawl while you’re here. You’re going to be miserable anyway, no need to be bored too. You might as well try to entertain yourself.
“Actually yeah, I am seeing someone,” you decide, sitting up straight again.
“I knew you were lying,” she says, with a smugness that riles you; as though she believes herself an expert on you when she really doesn’t know a damn thing, “What’s wrong with him then?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” you say, putting on a show of going a little moony-eyed, “He’s tall, good-looking, and very, very rich.”
She scoffs over her shoulder, “You expect me to believe that? Life isn’t so kind.”
“Oh no, it’s true alright, he’s the real deal,” if she’s picked up on the fact that you’re fucking with her, then she hasn’t commented yet. Not as clued in as she likes to think she is.
“If he’s so wonderful then why lie to me?”
“Well, he’s a little shy you see. Very private.”
She tuts, “No backbone then, just like your father.”
You bristle at the comment. You adored your father. And if he had been missing a backbone, it’s only because the woman had ripped it out with her claws like the harpy she is. He’d done everything to keep the family afloat, and had received nothing but disdain for his efforts. Even in death he can’t escape her scorn.
“He very much has a backbone. He’s quite well known for it, in fact.”
She scoffs again, “That so? Would I know of this mystery man of yours?”
“It’s possible you might of heard of him in passing.”
“What’s his name?”
“Silco.”
She spins, almost sending a pot of food flying across the room, and you have to fight hard to battle your smirk at her utterly disgusted expression.
“Tell me you’re joking? You’ve always been reckless but this is another level. What are you thinking getting mixed up with a man like that? You stupid girl. You’re not only putting yourself in danger but me as well. Did you ever stop to think about that? Of course you didn’t. Always so selfish. Were there no other chem barons your own age available? Honestly, I don’t even know where to start—”
You settle back into your chair and zone out, allowing the familiar territory of her anger to wash over you.
You’re in a foul mood for your entire shift, and all but snatch the bottle of bourbon from Jasper’s hand before stomping your way upstairs.
You don’t even bother to knock tonight – simply barge into Silco’s office and start making your drinks in tense silence. You can feel Silco appraising your shitty attitude, but he doesn’t say a word.
You slam his drink down in front of him, keeping your own clutched in your hand as you begin to pace restlessly in front of his desk. You take a passive aggressive swallow of whiskey and savour the burn of it in your throat.
“Dare I ask?”
“Do you have a mother?” You spin to face him.
“Not anymore.”
“Count yourself lucky,” you say harshly, pushing down the immediate guilt that accompanies your words.
There’s a long pause, before “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“Not particularly, no,” you snap, even though your anger isn’t directed at him. You sit down in the chair opposite his desk, but are back up out of it and pacing again within seconds.
“I just don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is – shitting all over my life when all she does is sit at home and fester in her own miserable…” you search angrily for the word before spitting out, “misery.”
You take a swallow of drink, “At least I’m doing something. At least I’m living a life, and not just counting the days until death while bitching about anything and everything. It may not be the life she wants me to be living but hey, it’s a damn sight more than she’s ever done. And honestly, I could be the fucking High Queen of Piltover and she’d still find something to be disappointed in me about.”
Silco’s eyes follow as you wear a track into his rug.
“And then she’s surprised that I don’t go visit her more often? Why would I?! When all she does is pick me apart and make me feel like a flaming pile of human garbage. I only see the woman every few months for an hour or so and it’s already far too much for my liking.”
You polish off your drink and stalk back to Silco’s desk to pour yourself a fresh one.
“I mean perhaps it would be easier to take all the criticism if she matched it with any kind of love and affection. But God forbid she express anything beyond contempt towards her only child.”
You slam the bottle back down, rattling a few small items on the surface of his desk, and drink from your fresh glass.
“She’s treated me like I’m an inconvenience my entire life. Like an obligation she got stuck with – like it wasn’t her own fucking choice to have a child. I remember this one time, when I was like, eight? I sliced my hand open on a sheet of scrap metal while I was helping my dad to fix the roof. You know – because she wouldn’t help, only sit there and moan about the job not getting done. But it was a seriously bad cut. Blood everywhere. You know what she did?”
You don’t even give Silco a second to guess before barrelling on.
“She rolled her eyes,” you laugh coldly at the memory. Even now you can remember how small and insignificant she’d made you feel – like your pain was unimportant. Like it didn’t matter.
“I mean sure she took me to get stitched. But she made sure I knew all about how she was missing some bullshit radio show she’s obsessed with the entire time the doctor was fixing me up.”
You run your fingers through your hair.
“And the anger on that woman, my God. She’s mellowed out now that she’s turned into a sad, bitter old woman. But when I was little, she was furious all the time for absolutely no reason. Always shouting. No wonder my dad went out and got himself stabbed. I would too if I were married to her.”
Silco’s lips quirk in amusement.
“It’s a wonder that I’m a vaguely functioning human after being raised by such a manipulative, narcissistic asshole.”
You’re running out of steam, so you grab the spare chair and drag it around to the other side of Silco’s desk, plopping down next to him. He spins his chair to face you as you sag.
“I went to see my mother today, by the way.”
You rest your elbows on your knees and bow your head, pressing the cool crystal of the tumbler to your brow.
There’s a long silence.
“I could have her killed, if you like?”
You bark out a laugh, straightening up briefly before slouching backwards in your chair, “Don’t tempt me.”
You’re suddenly so very exhausted. By everything. You give him an earnest look, “Jinx is lucky to have you.”
He takes a second before answering, “I am by no means a perfect parent.”
“Nobody is. But you love her. And you make sure she knows it.”
A nod. “Always.”
“That’s the most important thing. It should be the most natural thing. It should be the bare minimum.”
There’s a slight tilt to his brow that makes you feel even more pitiful than you already do. But at the same time, it also makes you feel seen. You can tell that he doesn’t consider the reason behind your pain to be trivial, and it’s incredibly validating.
“I have a confession.”
“Confess away.”
“She was going on about how I’m gonna die alone because I’m still single at my ‘ripe old age’, and it was pissing me off so I lied and told her I’m dating you.”
He arches an eyebrow, “Oh?”
“It didn’t have the intended effect.”
“Which was?”
“Heart attack. Stroke. Brain aneurysm. Any of the above.”
He chuckles.
You empty your lungs in a deep, bone weary sigh, “I’m sorry for dumping all that on you.”
Silco shakes his head a little, “That’s quite alright.”
“I’m not sure how much fun I’ll be tonight.”
“Regardless… Stay.”
You offer him a small, tired smile. And the simple act of him reciprocating it is enough to lighten the burden on your heart.
He turns back to his desk and pulls some paperwork towards himself. You sit quietly at his side, swirling your drink around and disappearing into your own thoughts.
He speaks again after a few minutes; matter-of-factly, without so much as pausing his work, “You are far from an inconvenience. And you are certainly not a disappointment to me.”
Your lips twitch, and you draw your legs up; wrapping your arms around your shins and resting your cheek atop your knees, “Thanks Silco,” you whisper.
Artwork by @Spirits-Lament
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 6 - In which Jinx's matchmaking methods crank up a notch
I know that there wasn't really any plot this chapter, but hopefully you enjoyed a bit of character building! Gotta stoke those slow-burn flames a little.
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Snakes - PVRIS & MIYAVI
Chapter Text
Novocain
Never same
Never goin’ up
Cause when you go under
You will never go back up
The night is young, and the club is still steadily filling when the bar stool in front of you is almost knocked over by the ball of energy who shoots to occupy it.
“Careful you wacko,” you laugh, lurching forward and grabbing Jinx’s shoulder to keep her from toppling over.
“I’m not a wacko,” she replies sharply as she rights herself. You pause momentarily at the bite in her voice, before reaching casually beneath the bar for the jar of cherries to begin preparing her drink.
“Yeah y’are,” you say breezily, not putting any weight behind the words, “That’s why we get on so well - I’m a wacko too.”
You place her glass on the bar for her. She takes note of the extra cherries you’ve added, and her lips quirk briefly – dispelling her stormy expression and leaving behind a simple glumness in its wake.
“What’s on your mind chickie?” You ask kindly, giving her arm a quick, reassuring squeeze.
She slumps in the stool, resting her cheek atop her forearms on the bar, “Frustrated.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“D’ya have a working knowledge of chemistry?”
“Does mixing drinks count?”
“Then no,” she sighs dejectedly, fiddling with her straw, “Been working on some new stuff, but I can’t get it right.”
“It’ll come to you eventually,” you promise, “Perhaps you need to take a step away? Relax a little, then go back to it with fresh eyes.”
She sucks her cheeks in consideration, “I dunno how to take a break,” she admits finally.
“Wonder who you get that from,” you tease, giving her forehead a little poke. You’re rewarded with a small giggle as she scrunches her brow. But it only lasts a second before she becomes despondent again.
“He used to take more breaks when I was little. We’d go out together for food or dessert or whatever... Guess things have gotten busier for us both.”
Just like Silco, there’s a deeper sadness contained within the whirlpool blue of Jinx’s eyes. There’s so much going on in there, and it almost feels too volatile to touch. A snarled knot of pain that only the very gentlest of hands could ever hope to tease apart. And even then… it would have to be slowly, carefully. Strand by strand in case something were to snag and pull, or even tear completely.
It breaks your heart that someone so young should be dealing with so much turmoil. You wish you could ease her burdens for her – whatever they are.
But for now, you focus on the one problem you can help with. She’s clearly missing her dad, and this is easily remedied.
“Why not drag him out tonight? I’m sure he’d enjoy some quality time with you. And if he makes some lame-ass excuse like he’s too busy or whatever, just come get me and I’ll irritate him into submission.”
Something sparks in her eyes, and it grows and fizzes like a firework. She sits up and looks at you as though you’ve just uncovered the secrets of the universe.
“Or even better – I could bring a ton of food here and surprise him! Yeah! Like a giant banquet of all our favourites!”
“There you go,” you smile at her enthusiasm, as she practically bounces up and down on the stool, “I’m sure he’d love that. And he could definitely do with fattening up.”
“Thank you!” She calls over her shoulder as she darts away through the crowd, jostling several club goers in her excitement.
You chuckle to yourself as you watch her go – and feel lighter for having seen her smile.
You didn’t expect to see Jinx again tonight.
So you raise your eyebrows a few hours later when a towering stack of takeaway containers teeters its way across the club towards you. It’s only recognisable as Jinx by the pink striped trousers that poke out underneath, the skinny arms that struggle to carry them all, and the tuft of blue hair that peeks out over the top.
She reaches the bar just in time; and only years of flipping bottles offers you the reflexes necessary to catch the few boxes that slip from her grasp before they hit the floor. You remove a few more items from her cardboard mountain to reveal her grinning face.
The savoury mix of smells that wafts from the containers overpowers the normal stink of the club; alcohol, sweat, and a hundred different perfumes and colognes. Your mouth waters at the undeniable salt-and-fat aroma of street-food, and the variety of herbs and spices which weave and blend beneath that.
“Did you have a nice time? These all left overs?” You ask greedily, hoping to schmooze a box or two of scraps for the walk home later.
“Nope – got sidetracked. He’s only just gotten in anyway, so I’m gonna go up now. Buuut my hands are pretty full, and I wanted to bring up some drinks too, so I was wondering if you could help?”
“Sure,” you chuckle, turning to let Jasper know that you’ll be gone for five minutes. He only grunts, and jerks his chin once in response. He’s still uneasy about your casual arrangement with Silco, and makes sure you’re aware of his disapproval any chance he gets. You don’t mind, you think it’s quite sweet that this bear of a man should harbour such concern for your wellbeing.
You make Jinx a fresh drink, and also fix one up for Silco at her behest. You’re certain he won’t enjoy the sweet, non-alcoholic beverage as much as she does, and you tell her so, but she insists; pointing out that he has his whiskey upstairs if he doesn’t like it. You carry the two drinks, plus a few boxes tucked up beneath your arm, while Jinx handles the rest.
She doesn’t bother knocking – simply bursts into his office with a sharp kick to the door, and you follow sheepishly behind. Silco looks up from his desk in momentary bewilderment at the sight of you both lugging in enough food to feed half the club.
“Surprise!” Jinx announces loudly, making a beeline straight for the coffee table in front of the sofa and dumping all the boxes unceremoniously upon its surface, “It has recently been pointed out to me,” she continues sagely, indicating back to you, “that we are both working far too hard, and need to take a break. So I bought all our favourites and I thought maybe we could have dinner together?”
The subtle, upwards inflection in her voice would be enough to wrap anyone around her little finger, but she goes in for the kill by turning those large, devastatingly blue eyes on him as well.
Silco exhales a long breath through his nose – and with that sigh, his usual austerity melts like butter. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of those harsh lines softening; smoothing out in a way that makes him look that much younger.
“That sounds nice, poppet.”
Jinx beams, and dashes over to coax him from his chair. He doesn’t resist. How could he? When her smile is like Topside sunshine. Her hands are small in his as she pulls him towards the sofa, and pushes on his shoulders to make him sit. You put the two glasses down on the low table and add your boxes to the pile. Jinx sets about opening all the containers to better display her curated feast, whilst you head to his drinks cart to fix him a bourbon.
You surreptitiously slide the tumbler onto the coffee table and murmur, “In case you aren’t a fan of Jinx’s concoction.”
Silco nods a quiet thanks as he eyes the fizzing pink glasses, and you turn to leave.
“Hmm,” Jinx hums, “I think I went a bit overboard on the food,” she calls your name before you’re even halfway over the threshold, “Wanna join? Seems a shame to waste so much…”
You narrow your eyes at the poorly concealed mischief in hers, “Jasper’s expecting me back down.”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.”
You suck your teeth for a moment, before pointedly saying, “I couldn’t possibly intrude on quality time with your dad.”
“Pffsh,” she scoffs, “He’s here, I’m here, it’s still quality time if you’re here too. And it can be like a ‘Hey – thanks for not poisoning Silco’ party. Besides, you don’t mind, do you, father dearest?” She gives him a sweet smile and bats her lashes a little.
He eyes his daughter with no small amount of suspicion, “I suppose not.”
“That’s settled then,” Jinx grabs your hand and yanks you over to the sofa, seating you next to Silco with a finality that broaches no argument, “Oh and look – since you made dad a new drink you can just take the other one you brought up.”
“Funny how that worked out,” you mutter.
You hear a whisper of air from your left, but Jinx is too wrapped up with dishing out the food to notice or care that she’s been rumbled. She hums happily to herself as she works, and a triumphant little smile toys on her mouth.
You turn to Silco and mouth “I’m sorry”, with an apologetic grimace.
He simply shakes his head slightly in response, as if to say, "No need to apologise”.
What the hell is the little blue imp up to now?
For such a petite girl, Jinx packs an alarming amount of food away.
She sits on the opposite side of the table from you and Silco, cross-legged upon the floor. You’d offered your space on the sofa, but she’d commanded you to stay put, claiming that the adults should have the proper seats because of “old-people knees”, all while openly smirking at you both.
Silco takes small portions of everything Jinx forces upon him, but never eats more than a bite or two of anything before moving onto the next dish. No wonder he’s so skinny. You’d interrupted his first five or so mouthfuls to let him know each time that you hadn’t poisoned it – until he’d given you one of his signature looks and had told you, very politely, to shut up.
Jinx natters merrily away between mouthfuls (and often around them), and you’re happy to listen as you eat. The food is really good, hearty and comforting, and you’re on a mission to try a bit of everything on offer – especially as you know each dish has been hand selected as a favourite of theirs. You attempt to match up each one with its owner, and are openly thrilled with yourself when you get them all correct, even though it’s not so hard to guess at. Jinx’s choices are all deep fried and/or covered in spice and sauce. Whereas Silco’s choices tend to be uncomplex and lean; a little healthier as far as takeaway options go.
At one point the door opens and Sevika enters, stopping in her tracks when she takes in the scene. Her gaze lands and narrows on you, and you give her a wide smile – your cheeks full of food like a hamster.
Silco indicates that it’s okay for her to speak freely, and listens intently as she begins rattling off a report of some kind. Something to do with protection rackets for some local businesses along the Lanes. She side-eyes you occasionally, but half of what she’s saying is way too out of context for you to understand, and the other half simply doesn’t interest you. Not when these fries are so damn crispy. But Jinx’s expression darkens the longer Sevika stays, garnering Silco’s full attention.
When she finally finishes the report, her eyes drop to the table, “That calamari?”
“Okaaay thanks for stopping by Sevika,” Jinx says pointedly, leaping up and ushering the larger woman from the room with a surprising amount of force, “Take care now!” She slams the door behind her and rolls her eyes dramatically, “Sheesh.”
You raise your eyebrows, “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”
“Yeah, well, Sevika isn’t very nice.”
“Jinx,” Silco warns. He leans forward for the box of calamari and holds it out to her with a meaningful look.
Jinx rolls her eyes again and takes the box, jogging out after Sevika with a, “Wait up! Oh dearest auntie!”
You raise a questioning brow at Silco.
“They have a… complex relationship.”
“How come?”
“It was Jinx who blew Sevika’s arm off. Entirely by accident, of course.”
You stare at him.
“This family is weird.”
“Not untrue,” he concedes, “I’d appreciate it if Jinx were to remain unaware that you're privy to this information. It’s a complicated and touchy subject.”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
The teenager reenters then, closing the door and sitting down with a huff.
“There, doesn’t it feel nice to be nice?” You say with a sweet smile. She sticks out her tongue at you, and you stick yours out right back.
You don’t miss the silent look of gratitude from Silco. Your mouth twitches in response. It may be a weird little family. But you’ve fallen under the spell of each member, and find yourself dangerously unconcerned by things that really should bother you.
Jinx reaches for the last chicken dumpling, and Silco purposefully intercepts; pinning it with his fork and making her giggle as she fights him for it. He makes a show a letting her win, and his lips quirk as she shovels the dumpling happily into her mouth.
You catch your lower lip between your teeth to keep from smiling too widely as you watch. They’re very sweet together. For a selfish moment, you allow yourself to pretend that you’re a part of the family.
“You know, I’m really gonna miss it here when I leave.”
Both Silco and Jinx whip their heads towards you.
“Huh?!” Jinx whines, eyes round with devastation.
“Don’t huh me,” you rebuke, “It’s your fault that Jasper’s gonna fire me tomorrow.”
Two burgundy shoulders relax slightly in the corner of your vision. It gives you more satisfaction than it should. Jinx giggles goofily, holding her ankles and drawing her knees and shoulders up in mock chastisement.
“And I had such plans for the club,” you lament.
“Is that so?” Silco asks, “Care to run any of them by the actual owner?”
“Sure,” you angle yourself towards him, crossing your legs and using your hands to gesticulate your very serious business plan, “Picture this, right. Every club in the Undercity has a dance floor – I should know, I’ve worked most of ‘em – but do you know what none of them have? An indoor swimming pool.”
“Ooh! We could have a diving board from the balcony! And inflatables!”
“See,” you click your fingers and point appreciatively at Jinx, “She gets it.”
“An interesting proposition,” Silco muses, swirling his glass of whiskey, “It would certainly set us apart from the competition. But I am not sure you'd be suggesting such an idea had you fully considered exactly whose job it would be to clear the drunken waste out of the water at the end of each night.”
Your nose crinkles in disgust and horror, and Jinx dry-heaves before scooping a generous forkful of noodles into her mouth.
“On second thoughts, maybe we just scrap the whole swimming pool idea. Start with something smaller so we don’t upset the regulars,” you say, sensibly, “A dartboard, perhaps. We could have tournaments.”
“As entertaining as it would be to watch inebriated idiots throwing sharp objects around the place – and it would be, extremely entertaining – I’m not sure I have time to deal with the amount of complaints I’d receive when Jinx inevitably swindled the entire Lanes out of their pocket money.”
You raise an eyebrow at Jinx, “A dart-extraordinaire, are we?”
“Not just darts,” she boasts, “I’m a perfect shot in anything.”
“Are you now?”
Her chest puffs with pride, and she nods vigorously.
“Prove it.”
She rises to the challenge immediately; reaching amongst the containers to pull free a paper bag of roasted nuts (one of Silco’s favourites). She plucks one out, “Open wide!” She instructs, making the shot with one quick flick of her middle finger. You catch it easily in your mouth.
“See?”
“Fluke,” you accuse with a grin as you chew.
“You insult me, madame!” She cries, pulling a second from the bag and landing another perfect shot into your mouth.
“Make it three and maybe I’ll start to believe you.”
The third nut clacks against your molars as you catch it and bite down.
“Your dining etiquette is appalling; both of you,” Silco scolds.
“Trick shot!” Jinx announces suddenly, flicking a fourth.
Silco flinches as the nut pings directly between his eyes and falls into his drink with a plop.
Both you and Jinx burst simultaneously into uncontrollable hysterics.
The cool displeasure on Silco’s face only makes it ten times funnier.
Your breath catches in your nose and you snort lewdly, which makes Jinx scream with laughter and slam her fist on the table, causing the containers to jump from the surface half an inch. You cover your face with your hands because you literally cannot look at Silco right now or you’ll never stop.
Your palms are damp with tears by the time you’ve calmed down enough to dare a peek at him. You take a deep, shaky breath and remove your hands.
And clamp your lips together tightly, swallowing the giggles that bubble insistently in your throat.
Silco raises an eyebrow.
“Finished?”
Your laughter explodes in his face once more, and Jinx flops back onto the rug with a thump as she loses it again right alongside you. Your combined howls fill the office; wild and free-spirited, enlivening the dour room and drowning out the steady thump of the club music downstairs.
You clutch your full and aching stomach as you wheeze; your laughter gradually dying down with Jinx’s until you’re both giddy and giggling.
“Okay, okay,” you admit breathlessly, “You’re a perfect shot.”
“A-thank you,” Jinx says, with a little hand flourish and a seated bow.
Silco’s face still hasn’t moved a muscle; remaining perfectly stoic and wholly unimpressed by the entire affair.
You meet his gaze and bite your lip to keep yourself in check. You pluck his ruined drink from his hand as you stand to go make him a new one, but snort when you notice a smudge of brown on his brow from the spices on the nut.
You lick your thumb and sweep it away.
Silco stiffens, but you pay him no heed.
You simply fix up a fresh bourbon and pass him the glass as you take your place beside him on the sofa again. He accepts the glass as though you’ve just handed him something foul, and stares petulantly at you; his shoulders forming a hard, tense line.
“Oh stop it,” you berate, “you had some crap on your forehead. Did you want me to leave it be and let you wander around looking like a dirty street rat?”
“You could have simply informed me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“I don’t appreciate being babied.”
“Then stop acting like one. If you’re not careful I’ll start putting your whiskey in a sippy cup.”
He grumbles in his throat and takes a swallow of drink. But sits back, and slowly begins to relax again.
“Such a drama queen,” you mumble under your breath.
You look over at Jinx.
Her eyes are practically glowing.
To say that Jinx went overboard on the food is an understatement.
Even with the three of you (or two and a half, really, considering Silco’s minuscule appetite), you’re still only able to polish off half the contents within the containers.
You can’t remember ever feeling so full in your life.
You recline, stretching your stomach as much as you’re able.
Jinx has found her way over to the arm of the sofa; perching herself upon it and leaning her cheek on the top of Silco’s head. He balances his tumbler of whiskey on his knee with one hand, and his free arm rests along the back of the sofa, rubbing absent circles on Jinx’s arm with his knuckles as she talks him through the scientific problems she’s having.
From what you can gather, she’s attempting to create a bomb that temporarily blinds and disorientates those within its blast radius by exploding a thick, tar-like substance that obscures the victim’s vision and inhibits their movement. However, the viscosity of the substance she’s working with seems to be affecting the trajectory of the explosion, and resulting only in a thick, pathetic dribble of muck.
You make yourself comfy, twisting towards them both and leaning your elbow on the back of the sofa to listen.
You have little to offer to this particular conversation, but are perfectly content to watch the two of them discuss. Jinx does most of the talking, but Silco pipes up every now and then, asking pertinent questions or making small comments. You have no idea how much knowledge he actually possesses on the science of bomb-making, but he’s clearly making an effort to understand and engage regardless.
And that rare softness still touches his features.
You rest your cheek in your hand.
It’s nice to see him like this. You feel like you’re being let in on a secret. Something so closely guarded that no one else in the world would ever know if its existence, let alone be afforded an opportunity to glimpse at it.
You find yourself admiring his profile while his attention is diverted. There really is something undeniably magnetic about him. The unmarred skin of his right side; lined slightly with age in a way that feels dignified. The sea-foam shine of his good eye; more green than blue tonight. The refined dashes of silver at his temples, which fade into deepest jet black. The carefully styled hair that always has a way of flicking upwards at the crown of his head; as though there are natural waves within the texture that are intent on battling the hold of whatever product he uses to achieve his signature look. The high cut of his cheek bone; sharp and devastating. The perfect arching sweep of his dark eyebrow. The proud, aristocratic nose that suits him so well. The charming little overbite that’s more pronounced when he’s relaxed like this.
You sense a pair of eyes settle on you, and catch Jinx’s gaze over the top of Silco’s head. The smirk she’s giving you is pure evil.
The small smile that had been playing on your lips falls away, and you suddenly feel like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t. You avert your gaze to the half empty boxes on the table instead.
“I got dessert too,” Jinx chirps, reaching for the one container that remains unopened.
You blow your cheeks out, “If I’m full then you definitely are. You eat like a horse. Where do you put it all?”
“I’m a growing girl, I need lots of food. Plus, my sweet tummy is still empty,” she says, as if that’s any kind of explanation at all, “Budge,” she instructs Silco with a sharp tap on the side of his knee, forcing him to shift to the centre to make room for her.
It’s a pretty long sofa, and yet you somehow feel the loss of space very keenly.
Jinx places the takeaway box on Silco’s lap and opens the lid with a flourish and a “Ta-Da!”
You smile. It’s Sugar Bread; the peasant’s dessert of Zaun, and easily one of the best things in the whole of Runeterra. It’s as simple as it sounds. Shredded scraps of sweet, doughy bread – simple, cheap, and quick to make, but hearty and filling. Topped with a dusting of sugar, sometimes cinnamon too, and a sauce of choice from whatever selection the vendor has available that day. Jinx has gone for chocolate. A classic.
“I figured we could share, like we always used to,” she says, helping herself to a big chunk that’s laden with thick, brown sauce.
Silco tilts the box towards you, offering you the next piece.
“Such a gentleman,” you croon, before biting into the comforting dough. He huffs a wry breath, before selecting a piece for himself – small with not much chocolate.
“I’ve been called many things, but never a gentleman.”
“I’m sure people would call you a gentleman if you asked them nicely, or punched them a little harder.”
“That’s always the best way to get people to do stuff,” Jinx agrees.
“Which? Asking them nicely or punching them harder?”
“Mhm,” Jinx agrees around another mouthful.
The box slowly depletes until there’s only one piece left. Silco divides it into three, giving Jinx the biggest bit, offering you the medium piece, and taking the smallest for himself, before chucking the empty box onto the table with the rest. Your thumb and forefinger are sticky, so you clean them in the same way that any sane human who finds themselves confronted with chocolatey fingers would.
You register the weight of Silco’s attention on you as you suck on the end of your thumb, and you pause, turning your head to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
“Sorry,” you murmur, removing your thumb from your mouth and wiping your hand on your trousers, “Guess that’s kinda rude.”
“Mildly,” he deadpans. His gaze remains on your mouth, and amusement begins to curl its way onto his lips.
You frown at him, feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden, “Do I have something on my face?”
“Yes.”
His quiet mirth only grows as he watches you scrub hurriedly at your chin.
“Better?”
“No.”
He licks his thumb, and sweeps just below the corner of your mouth.
You go deathly still beneath his touch, and your heart stutters inside of your ribcage. You blink owlishly at him, and he meets your gaze with cool indifference.
“See? Demeaning, isn’t it.”
Jinx peers slowly past Silco’s shoulder, a look of wide-eyed disbelief on her face.
“Point taken,” you manage. Your voice is thick. Because of all the chocolate.
He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself as he stands and makes his way over to his desk, reaching over for his humidor with his back turned to the sofa.
You lock eyes with Jinx, and she looks absolutely beside herself with glee.
“The fuck just happened?” You mouth.
“You started it,” she mouths back, thrusting a finger in your direction.
You hear the slice of Silco’s cigar cutter.
“What are you up to?”
She shakes her head and shrugs dramatically, “I dunno know what you’re talking about.”
You’re about to argue, but snap your mouth shut as Silco turns back around. He returns to the sofa with a smouldering cigar in his mouth and an ashtray in his hand, which he places on the table as he sits, making himself comfortable. He crosses one long leg over the other, and you automatically track the movement.
The rhythmic thumping from downstairs cuts off, and you look up at the clock. How is it closing time already?
Jinx makes a displeased noise, “Hate the quiet,” you hear her murmur as she ducks off the sofa and drops to her knees next to the gramophone at the side of the room. She flicks through the stack of records beneath it.
“Something mellow, Jinx,” Silco requests, tipping his head back and exhaling a ring of smoke up towards the ceiling, “We have to listen to the racket from downstairs plenty enough.”
The girl sighs, putting away the record she’d been holding and selecting another instead. She sets it up on the turntable and drops the needle onto the disk, eliciting a high-pitched scratch, before something sultry and jazzy begins to play.
“There you go, old man,” Jinx says.
“Much better,” Silco says around a mouthful of smoke.
Jinx stands and contemplates the music, frowning as she shuffles her boots around and sways her shoulders a little, “How can you like this stuff? There’s no rhythm. It’s boring.”
“It’s easy to listen to, and doesn’t assault the senses.”
“You can’t even dance to it,” Jinx argues.
“You could, if you so wished,” Silco counters, “Properly – like they do in Piltover at their fancy little galas.”
“How would you know what happens at a Piltie party?” You ask with a smirk.
“I’ve gatecrashed a few in my time.”
“Show me,” Jinx insists suddenly, snatching the cigar from his fingers and stubbing it out in his ashtray. Silco looks longingly at the abandoned cigar as Jinx grabs his hands and yanks him up from the sofa. He stands reluctantly, rounding the table at her behest to join her in the open space of the office.
He sighs wearily, but dutifully adjusts her fingers in his, and instructs her to hold onto his shoulder with the other. He places his free hand on her back and speaks to her lowly about how to move her feet. One slow step, followed by two slightly quicker ones, in a box-like formation.
Jinx, bless her, tries very hard, but possesses none of the easy grace her father has. She’s clumsy, wielding herself with the gangly uncertainty of a teenager. Where as Silco moves elegantly, like a man who knows exactly how his own body works.
But she looks like she’s having fun all the same, and even Silco begins to look less put out; his eyes shining with amusement as he watches his daughter muddle her feet.
You curl up on the sofa and watch them dance, grinning all the while. This whole evening feels like some wonderful, bizarre fever dream. Who would have thought that the mighty Eye of Zaun had the potential to be such a softy? You wonder if he ever lets anyone else besides Jinx see him like this. You highly doubt it. Perhaps he’s planning to kill you once the evening ends, in order to protect his deep-dark secret and keep up appearances. You don’t think so somehow. And even if he was, you’re pretty sure you could sweet-talk your way out of it by now.
No – sometimes the answer is simple. Silco feels comfortable around you. And that realisation washes over you like a warm ocean wave lapping at the shore, and leaves you feeling strangely honoured.
Jinx steps on Silco’s boot by accident and you snort a laugh. She whips her head towards you at the sound and scowls.
“You make a very refined lady.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re practically ready for your debutante.”
“Har-de-har.”
“Perhaps we can get you a nice puffy skirt to hide your feet?”
“I’d like to see you do any better.”
“It’s like three steps, how hard can it be?”
Jinx’s annoyance dissolves immediately into a cloyingly sweet smile, and you realise the trap you’ve just walked into. She pulls out of her father’s arms, “Go on then.”
Your smirk disappears, and you shake your head, “I take it back, looks hard, you’re doing great.”
Your stomach flips over on itself as a pair of gold-tipped boots click their way slowly towards you, and a long fingered palm extends into your field of vision. You follow the deep red sleeve up to the man to whom it’s attached, waiting patiently for you to take his hand with the cool, assured air of someone who never takes no for an answer.
Your mouth goes a little dry.
You grumble in your throat and shoot a glare at Jinx, whose grin is sharp to the point of being slightly manic, before clapping your palm into his. He pulls you to your feet and leads you around the table.
“Here,” he instructs curtly, gesturing to his shoulder with his free hand. You alight your palm there like Jinx did, and almost squeak in surprise when he finds your waist and pulls you closer with a sharp tug.
“Now, do you need me to explain the footwork again? Or can I assume that you’re an expert already, seeing as you have no problem in criticising my daughter?” He asks smoothly, with a small, condescending smile.
Jinx snorts, and you suck your teeth at the jibe, “I understand the theory,” you say carefully.
“Good,” he says with a little head incline, “In that case, right leg back first.”
He moves his left leg forward and you panic, switching your weight at the last minute to copy, and bumping straight into him.
Jinx cackles, and you flush with mortification as Silco sets you back up in the neutral starting position with a smug smirk.
“I’m leading, sweetheart. Do as I say, not as I do.”
Your face burns with heat, and for the first time in your life you’re unable to formulate a witty comeback. So you simply sniff impertinently and refuse to meet his gaze.
“Let’s try again, shall we? Right leg back.”
Second time’s the charm, and you begin to move steadily to the relaxed rhythm of the music. It may only be three steps, but you’re soon struck with the horrifying realisation that it really isn’t as easy as it looks.
You look down the gap between your bodies and watch your boots – trying to focus on getting the steps right to avoid any further embarrassment.
“Eyes up here.”
Shit.
You reluctantly meet his gaze.
Silco is quite a bit taller than you, so you need to tilt your face up to him slightly. He holds his chin high, watching you almost haughtily, and his right eye is half-lidded in that supercilious way of his.
“Must you look down your nose at me like that? It makes me feel like a cockroach.”
He chuckles, and dips his chin so that he’s looking directly at you instead. It’s disconcerting. And not for the reason it should be.
“Better?”
You take a second too long to answer, “Yes.”
His gaze sparkles with quiet amusement.
You’re starting to get the hang of the movement now. To his credit; he leads excellently. Assured and confident. You find that you’re able to relax a little and simply flow with what he’s doing. And doing so frees up enough brain function to make up for your momentary lack of sass before.
“So is there anything else to it? Or is it just a few fancy steps and a ton of prolonged eye contact?”
“If you wish for more of a challenge, I’m happy to accommodate.”
His grip on you is firm, as he begins to add a gentle rotation, guiding you so that each few steps turn you to face a slightly different part of the room. But again, you find that if you place your trust in his lead, it’s not so hard to keep up.
He cocks his head slightly, “Not bad. You’re a fast learner.”
“If by fast learner, you mean naturally gifted and talented, then yes, I am.”
You receive absolutely no warning before he raises your joined fingers and pushes on your waist, forcing you to spin on the spot – and then both his hands are supporting your spine as he lunges, displacing your weight backwards over your heels. You yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders and fisting your hands in the fabric of his shirt like a panicked cat above water, as you find yourself suddenly lowered into a dip. You stare up in wide-eyed alarm at his arrogant face; smirking down at you against the backdrop of the ceiling.
“Too advanced?”
“Bite me,” you retort immaturely.
His lips part, but then his eyes flick briefly in Jinx’s direction, and he clearly decides to hold his tongue. But the slow smirk he gives you fills in the gaps. You can practically hear his velvet voice saying, “I’ve already eaten a rather large meal – another time, perhaps?” and you once again find yourself a little too warm for comfort. You quirk an eyebrow at him and he chuckles, lifting you easily and setting you back on your feet again.
He taps the back of your right hand, “You can retract your claws now.”
You refrain from meowing, despite the dire temptation to do so, and place your hand back in his while loosening your grip on his shoulder with the other.
The room turns gently around you as you resume moving in time with the music.
But it soon becomes a mere a blur in your periphery, as you find yourself once again trapped within the confines of his gaze.
And all you can see are his eyes.
The world could be falling down around you as you dance with the devil in his sunken playground, and you wouldn’t even notice.
Perhaps you might not even care.
All the turning is making you feel dizzy. Your stomach feels unsettled from all the food. His touch is too hot and the neon outside is too bright and everything feels too real. You feel too painfully alive.
“So… you’re seriously just meant to stare at each other the whole time, or…?”
“If that’s what you wish,” he answers smoothly, “many take the opportunity to talk, as we are now. But there are ways to avoid both.”
“How—”
You don’t get to finish the question.
The hand on your waist adjusts – sliding to the small of your back and splaying to keep you from retreating too far as he takes a larger step forward on the new rotation. The combined movement completely closes the distance between you, connecting the right half of his torso with your left, and slotting your legs together in a way that allows you to still dance without bumping knees.
“Like this,” he says from somewhere beside your ear, “that way you’re not stuck looking at your partner.”
“I’m so terrible to look at?” You quip a little weakly.
Fuck he smells good. Cigar smoke and whiskey and expensive cologne.
“Not at all. You were the one complaining about prolonged eye contact.”
Your stomach clenches horribly, and you mentally kick yourself for such a thoughtless comment, “I’m just unused to… dancing like this. I really didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Of course not,” the words rumble through his chest and straight into yours.
You continue to move in silence. Now that you can’t watch his movements, you have to listen for them instead. You have to feel for the way his body shifts against yours; the twist of his torso, the brush of his leg, the turn of his hips.
You think back to the riverside, when he’d reacted so badly to your attempted touch. To his reluctance to place his hand in yours when he’d injured his knuckles. Even earlier this evening, when he’d all but hissed at you for daring to clean his brow.
But then had been entirely fine with doing the same thing to you.
What’s changed so drastically over the course of one evening? What’s so different about this particular situation, that he suddenly has no problem with the way your bodies meet?
The answer comes quickly to you.
Control.
He likes to be in control.
A pleasant shiver runs all the way up your spine, and maybe he feels it, because his fingers flex slightly on your back.
You adjust your grip so that your arm isn’t tucked so tightly to your side – curling it instead around the back of his bicep a little more, and hooking your fingers over his shoulder to provide a rest for your chin. You may be a novice dancer, but it feels natural to lean your head slightly against his jaw. So you do.
And after a moment, you feel the press of his cheek into your hair. If only a little.
You smile against your fingers.
It’s nice.
You sway gently to the music, your steps becoming smaller, not covering quite so much ground as when you began. Your mind stills, like calm waters, and your heart keeps time with the easy beat of the jazz.
Time itself seems to slow around you.
You catch Jinx’s eye as you turn, and blink. You’d totally forgotten she was here.
But the impact of her presence hits acutely when you notice that her fingers are carefully manipulating one of the knobs of the gramophone. More specifically, the one that controls the speed of the music.
You widen your eyes in indignant disbelief as you realise what she’s been doing.
The look she gives you is so innocent you can practically see the halo.
But then the final, dulcet notes of the song are drifting from the horn, and fading into the quiet office air like smoke in the wind. Silco allows the last movements of the dance to settle, before relinquishing his hold and taking an unhurried step backwards. He folds his hands behind his back and observes you silently, as though waiting for your verdict.
You can’t help but feel a little resentful, that he should seem as perfectly unruffled as ever, while you’re left feeling a little unsteady on your feet.
And so you reach for safe, familiar territory.
You raise your eyebrows expectantly, “Well? Aren’t you supposed to curtsy to me or something?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you aren’t as funny as you think you are?”
“Where did you learn to dance?” You ask softly, a short while later.
You’re nestled in the corner of the sofa with Jinx’s boots on your lap. The girl herself is asleep, finally having given in to the exhaustion of a full stomach and too much excitement. Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and her mouth is parted softly. It would be sweet, were she not sprawled like a stick insect; forcing you and Silco to squash together on one end of the sofa.
“I suppose it’s just something I picked up over the years,” he responds quietly, his hands resting on Jinx’s shins where they lay in his lap. The two of you together forming one glorified foot rest for the teenager.
“Did you pick it up to gatecrash galas, or because you were gatecrashing galas?”
“A bit of both, perhaps.”
You chuckle and rest your head back on the sofa.
“What are they like? The galas.”
He considers for a moment, “In some ways they’re very mundane. Boring people, chit-chatting politely about things that don’t matter. Skirting around their true thoughts and feelings for the sake of maintaining airs and graces.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a Piltie that doesn’t have a stick up their arse.”
“Me neither,” he says with a small chuckle, “But in many ways they’re also very beautiful. There’s always an elegance and splendour to the whole affair.”
“Have you always been taken by such things?”
He tilts his head slightly in question.
“The suits, the cigars, the office decor, even the way you speak… it’s not exactly what you’d expect from a Chem Baron.”
“I suppose not,” he concedes.
“So how come you’re like that? If you hate the Topsiders so much?"
His brow knits a little as he formulates his answer, “Perhaps I simply like taking what’s theirs and making it mine. Of corrupting it, in my own way.”
You let out a small giggle, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
His lips quirk, “Makes sense to me.”
You drop your cheek against the back of the sofa and look up at him.
“Tell me more about the galas.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything. Paint me a picture.”
He hums as he thinks, and props his elbow on the back of the sofa as he twists a little more towards you. He brushes his fingers through his hair, and leaves them entangled in the dark strands as he rests his head in his palm.
“The women dress very finely. Expensive dresses cut in the latest fashion, shining jewels, flawless hair and makeup. Each one trying to outdo the next; trying to prove that they’re richer, wittier, more beautiful. The men tend toward three-piece suits. Sometimes tails, if the occasion calls for it. And they all laugh much too loudly - a poor attempt to conceal whatever corrupt deals are being made in darkened corners.”
“You’re one to talk,” you joke quietly.
“My corrupt deals are made out in the open,” he responds with a cocky smirk.
“What else?”
“Something you'll appreciate; there's always an endless supply of champagne. You can’t turn around without being offered a glass upon a silver platter. And everyone remains at the very least tipsy all night long, because the food only ever comes in silly little servings that hardly constitute a single bite.”
Your lips quirk upwards. The servings must be tiny if even Silco is complaining about them.
“The music is always live, never recorded. The band or orchestra set up right at the edge of the dance floor, so you feel the vibrations of the instruments through the soles of your feet, and in the very atmosphere around you.”
He speaks in hushed tones, so as not to wake Jinx, but his voice still holds that deep, smokey resonance. Your eyelids feel heavy in response to the lull of it.
“And the decor never fails to be wonderfully garish. Flowers and candles. Crystal and silk. I attended a gala once that was held inside a giant greenhouse – overflowing with exotic plants and lush greenery. And of course the entire thing was made of glass, so the night was spent in the company of the stars, and the dance floor was bathed in moonlight. It was all very poetic.”
You smile drowsily, “That sounds kind of wonderful.”
“It was rather special,” his gaze travels over your face, “...If you and Jinx practice your dancing, perhaps we might gatecrash another some day.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He exhales through his nose, before dropping his attention to Jinx’s awkward sleeping position.
“I had better get this one to bed.”
“Sure,” you say softly.
Silco scoops his hands beneath her knees and back, and stands easily with her in his arms. Her head lolls against his shoulder.
“Would you mind?” He asks quietly, indicating his bedroom door with a jerk of his chin.
You rise and move forwards to open it for him, valiantly resisting the urge to peek inside. He carries the teenage girl as though she weighs nothing. He may be thin, but he’s evidently strong.
You suppose he’d have to be; to beat a man to death with his fists alone.
You suppose he’d have to be; to dip you so low, so easily, and still have time to spare on taunts.
It surprises you when he pauses on the threshold and turns to face you. You fiddle absently with the metal handle behind you, and press your shoulders into the wood of the door at your back.
“Thank you for tonight,” you offer when he doesn’t speak, "and I really am sorry if I intruded on quality time with Jinx.”
“It was no intrusion. And I think you know as well as I do that this entire night was orchestrated by a certain blue haired menace.”
You huff a laugh, and reach for one of her long braids; running the blue rope carefully through your fingers and placing it tenderly over her shoulder so that it’s no longer at risk of tangling with Silco’s leg, “Well, I’m glad for her meddling. I had a nice time.”
“Careful now, you’ll only encourage her.”
“She can’t hear, she’s fast asleep.”
“She’s only pretending so I’ll carry her to bed.”
There’s a tiny, soft giggle from Silco’s arms, and his lips quirk upwards in response. You bite your cheek and quirk a brow at Jinx, but she still looks angelic; eyes closed and freckled cheek resting against Silco’s shoulder.
“Where will you sleep?”
“On the sofa.”
You nod, and shuffle your feet a little before stepping back into the office with a quiet, “Good night then.”
“Good night,” he replies, finally turning away and carrying Jinx into his room. You close the door behind him with a silent exhale.
Your gaze falls to the coffee table, still littered with boxes of half finished food. You begin to gather them up, closing the lids and pilling them in your arms. You almost drop them all when Silco’s bedroom door opens again a minute later and he steps through.
You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.
He has a spare blanket tucked beneath one arm, and he’s removed his tie. And his vest. And he’s loosened the top few buttons of his shirt. He blinks once at you, clearly surprised that you’re still here.
Even though he’s still mostly dressed, it feels incredibly intimate to see him like this. He’s a man who wears his clothing like armour. This feels like seeing a tortoise without it’s exquisitely tailored, golden edged shell. You can’t help but feel a little scandalised by Silco’s collar bones.
Stop looking.
“Sorry,” you stammer, “I thought you’d be longer putting Jinx to bed. I just wanted to clear these away so you weren’t sleeping next to half eaten food.”
“How thoughtful,” he drawls, sauntering over and dropping the blanket onto the sofa. You turn away with another murmured “Good night”. It’s when you come face to face with the office door, arms laden with containers, that you realise your problem.
You hear a pair of boots approach from behind, and a slender shadow looms over your shoulder, reaching past you to open the door.
“Thank you,” you chuckle, turning to face him.
“Simply returning the favour,” he says smoothly, hand lingering on the door next to your head.
You loiter for a moment, before saying, “Well, good night.”
“It’s late, and you’re tired. Why not stay?”
Your stomach does something weird as your eyes dart involuntarily over to the sofa behind him.
“In Jinx’s room,” he clarifies, with a small, feline smirk that makes the tips of your ears burn red-hot.
But you’ve had quite enough of being one-upped by him tonight.
You tilt your head, and purse your lips a little, “I don’t take up much room, you know,” you say innocently.
His chuckle is low, throaty, and deliciously dark; like rolling thunder, “Behave.”
Your lips twist into a coquettish smirk, “Never.”
His eyes flash with amusement. And something else entirely. It heats your blood, and has you feeling simultaneously thankful for, and cursing the existence of, the pile of containers in your arms.
“You remember the way down?”
“I do.”
He nods.
Neither one of you makes a move to turn, and the moment seems to stretch.
“Well, good night then.”
“So you keep saying.”
You huff a laugh and roll your eyes, finally turning away with a mumbled “Prick”.
His low, velvet words roll down the corridor after you; trailing at your heels like midnight fog, “Sweet dreams.”
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 7 - In which Silco asks for your help in a personal matter
Sorry that this one has been slightly longer coming! It turned out way longer than originally planned and I was keen to get it right. It's possibly one of the most self-indulgent things I've ever written. I have zero regrets.
As always, thank you all so much for your incredible support! I love interacting with you. <3
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Dirty Little Animals - BONES UK
Chapter Text
Hold the die your turn to roll
Before they fall through your fingers
Not a good night to lose control
Right as the Earth is unraveling
You play with your blocks
Until they break
And these walls come tumbling down
You awake slowly in a bed that isn’t your own; emerging gradually through the surreal haze of your dreamscape.
Like a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue, the full memory of the dream alludes you. And the more you try to remember what happened, the more it fades away. Like clutching at smoke.
But you think there was forest of towering plants, silhouetted and swaying against a sky bruised purple with night. And you think there were beautiful people, dancing and spinning like wild things to the beat of a strange song. And you vaguely remember seeing jewelled fingers, reaching up to pluck low hanging stars from the night sky, before placing them on waiting tongues and swallowing their golden light.
Hidden away behind closed eyes, you allow yourself a moment to indulge in the lingering feel of the dream. How it wraps around your sleep-addled mind like a warm blanket. How wonderfully free and ethereal it had all seemed.
You inhale deeply, right to the bottom of your lungs, and stretch your limbs out. Your spine lengthens with a satisfying pop, before you finally open your eyes—
And scream in the face of the girl who’s hovering not a foot above you.
You lash out automatically, and she dodges your reflexive punch with ease.
“Jinx!” You shriek, throwing off the covers and swinging your feet out of bed. You bow your head between your knees in an attempt to get the blood flow back to your brain.
“Good mornin’ sleepy head!” She sings, “Though I suppose it’s afternoon for everyone else. Morning for us night owls though, huh?”
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” You gasp out, trying to gather your thoughts and calm your racing heart. You wiggle your toes into the floor to ground yourself, “How long have you been watching me sleep?”
“Nonsense, a little fright never hurt anybody. Do ya have plans today?”
You’re perturbed that she doesn’t answer your question, “Other than calling pest-control about a blue-haired gremlin that’s invaded my life? No, nothing. Why?”
“Well ya do now – we’re hanging out. I wanna show you my workshop.”
You freshen up in Jinx’s small adjoining bathroom, and she lends you a clean top; a black button-down that’s sporting several neon paint stains. The effect is cool, and the material is really soft, but the shirt itself is oversized. You leave the collar open and loose, roll the sleeves up to your elbows, and gather the extra length into a knot at your waist – exposing a thin band of skin above your high-rise trousers. You give Jinx a twirl, and she responds with a very pleased nod and a double thumbs up.
Then you’re heading out of The Last Drop and down through the Lanes. You buy Jinx a hot cocoa, and a black coffee for yourself, as well as a paper bag of small, flakey pastries to share on the walk.
You aren’t too far from the club when she tugs on your arm, encouraging you to duck down a side street with her. You ditch your breakfast rubbish in an overflowing dumpster, and Jinx leads you through an innocuous looking metal door that’s set into the wall.
You find yourself in some kind of derelict building, one of the many that litter the Undercity. You eye the debris that’s scattered around the lobby with unease. You don’t begrudge those who seek shelter in empty spaces such as these, but you would begrudge it if a jonesing shimmer-head were to harass Jinx.
But she thankfully doesn’t venture far into the building, instead leading you directly over to a padlocked elevator shaft.
She hums merrily to herself as she produces a key from the pouch that’s attached to her belt and unlocks the chains. The squeal of the latticed grating being pulled back echos ominously through the empty vestibule.
You’re glad that Jinx has the sense to padlock the grating back over the entrance before flipping the lever. The floor rattles beneath you for a moment, before you begin to descend into the depths of the building.
It seems an age before you finally reach the lowest level, and you squint through the dim as Jinx leads you down a maze of tight, narrow corridors made entirely of grimy metal, with rusted piping running haphazardly along the low ceiling.
She suddenly squats on her haunches, crouching over a hatch in the floor. She turns the wheel, and opens it up with a sharp tug, before dropping down into the darkness below.
You peer down the hole, and receive a flash of white teeth as Jinx grins back up at you. The drop isn’t too far, and there are steel rungs to get back up again. You swing yourself down and land in a crouch next to her. You’re in a tight cylindrical chamber that’s packed with tangled wires and is barely big enough to fit a few more people. Jinx heads to a second hole in the floor and begins to descend down a ladder.
“I didn’t realise your workshop was literally in hell.”
“Nearly there, promise!”
You roll your eyes and follow her down.
Your boots eventually make contact with more metal flooring, and then Jinx is opening another hatch in the wall and stepping through with a grand, sweeping gesture.
“Welcome to my secret laboratory!” She announces in a strange, rolling accent.
“Holy Shit,” is the only thing you can think to say as you gawp.
The space is vast and intimidating. A colossal, metallic shaft that has every tiny sound bouncing back at you from all sides. It seems that you’ve just descended through the central axis of a giant propeller, and now stand on a ringed platform from which four enormous blades protrude outwards over an endless abyss.
“I know, right? Dad found this place for me when my work started to become a little tooo… explode-y for the club. I think it’s like an old mining ventilation shaft or something.”
You try your best to keep away from the edge as she begins to give you a grand tour. If you thought her bedroom was chaotic, it has nothing on her workshop. Each propellor blade seems to house several different work areas that each serve their own purpose; be it welding, testing, or painting. There’s even a little ‘relaxation’ area, sporting a creepy looking mannequin. Jinx affectionately ruffles it’s unwieldy, spiked head as she passes, and something about the gesture raises the hairs on the back of your neck.
The entire place is covered in colourful doodles (your favourite being the familiar long blue face labelled ‘dad’ on one of the propeller blades), and is packed with odd contraptions whose functions remain a mystery to you, even after Jinx’s excited, jargon filled explanations.
“You wanna set off a bomb?”
You hesitate, but ultimately your morbid curiosity wins out, “Yeah, I kinda do.”
She grins and scampers off to one of her work benches, and returns a moment later holding a grenade that’s decorated blue and green. She thrusts it into your hands.
“Pull this pin here, see, then chuck it over. Don’t wait too long though – I can’t remember the detonation time on this one.”
You’d already pulled the pin before she’d finished speaking. The device begins flashing and beeping. You squawk in alarm and fling it quickly over the edge. You both peer over the blade and watch it fall into the gloom, and you can’t help your slightly hysterical laughter when it explodes far below you, sending a blast of heat upwards which ruffles your hair and kisses your skin.
“Okay, that was pretty cool.”
“Wanna do another?”
“Thanks, but I think one is probably enough for my nerves today.”
You tip your head back and turn in a slow circle, “This place really is incredible,” your eyes catch on some paint splatters on the shaft wall, far beyond the reach of any of the propeller blades. You indicate them, “How’d you get over there to paint?”
“With this,” she disappears, and returns a few moments later carrying a modified rifle. She toggles the safety, takes aim, and sends a pink pellet splattering onto the far wall.
“Here, it’s all set up, just point and shoot.”
You accept the gun, testing the weight of it in your grip. It’s pretty heavy.
“Do you fancy my dad?”
The rifle goes off in your hands with a surprising amount of kick-back, sending you teetering off-kilter. But Jinx grabs you before you stumble too close to the edge of the blade.
“Woah, careful there,” she laughs.
“The hell did that question come from?!” You splutter, steadying yourself on your feet again and removing your finger from the trigger, incase she drops any further questions that cause you to inadvertently shoot a round.
“Just curious is all.”
“Is that what last night was all about?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah – and I’m not gonna!”
“Is it because the answer’s yes?”
“It’s because it’s none of your damn business.”
“So… it is a yes?”
“No, it’s—” you growl in frustration, “What even makes you think I do anyway?”
“Cuz you were lookin’ at him like this,” she pulls her cheeks downwards to make her eyes huge, and pushes her lower lip out.
You bark a laugh, “I promise you I’ve never looked at anyone like that. That’s terrifying.”
“Plus you flirt nonstop.”
“That’s not—”
“And you bicker like an old married couple.”
“It’s called banter, Jinx. I’m a bartender, I do it plenty with the patrons.”
“Do you slow dance with the patrons too?”
Your mouth snaps shut, and you grumble again. She grins.
“Wouldn’t have been such a slow dance if someone hadn’t been messing with the music.”
“I just felt you needed a bit of…” she weighs her head from side-to-side, and decides on, “encouragement.”
“Your encouragement is not needed, nor appreciated.”
“He fancies you too.”
“Stop saying that word would you? It’s cringe-y,” you side-eye her, and mumble, “How would you know that anyway? He say something?”
Her mouth twists in self-satisfaction. She shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, “Mm not specifically I guess. But I’m real sure he does. He’s never behaved so chill with anyone else before. Literally ever. Not even Sevika. And I miiight have casually mentioned a few times about how I think you’re really pretty, and the last time I did he agreed with me. So,” she shrugs again, “it all just makes sense if you ask me.”
Your lips quirk upwards, and your heart does a silly little spin in your chest. You decide not to read too deeply into it. It’s always nice to find out that someone thinks you’re attractive, after all. No biggie.
Jinx looks expectantly at you – two dark brows rising steadily towards her hairline.
You raise yours back.
“And…?” She prompts.
“And what?”
“And you think he’s attractive too, right?”
“Jinx—” you whine.
“Just admit this one teensy thing and then I’ll leave you alone about it, ‘kay?”
You roll your eyes in exasperation, and raise the gun to shoot a passive aggressive paintball at the far wall, “Fine. Sure. Silco is very attractive.”
“Very attractive?” She trills gleefully.
“You said you were gonna leave me alone about it!”
“That was before you said very.”
“Eternals damn it, Jinx—”
“Are you gonna get together?”
Your forehead drops onto the butt of the gun with a dull thud.
“Jinx,” you grumble wearily.
“Would it be so bad?”
You look up at the slight wobble in her voice, to find her imploring you with big blue doe-eyes.
“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head and point your index finger at her, “Don’t give me that look, it might work on your dad, but it won’t work on me.”
“You didn’t have fun last night?”
“Of course I had fun.”
“And we were kinda like a little family, right?”
Ouch. That comment punches you straight in the heart. She’s clever. She’s very clever.
“It’s just that you two get along so well,” she continues, drawing bashful patterns on the floor with the toe of her boot, “And since you both think the other looks nice, then why not just be together?”
“Because— because that’s not how relationships work chickie,” you explain gently, “There needs to be more than just a mutual attraction.”
“I’m fourteen, I’m not an idiot,” she huffs, dropping the demure act, “Besides, you’re practically in a relationship with him already.”
“No, we are definitely not.”
She leans her weight into one hip, giving you an imperious look that is eerily similar to Silco’s, and begins to rattle off a list on her fingers, “One – you like spending time together. Two – you’re relaxed around each other. Three – you make each other laugh. Four – you find each other attractive. Five – you care about the other’s safety. Six – you have a load in common—” her mischief comes back in full force, “—Seven – you’re already wearing his clothes.”
You blink slowly in confusion. And then it clicks. You look down at the shirt she’d given you to wear. Your jaw drops, and you look up at her in horror.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” You blurt, “If he sees me in this he’s gonna think I’m a creep!”
“Relax, he hasn’t worn it in ages. He gave it to me after a painting mishap.”
“I’m gonna have to wear this to work later!”
“You can keep it, by the way. Maybe put it on a pillow and give it a cuddle?”
You make an incoherent sound of annoyance as she laughs loudly at her own joke.
“Why are you so invested in your father’s love life anyway?” You snap, “Aren’t kids supposed to be grossed out by it?”
“I already told you. He’s lonely,” the softening of her voice is genuine this time, “He’s done… a lot for me. I just want to return the favour. I want him to be happy.”
You sigh deeply. She gives you a small, lopsided smile and lifts her palms in placation, “Okay, listen, I’ll play fair. Gimme five good reasons why you shouldn’t be together, and I’ll drop it for real this time.”
“Okay,” you say carefully, placing the barrel of the gun on the floor and leaning on the butt while you think, “how about that he kills people? That he’s probably the most dangerous drug lord in Runeterra? That he’s older than me? That he… he kills people—”
“You already said that one.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a pretty big deal, I’d say it counts as two.”
“I don’t think those things really matter to you though, do they? If they did, you wouldn’t still be friends with him.”
She knows she’s right, going by the smug little look on her face. She knows those things stopped mattering to you as soon as you got to know him.
“Okay, how about trust. You can’t have a relationship without it, and I don’t think Silco is ready for that.”
“But he does trust you,” Jinx insists, and you watch with mounting horror as another idea brews behind those sapphire eyes, “and I know how to prove it.”
“Jinx,” you intone, laying the gun flat on the floor so you can clutch her shoulders and give her your very best adult look, “Listen to me. Ignore what I said last night, okay? I mean it. No more meddling now. You can’t force two people to be together.”
It concerns you deeply that she doesn’t seem chastised in the least. Her mouth pulls into a small, innocent smile, and she promises sweetly, “Okay. You got it. I’ll simply do nothing.”
Jasper casts his gaze around the absolutely spotless club when he enters later that afternoon, and you give him an apologetic smile from where you stand behind the bar, polishing the glassware one by one.
You’ve spent most of the day with Jinx, but slipped away a little early to give the club a spruce before your shift in order to make up for your disappearance last night.
“I’m really sorry Jasp,” you start, “I kinda got pulled into this whole thing with Silco and Jinx last night and I tried to get out of it but—”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” he interrupts, shrugging out of his coat as he makes his way over.
You really expected him to be angry with you. Annoyed at the very least. But the disappointment on his face is even worse. It makes you feel sick with guilt.
He leans on the bar, levels his gaze at you, and as always, gets straight to the point.
“Going up once a week for a drink is already bad enough. But you’re gettin’ in too deep now, and I don’t like it.”
“You’re the one who sent me up there in the first place.”
“I know. I didn’t have a choice in that. And I still don’t. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. And doesn’t mean you have to keep makin’ things worse.”
You empty your lungs and put aside the glass and cloth you’d been holding, “Tell me honestly, what do you think is gonna happen to me?”
“I think you’re gonna get hurt.”
“He won’t hurt me. We’re friends—”
“Kid,” he grimaces, shaking his head emphatically, “D’you hear yourself? D’you hear how naive you sound? This is Silco we’re talkin—”
“I’m well aware who we’re talking about,” you bristle, “I’m well aware exactly who he is and what he does. Incase you’ve forgotten, I’ve already experienced it first-hand—”
“Then why do you keep going back?”
“Because I care about him.”
Jasper stares at you; dumbstruck. His expression likely a mirror to your own at the dangerous admission that has just tumbled so carelessly from your lips.
He regains his composure first. His jaw tightens, his mouth thins, and his nostrils flare slightly around his septum piercing as he huffs.
“I really hate to break it to you kid, but the guy is heartless. You may care about him, but he doesn’t care about you, or anyone other than himself, and Jinx. You gotta be honest with yourself on this, or you’re gonna get stung, bad.”
You shake your head, “I don’t think that’s true.”
He appraises you for a few, weighty moments, then shifts on his feet slightly. He clears his throat, before lowering his voice and asking, “Are you sleeping with him?”
“No, Jasper, I’m not fuckin’ sleeping with Silco,” you bite, immediately on the defensive.
“Don’t get arsey with me,” he snaps back, “It’s not a crazy conclusion to jump to, considering how much time you spend up there each week, and how soft you clearly are on him. And you’re forgetting that I’ve been workin’ for him for years.”
A pit of dread yawns open in your stomach, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask carefully, even though you’re not sure you want to know the answer.
“It means I know Silco well enough to know that he doesn’t do anything without reason, and that reason is always beneficial to him.”
You don’t allow Jasper to see the horrible relief his answer brings.
“If he’s keepin’ you close, it means he wants something from you. And that’s another thing about Silco – he always gets what he wants. By whatever means necessary,” Jasper raises his eyebrows and leans his elbow on the bar, tapping one sausage-like finger on the counter to accentuate his point, “So if I were you, I’d be trying to figure out what it is he wants. And if it’s something you ain’t willing to give, I’d be gettin’ outta there. Fast.”
The music feels especially loud tonight, and the crowd seems rowdier than usual. You’re soon sweating beneath your borrowed shirt, and the air in the club is thick with the smell of writhing bodies and sex.
You don’t know what it is about tonight – perhaps they’ve put something in the damn water down here, or perhaps it’s simply the amount of times you’ve been down right accosted about your love life today, but you can’t help noticing more couples than usual sneaking off to the bathrooms, or into dark, shady corners.
It’s making you itchy and irritable.
Even more than you already were.
Your conversation with Jinx had already left you feeling crabby, and the unsubtle teasing that had followed all day really hadn’t helped. Then had come your exchange with Jasper, which had just outright pissed you off.
You blame them both for the fact that you’re unable to keep Silco from your mind tonight.
And it isn’t like you aren’t trying.
You really, really are.
But it’s nigh on impossible when the suave kingpin is the topic of a conversation that’s happening only a few feet away from you. If you can even call it a conversation. Sounds more like a pack of dogs salivating over a single bone to you.
The three women are waiting at the bar for Jasper to finish making their drinks. All of them are beautiful, but particularly the one whose silver-grey eyes remain trained on the balcony above with single-minded focus. Her raven hair is cut in a severe, sleek bob, and her lips are painted a perfect blood red. She looks every bit the sort of woman who should be on Silco’s arm. She even matches his fucking colour scheme.
You can only hear snatches of what’s being said over the music. But it’s plenty enough to set off a heavy, indignant heat in your stomach.
“—never comes down—don’t know why—keep bothering—”
“—never know—be here when he does—damned if I let someone else get to him first—”
“—knows exactly what he’s doing—those tight trousers—”
“—bet he fucks like an animal—”
The heat beneath your skin becomes molten, and slides south.
You resolutely ignore them, and continue to serve those who approach the bar.
“—oly shit, tonight might—your lucky nigh—”
Your attention snaps towards the women, and you follow their line of sight up.
And your heart trips over itself.
Silco stands on the balcony, like a king presiding over his court. Both his hands are curled around the guard railing, and his attention is fixed solely on you.
Your eyes lock.
And suddenly the entire club feels downright obscene. The way the sea of dancing bodies between you grind and writhe against one another. The way the bass-line of the music beats a rhythm that feels loaded with intent. The way the flashing lights cast the room in hues of suggestive red and deepest purple. The way the smoke from all the pipes and drug-filled respirators haze the air and blur the lines.
And there’s an intensity in the way Silco looks at you in this moment that snatches the air clean from your lungs. The prickly heat of a flush creeps over your chest, and something dangerous coils low in your gut.
It seems like an excessive amount of time passes before he finally lifts a hand and crooks a single finger.
The movement breaks whatever spell or curse you’d fallen under, and you make a show of looking over your shoulder, knowing full well there’s nothing back there but booze.
“Me?” You mouth coyly, pointing to your chest and batting your lashes a little.
His mouth curls up at one corner, shifting the scar that cuts through his lip. And then he turns and heads back up the stairwell. You slide out from behind the bar – but not before you’ve responded to the vitriol-filled glare of the raven-haired beauty with a smug smirk of your own.
You nod amicably to Vill as you pass him and jog your way up the stairs. Silco has left his office door slightly ajar, and you close it behind you as you slip inside.
Your witty greeting dies on your tongue, and your smile falters when you find him facing away from you, staring out the window. His energy is tense in a way that hadn’t been apparent just now out on the balcony.
“What’s up?” You ask carefully.
He takes a second before answering, “I hate to pull you away while you’re working, but I’m afraid I require your assistance.”
“Um, sure… what do you need?”
The small, sensible voice in your head (which is beginning to sound a lot like Jasper) calls you an idiot for agreeing to a favour for Silco without hearing what it is first. But you ignore it. Because your gut finds the idea of denying him anything to be simply reprehensible.
Silco finally turns. His face is tight. Any softness you might have been witness to the night before has disappeared so thoroughly that you might be forgiven for thinking the entire thing had been a dream. The man left standing before you is every bit the Eye of Zaun. Every bit the annoyed Eye of Zaun.
He looks a hairs-breath away from changing his mind and dismissing you back to the bar.
“Silco?” You prompt gently.
His mouth tightens in irritation, pulling down at the corners, and his brows pinch into a vexed line.
“My eye treatment,” he grinds out, “Jinx normally does it for me. But it seems she’s gone awol today, and hasn’t bothered showing up.”
Okay. You got it. I’ll simply do nothing.
The annoyance that’s been brewing in your belly all day sharpens, and you quietly seethe as the meaning of Jinx’s allusive comment becomes abundantly clear.
“You… you can’t do it yourself?”
His jaw ticks, “I can. If I really must. But the anticipation is sometimes difficult to overcome… it seems I’ve become too reliant on another pair of hands to help.”
You can see how much that admission irks him. You can see now that his irritation is not really at Jinx, but at himself.
“What exactly…”
You don’t know what you’re asking, but he understands you well enough.
He gestures to his desk, and that’s when you notice the small brass instrument set out upon the surface. You approach a little cautiously and pick up the strange device. You’ve not seen anything like it before. It’s almost like a little cylindrical cage, with a well-worn handle that’s smooth with use. There’s some kind of squeezable trigger, and the realisation of how it works hits you in one sickening rush when you clock the long, thin lance.
When you look up, you find him casting his eye over the shirt you’re wearing.
“I’m sure,” he says slowly, carefully, as though each word is an effort to say, “that you can understand why it is that I need someone I trust to do this for me.”
But he does trust you, and I know how to prove it.
Your lips part softly in wonder, and he watches your reaction closely. There are no illusions at work here; you both know exactly what admitting such a thing means to him. And that one word oscillates in the air between you, back and forth. So tangible you might be able to reach out and touch it.
There’s a question in there somewhere, and an extended hand that’s perhaps still afraid of being bitten.
You answer with a simple, “Okay.”
His tension eases, just a fraction.
“What do I do?”
“Line it up, keep it steady, and shoot.”
He seats himself in his high-back chair and spins it to face you as you round the desk towards him, holding the instrument delicately in your hands and trying to quell the fluttering nerves in your stomach. He reclines slightly, his chin tilting upwards to remain looking directly at your face as you approach.
Your knees brush the edge of his chair as you come to a stop between his legs.
It doesn’t feel right to be looking down at him like this. He must agree, because he looks about as uncomfortable as you feel.
“You gonna throw a hissy again if I touch you?”
He clicks his tongue with the smallest of eye rolls, “You may touch me.”
Even with permission, you feel him jerk slightly as you cup his jaw to hold his face steady.
His gaze burns into you with a magnitude that you’re too afraid to interpret.
“Does it hurt?” You whisper.
“Yes.”
His breath smells strongly of smoke, and causes your stomach to swoop with a fresh bout of nerves. Your eyes go to his ashtray; full of cigar butts and ash, as though he’s been chain smoking.
“How long have you been trying to do this yourself tonight?”
“A couple of hours, on and off.”
“You should have come for me sooner.”
He doesn’t answer.
“So stubborn,” you tease softly, tapping your finger twice against his jaw to emphasise each word.
He gives you one of his silent looks, but his mouth loosens slightly, and you give him a tiny smile in response.
You lean closer and line the instrument up with his left eye.
And he tenses up again, almost imperceptibly.
You decide he needs a distraction.
His leather chair creaks as you place one knee up beside his hip, your calf pressing along the outside of his thigh, and lean close enough that you might be able to feel his shallow breaths ghosting along your skin if you focused hard enough. From the corner of your eye you see his fingers tighten on the armrests.
“Do you like my shirt?”
His chuckle is tight and husky, “It suits you well.”
“Yeah? Jinx said I could keep it.”
“Did she now?”
“Unless you’d prefer I return it to the original owner?”
“No. I would not.”
“My, you seem awfully insistent on the matter. Any reason you feel so strongly?”
“Because it looks far better on you than it ever did on me—”
You squeeze the trigger, and the needle snaps in and out.
Silco hisses with pain.
And so do you – at the hands which clamp onto your hips with sudden, bruising force.
His head snaps back – right eye wide and chipped teeth bared. The sharp movement displaces a few dark locks of hair, and the tendons in his neck pull taut as he rides out the worst of the pain with a ragged gasp.
The orange of his corrupted eye swirls purple for a few seconds, before the usual fire sweeps back in.
And then his jaw rests heavily in your palm as he slumps, and his chest rises and falls with each laboured breath.
A drop of purple slides from his eye like a tear; catching in the groove of one of his scars and running down the indented track like an amethyst river.
You abandon the instrument to the desk, and he’s too drained to stop you this time when you reach for his scarred side.
You support his face with both palms. Your thumb catches the droplet, and sweeps carefully up the deep-set line of his scar. But in removing the errant tear, you also wipe away a small patch of his makeup.
You examine what’s been revealed to you. A flash of grey skin, and a red laceration slicing down from his lid-less eye. Far more raw than a scar of this age should be. Like even now there is something preventing it from healing as it’s supposed to.
Your chest physically aches from the sudden flood of emotion you feel.
The pad of your thumb brushes once more, as though with one tender motion you might soothe away that past hurt.
Silco’s voice is deeper and huskier than usual, “Another favour.”
You drag your attention up from that dash of red to meet his gaze, “Yes?”
His expression is unreadable, but his quiet request is laced with bitterness, “Don’t ever look at me with pity again.”
You shake your head slowly, your gaze glued to his, “Don’t confuse pity with compassion, Silco.”
His eyes flicker between yours.
“There is nothing about you that I find pitiable,” you promise.
His throat bobs.
So does yours.
“I need to get back downstairs,” your forced words come out quiet and thick, “I don’t think Jasper will forgive me for disappearing two nights in a row.”
Silco hums his consent, and your fingertips whisper along his jaw as you withdraw your hands. You try to move away from the chair, and almost lose your balance.
Your lips curl upwards, and you take his words from last night and throw them straight back in his face, with an added twist of your own, “You can retract your claws now, kitty-cat.”
His good brow twitches upwards a little, and it’s only then that he seems to register the death-grip he has on your hips.
Any respectable person might be embarrassed, and release you quickly with a mumbled apology.
But Silco isn’t the least bit respectable.
So he looks you directly in the eye, and loosens his hold one finger at a time.
You switch on the faucet, snatching back your arm before the freezing water can hit your skin.
The pipes in your bathroom wall rattle to life with a tired gurgle.
You allow the shower to run for a minute so that it heats from freezing to luke-warm (the best you get in this shitty building), while you undress and dump your clothes in a pile in the corner. Your gaze lingers on the crumpled, paint-stained shirt before you step beneath the faucet.
The pathetic dribble of your shower is particularly tepid tonight, so you don’t hang around in washing away the grime of the day. But even the cold water isn’t enough to keep you from stopping dead in your tracks when you look down.
Your lips part softly in surprise and wonder, and you trail your fingers over the blooming marks on your hips; the harsh imprint of Silco’s hands.
One traitorous thought enters your mind.
How good they look on you.
You scrub at your face, and dig your fingers sharply into your scalp as you soap up your hair; like you might clean the filthy thoughts straight from your head. You finish washing quickly, and keep your mind resolutely blank as you dry yourself and go to grab something fresh to wear to bed.
You curse under your breath at the pitiful state of your drawers. You need to do laundry tomorrow. Zaun is still in the depths of winter, and it’s much too cold in your apartment to sleep naked.
You gnaw on your lip as your thoughts go to the silky, oversized shirt on your bathroom floor.
You peek your head through the doorway, and eye the garment – balled unobtrusively in the corner with the rest of today’s outfit. You pick it up hesitantly between thumb and forefinger.
And when nothing terrible happens, you slip one arm inside, then the other, and then shrug it onto your shoulders. You take your time doing up the buttons. Now that the waist isn’t tied, the hem brushes half way down your thighs, and when you unroll the sleeves, the cuffs extend almost all the way to your fingertips.
You rub the soft material absently against your skin.
And then you climb into bed.
And stare at the ceiling.
And think.
You think about everything. And nothing at all.
You’re too keyed up to even contemplate sleeping.
Your hand reaches up beneath the hem of Silco’s shirt, and you begin toying once more with the marks he left on your hips. Your fingers press into your skin, just enough to feel the pain of them.
You remember the way he’d looked beneath you in that chair. Hair dishevelled, sharp teeth bared, brows tilted – utterly, beautifully wrecked.
And if he looks and sounds that good when he’s in pain, you can only imagine what he’s like when he comes apart with pleasure.
Bet he fucks like an animal.
Your fingers trail from the sore marks on your hips to the insistent ache between your legs.
A sigh falls from your lips at the instant relief your own touch provides.
Your free hand twists in the sheets beneath you, and you take your time, working yourself with practiced movements, whilst trying not to slip into fantasies that you shouldn’t be having.
But you don’t try very hard, and soon abandon the futile attempt altogether; simply allowing your mind to drift towards the inevitable.
Each movement of your fingers teases forth a different image of his face. A cocked eyebrow. An irritated scowl. A playful smirk.
The way he’d worked his tongue into his cheek by the River Pilt.
The way he’d smirked when he’d dipped you low to jazzy music.
The way he’d told you to behave at his doorway.
The way he’d stared at you tonight as he’d removed those long, elegant fingers from your hips.
Your hair sticks to the sweat that coats the back of your neck, and your heavy breaths puff into the frigid air above you.
What else might those beautiful, deadly hands of his do?
Is his silver-tongue just as sharp and quick when it comes to activities that don’t involve words?
Just how far does his need for control and power go?
Your brain inadvertently conjures the sound of his voice, and it sends you toppling over the edge.
"Thinking of me, sweetheart?"
You tilt your head back and your shoulders bow off the bed. You can taste smoke and whiskey on your tongue as you climax with a shuddering gasp.
And the phantom caress of his midnight chuckle wraps around your senses, cushioning your steady fall from grace.
The only virtue you’re left with is that you managed to refrain from saying his name out loud.
Only just.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 8 - In which you learn two things. 1) There is a big difference between refusing to assassinate your boss, and actively saving his life. 2) Silco can lose his cool – and when he does, he isn't as adept at hiding his true feelings.
Woo-boy, this took a long time for me to write and I'm still not 100% happy. But I'm biting the bullet because otherwise we'll never get to the juicy bits.
Thank you for your comments and messages you are all the BEST <3
If you haven't already seen it, then be sure to check out the cheeky Drink With Me head canon request I fulfilled on my Tumblr Silco's Weird Habit
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Guns For Hire - Woodkid
Chapter Text
You’re out of time, make your move
Live or die while the fuse is lit
And there’s no turning back
Kiss your perfect day goodbye
Because the world is on fire
The club is exceptionally busy tonight.
The dance floor is packed, and every single table, booth, and chair is occupied. There’s even a queue outside on the street to get in. The drinks are flowing, as is the coin, and the air thrums with that electric vibrancy so unique to the Lanes. It’s nights like this that you love. You thrive off the energy, and feel completely in your element as you weave and dance your way behind the bar to the infectious beat of the music; mixing drinks and making small-talk with the patrons.
It’s been a couple of weeks since you helped Silco with his eye treatment. Neither of you have mentioned it, and he hasn’t called upon you to help him with it again.
Even Jinx hasn’t said anything about it. The first time you’d seen her after she’d orchestrated the entire situation she’d simply given you a knowing look as if to say, “Told you so,” and she mercifully hasn’t meddled any further since.
And so you’ve simply fallen back into your normal routine. No more surprise dinners. No more surprise medical treatments. Only your once weekly drinks meeting in his office each Friday. The simple arrangement you’d stumbled into by complete accident only a few short months ago.
Two dreaded minutes of your week, that with two uttered words had transformed into two hours that you now covet above all else.
Two hours in which Silco doesn’t have to be The Eye of Zaun, and which you can be more than a simple bartender from the Trenches.
Except nothing about this arrangement seems so simple anymore.
Not now that you’ve spoken of painful pasts together along the banks of a nighttime river. Not now that you’ve bonded with his beloved daughter. Not now that you’ve swayed in his arms to the smooth lull of a jazz ballad. Not now that he’s allowed you to see him at his most vulnerable.
Not now that you’ve taken your pleasure to the memory of his face, his voice, whilst wrapped in the silken fabric of his clothing.
Silco’s shirt has been washed, folded, and shoved right to the back of your drawer, where it taunts you with its existence.
Once can be easily dismissed as a horny mistake.
What bothers you is the unabating itch to do it again.
Perhaps you just need to get laid. You’re hardly short of options in your line of work, and you’ve always been a smooth talker. You’ve taken strangers to your bed on occasion in the past, and it’s never bothered you before. But somehow the thought of doing so now is unappealing in a way that turns your stomach.
And that’s just one of the facts you find yourself facing.
You’re plagued by a myriad of small truths that have gathered around you like a swarm over the past few months. They aren’t so intimidating when examined individually. The problem lies in looking at the bigger picture they form. And so you’re left only with your assortment of puzzle pieces, and your stubborn refusal to fit them together.
You wink at the woman who you’ve just charmed into buying a premium cocktail. Her cheeks flush faintly under the pulsing lights as she turns away from you with a lingering look over her shoulder. You head to the cash register to deposit the coin, and the flash of a golden tipped boot through the balcony railings catches your attention.
You look up to see Silco heading in the direction of his stairwell, with Sevika hot on his trail. Clearly coming in from rounds if their outerwear is anything to go by.
The fluorescent lighting catches on his skin and illuminates him in technicolour, making his sharp features even more striking. As though he senses your gaze, he turns his head and looks down over the railing.
You smile easily at him as your eyes meet, and receive the smallest twitch of his lips in return.
And that’s when the power cuts.
The club plummets into absolute darkness, and the music comes to a sudden, jarring halt.
Power outages in the Lanes aren’t uncommon. But when they happen in a club?
It’s a fucking disaster.
It only takes a few seconds before the opportunists take full advantage of the situation.
Someone screams; and the entire world descends into utter chaos.
Every hair on your body stands on end, and you barely have half a second to panic before the familiar heat of Jasper’s large frame arrives at your side. You hear the telltale rattle of the emergency release on the cash register going.
“Get back of house, now,” Jasper barks, giving you a hard shove between your shoulders.
You’re surrounded on all sides by the sound of pure anarchy. Terrified screams, manic laughter, shattering glass, skin-on-skin, and pounding feet. You can only just make out the shape of your own hands as they find the bar top, and the brass counter squeaks against your sweating palms as you use it as a guide to steady yourself while you move as quickly as you dare through the dark.
People are already swarming behind the bar. Ghoulish shapes emerge through the gloom towards you like something straight out of a nightmare, and begin grabbing at the alcohol that’s suddenly become free-game. No doubt a few of them are also making a beeline for the now empty cash register. Memory alone has you lurching towards the door that leads out back, and your fingers grope for the handle—
A gunshot fires, and the panic in the club escalates.
Your heart falls straight through the floor, and you almost vomit at the way your stomach crumples in on itself.
Silco.
You don’t hesitate. You spin away from the door and reach blindly, knocking over several bottles in your panic before your fumbling fingers are able to keep ahold of one, and you begin to battle your way out from behind the bar with your makeshift weapon securely in your grip.
You feel like a bird flying against gale-force winds, but you keep pushing onwards even though you have absolutely no plan. All you know is that every cell in your body is screaming at you to find him.
The voice in your gut whispers guidance, as it always does. Balcony. He was on the balcony.
You shove your way out onto the dance floor in the general direction of the stairs. It’s almost entirely pitch black. You wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing if it weren’t for the panicked bottle neck at the exit; keeping the doors open enough to allow the barest sliver of light in off the street. Or the eerie glow from the mechanically modified body-parts that flit around like firelights; streaks of vivid pink and acid green that disorientate you even more.
Or the occasional gunfire; which illuminates the room and stokes the fear until it’s white hot and blazing.
The crowd surges around you, and you ricochet off of bodies like a pinball as you search desperately for any sign of a red and black coat, of a golden waistcoat clasp, of a glowing orange eye. You want to scream in your frustration and terror as you’re thrown around the place. You feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed about on the waves of a rough and unrelenting ocean. Everything is spinning and twisting and turning and every second that you can’t find him feels unbearable.
Your mind reels – caught between nightmarish flashes of the club, spliced with mental images of Silco bleeding out from a bullet wound on the floor somewhere while you can’t fucking find him—
The urge to call out for him is so strong that your throat burns from holding it in. But you’re too scared of giving away his presence in the club to someone who might want him dead.
Silco doesn’t seem to have the same reservation.
You’ve never heard him so much as raise his voice before, and yet your name seems to erupt from the very bottom of his lungs over the pandemonium.
You spin towards the sound as the room illuminates in a gunpowder flash.
And there he is.
On the other side of the dance floor – green eye wide and frantic as he scans the crowd, hair in complete disarray, but seemingly unharmed.
Your heart lodges in your throat and you almost sob in relief. You fling yourself towards him with renewed energy. You’re jostled from side to side but you claw your way forward with absolute determination.
He calls for you again, his voice cracking slightly in his desperation, and you forget yourself.
“Silco,” your answering cry is ragged – the sound of his own distress having ripped it straight from your very core.
Someone sets off a flare, and it bathes the room in hellish red light, and fills the air with cloying smoke. But it allows you to bear witness to the moment Silco finally sees you; to watch as his face transforms from the portrait of fear to one of earth-shattering relief.
You hardly dare to blink for fear of losing sight of him as you throw your weight against the swarming crowd. You dig your boots into the ground to stop yourself from being thrown off course as you ram your way towards him, and Silco shoves people violently out of his path in his haste to reach you.
The two of you – fighting against anything and everything that’s keeping you apart.
You stumble the last few steps, but he’s there to catch you.
Your arms lock around his middle, and you don’t even think before burying your face into the collar of his coat. And he holds you back, just as tightly, as the world is torn asunder around you.
And then he’s grabbing the tops of your arms, parting you enough scan you head to toe.
You’re so close, and yet you both still have to shout to be heard over the madness.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No. You?”
He shakes his head. Another sudden thought grips your heart in a panic.
“Where’s Jinx?”
“Her workshop.”
Only his vicelike hold on you keeps you standing at the wash of relief which threatens to buckle your knees.
You both flinch and instinctively press together at the sound of yet more gunfire; several quick rounds that strobe the club and reflect off the knife in the hand of the man who suddenly looms behind Silco.
Your warning shout rips from the depths of your lungs and shatters the air, “DOWN.”
Silco obeys immediately; ducking as you throw your entire weight behind your bottle wielding arm and swing it into the side of the man’s head with an enraged scream. Glass and alcohol rains down around you both as the man collapses and is immediately lost from sight beneath the trampling feet of the undulating crowd.
Silco straightens, his face uncharacteristically slack as he stares at you. Your knuckles are likely as white as your bared teeth from the way you grip the jagged bottle neck in your hand – panting and wide-eyed as your brain tries to comprehend what’s just happened.
Silco comes back to himself first. He grabs your free hand and tugs you back in the direction of the bar. You huddle close together and use your combined weight to shove your way through the panicking crowd. Your muscles burn and your heart is beating flat out but you’re so nearly there—
An unfamiliar pair of hands latches onto you from behind and yanks you backwards. You cry out as your fingers are ripped free from Silco's. You buck and writhe against the shadowed stranger. His eyes have that telltale purple glow to them, and his hands pat you down roughly as he searches for his next fix.
And then his head snaps backwards, and you shove him away from you as he falls.
You spin towards Silco, but his attention is still fixed on the fallen shimmer-head.
And he looks absolutely feral.
He steps over the unconscious man and raises his fist again, but you latch onto his arm before he can bring it down and throw your weight in the direction of the back door.
“I think you got him,” you quip hysterically.
Silco stumbles only for a second as you pull him away, but then he regains his footing enough to close the distance between you and wrap his arm around your waist to tug you protectively against his side. You barge through the mad clump of people who are still ransacking the bar.
And then the cool air of the back of house area hits you as you both tumble through into the empty hallway and slam the door behind you. Silco grabs your hand again and pulls you further into the bowels of the building, far away from the ongoing chaos.
There is absolutely zero light back here. You wouldn’t even be able to see your own hand in front of your face if you tried. But Silco seems to know the way intimately, and barely slows his pace from his usual stalk.
When the sounds of the club finally fade to little more than a drone in the background, you tug to make him stop, and slump with your back against the wall. Silco drops your hand, but you sense him flatten his palms on the wall either side of your head, supporting himself as he too catches his breath.
Only his one fiery eye is visible to you in the complete darkness.
“Perhaps I have you in the wrong job,” he jokes dryly.
You try to laugh, but there is simply no air in your lungs. Only a vacuum in your chest – a blackhole that threatens to suck all that you are into its gaping maw.
Your hands begin to shake so violently that the broken bottle neck you’ve somehow managed to hang onto all this time finally slips from your hand and shatters on the floor.
You make a desperate sound as you try to draw breath but can’t.
Silco fumbles for your hands in the dark, gripping them tightly in his own.
“It’s just the adrenaline,” he insists gently, “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
“Can’t—” You manage, “Can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he says calmly, but firmly.
He brings your hands to lay flat on his chest and covers them with his own – large and warm and secure.
“Use me as a guide. In and out. Focus on me, sweetheart.”
His chest expands purposefully beneath your hands, like a blacksmith’s bellows.
“Breathe,” he soothes on the exhale.
His chest expands again, and you manage to suck in a tiny, shaky breath.
“Breathe.”
You latch on to the deep, gentle rumble of his voice like it’s a lifeline. You focus on him. On the material of his vest beneath your palms. On the callouses that scratch your knuckles. On the familiar smell of his cologne. On the movement of his chest. And slowly, each inhale becomes a little deeper. A little more steady.
“Good girl,” he praises, squeezing your hands.
You stand together in the pitch dark for a while longer, simply breathing in sync, until your shaking fades and you’re able to inhale without issue.
“Better?” He asks eventually, sliding his hands up your arms to curl around your biceps.
You nod, then realise he can’t see, so whisper a hoarse, “Yes.”
“Good.”
In a flash his fingers are digging in much too tight, and he shoves you back against the wall hard. He crowds your space and snarls, “Then perhaps you can explain to me what the fuck you were thinking? You should have come straight back here.”
Indignant anger rises like a flood of fire inside you, threatening to snatch your breath all over again.
“I could ask you the same fucking question,” you hiss as you fist your hands in the lapels of his coat and shake him, “Your office was right there Silco. Why didn’t you—”
Your shoulders rebound harshly off the wall once as he shoves you again, and you can feel a drop of spittle land on your cheek in his anger, “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you—”
“I’m not the one with half the Undercity out for my blood—”
“I expect my staff to be more responsible—”
“Don’t you dare treat me like just another one of—”
“I thought you had more sense—”
“Well so did I.”
You both fall silent as the echos of your brief shouting match die away. And all that’s left is the sound of furious breathing, mingling in the space between you.
“I’m not fucking sorry,” you grit out.
His eye is an endlessly swirling ring of fire in the darkness; barely a handspan away from you. His body-heat and the familiar smell of him cocoons you; wrapping you safely in its invisible embrace. Even his anger is a comfort to you in this moment.
“That’s twice now I’ve saved your skinny ass.”
He huffs a breath, but without being able to see his expression you’re unsure if it’s out of anger, exasperation, or amusement. Honestly, it sounds like it could even be a mix of all three. All you know is that he’s close enough for you to taste the smoke of it on your lips.
That ring of orange moves towards and past you, and you hear the dull thud of his forehead pressing into the wall somewhere slightly north of your ear. Although his body doesn’t touch yours, you still sense him become a little boneless where he cages you in against the wall. You rest your head back and unhook your fingers from his coat, curling them instead around the tops of his shoulders.
“You okay?” You murmur.
He hums the confirmative.
There’s an extended silence.
“If I didn’t know any better,” you say quietly into the air over Silco’s shoulder, “I might start to think you were a little worried about me.”
You hear the faint sound of skin on plaster, and can only assume he turns his head slightly towards you by the way his breath hits the crook of your neck.
You’re glad for the dark. It hides the sins of the light.
It hides the goosebumps which sweep over your skin in response to such a simple thing as a single exhale.
“Jinx would have been very upset if I’d let anything happen to you.”
You huff a quiet laugh, “Of course,” you turn your head towards him slightly, “Wouldn’t want that.”
A pause, “No. We wouldn’t.”
The dark makes it easier to touch.
You massage your fingers into the knotted muscles of his shoulders. A way to ground yourself, and a reminder that he’s here and that he’s okay. His hands soften on your arms, and slowly smooth up to your shoulders and then down your sides to your ribcage in a way that makes you feel deliciously small beneath his long fingered touch.
The thread of tension that’s been running between you for weeks pulls tighter and tighter with each gentle squeeze. With each ghosting breath. It stretches taut across the maddening gap that separates your bodies, waiting for one player to summon the courage to see what songs might be played if they only just reached out and plucked.
You turn your head a little further towards him, and your nose grazes what feels like the hinge of his jaw.
His thumbs brush over your ribs, skimming the sides of your breasts as they do.
Your breath catches, and he goes deathly still beneath your touch.
And then he does it again. A little slower. Almost experimentally.
You shiver, and smooth your hands down his chest, your nails scraping lightly against the fabric of his coat.
The tip of his nose grazes the shell of your ear, tracing the curve, and your back arches off the wall—
The lights come on, and you blink rapidly against the harshness of it. Silco pulls back, removing one hand from your side in order to shield his left eye against the sudden brightness.
“Club’s cleared.”
You both whip your heads towards Sevika, who’s standing a little way down the corridor, looking between you both with careful indifference.
Silco nods and steps away from you, almost too casually.
“You both okay?” She asks.
You nod, touched by the inclusion in her concern.
“Do we know who else was affected by the outage?” Silco asks, pushing back the hair that’s fallen across his brow.
“No one else,” Sevika says a little darkly, “only The Drop. The fuse flipped.”
Your gut stirs with unease.
Some thugs wanted me to off your dad.
How rude, but happens more often than you’d think.
You meet Silco’s gaze as you ask quietly, “Do you think—”
He makes a small noise and shakes his head, “No reason it couldn’t have tripped on its own. These things happen.”
But you don’t miss the look he exchanges with Sevika.
“Shit,” Jasper mutters under his breath.
You’re all standing together – You, Silco, Jasper, Sevika, Vill, and all the other bar staff and henchmen that had been working tonight – surveying the carnage that has been inflicted upon The Last Drop.
The floor is covered in shattered glass and splintered wood. Only half the tables and chairs have survived the assault, and the bar has been almost entirely cleaned of booze. The cash register lays discarded like a cracked egg upon the floor. Several neon bulbs are flickering, and several more are hanging from their fixings or are smashed entirely. The juke box has been tipped on its side, where it makes a low buzzing noise.
Two dead bodies lay beneath sheets down in the taproom, waiting to be dealt with. Neither of them are the man who had lunged at Silco with a knife. It should bring you comfort to know that you haven’t become a murderer overnight. Somehow it doesn’t.
There’s no way the club can reopen in the state it’s currently in.
Silco casts his gaze around the room in a stoic, assessing sweep.
“Everyone go home. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
The small crowd disperses, and glass crunches beneath your boots as you tread your way cautiously over to him. You take up vigil at his side, and look quietly around the room. Your gut sinks further and further the more you take in the extent of the damage all around you.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.
“Why are you apologising?” Silco doesn’t look at you, simply continues to stare impassively around the wrecked club, “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to rebuild. And it’s unlikely to be the last.”
It takes two days to clear away all the debris. And then begins the arduous task of repairing and replacing everything that has been damaged or stolen.
You’re sat in one of the booths at the side of the club, flipping through a proposed purchase order for Jasper; checking all the quantities before it goes to Silco for sign-off. You’re glad you insisted he keep that pouch of gold way back when – it’ll just about cover the costs of restocking the bar from scratch.
A bottle and two glasses thump down onto the table, and you look up with no small amount of surprise at the woman who takes a seat opposite you.
Sevika uncorks the wine and pours two glasses of the deep red liquid.
“No tequila?”
Sevika shakes her head with a grunt, “They got all the good stuff.”
You both drink at the same time, and both simultaneously wrinkle your noses in disgust.
“Fucking sewage,” Sevika grimaces.
You cough and smack your tongue against the roof of your mouth in a vain attempt to rid yourself of the acrid tang, “No wonder no one bothered to steal this crap.”
You turn the bottle towards you to read the label and locate it on your stock list – crossing it out with several emphatic pen strokes.
“How’s it looking?” Sevika indicates the list.
“Expensive,” you wince, “They really wiped us out.”
“Yeah, well,” she takes another drink, grimacing as she realises her mistake and is forced to swallow the liquid down, “Can hardly blame ‘em. People will grab at whatever they can in the dark.”
Storm grey eyes rise to meet yours.
You clench you jaw and set your pen down with a little more force than is strictly necessary.
“If you came over here to interrogate me—”
“I really couldn’t give less of a shit,” she interrupts, waving a dismissive human hand at you, “As long as it doesn’t affect me, I don’t care.”
Huh. That’s refreshing. You relax again.
“But your defensiveness is telling, princess. I’d be careful if I were you. Someone could use it against you."
Only the fact that she speaks it like a genuine piece of advice stops your snarky response. Instead, you merely grumble, and begin fiddling with your pen.
“He told me what happened out there. Gotta say, I’m impressed.”
Your lips curl upwards in bemusement and you raise your eyebrows. You splay one hand on your chest, “Come again? You’re what now?”
“Quite the comedian, aren’t you.”
“I do try.”
“I wouldn’t look so pleased if I were you. It’s still your fault he was even in that position in the first place.”
Your smile falters, and you open your mouth to apologise but she cuts back in.
“Don’t bother. It’s done now. No point hanging onto something that never happened. Point is I’m just glad he’s still breathing.”
Your mouth twitches into a sideways smile, “And here I was with the impression that you think he’s an asshole.”
“He is,” she says without hesitation, “But he’s the asshole that’s gonna raise this city from the ashes and stand it on its own two feet.”
Her voice lowers in its earnestness, and she rests an elbow on the table as she leans in a little.
“It’s no secret that I’d give my life for the cause. For the independence of Zaun. And that means I’d give my life for him. Already nearly did,” she taps her metallic arm, “It’s nice to know I have company now at least. That I’m not the only one shouldering that burden anymore. Even if your reasons are different from mine.”
Your brow knits as the gravity of her words settle on your shoulders.
You’ve avoided thinking too deeply about what happened during the blackout. The entire experience had been somewhat traumatic. But there’s enough breathing-space now to at least examine the core facts.
You’d flung yourself into the midst of a hurricane, on the off-chance that Silco might have been in danger. That he might have needed you. And you’d done so without hesitation, and without sparing even a first thought for your own safety, let alone a second.
But hadn’t he done the same for you?
Jinx hadn’t been at the club.
She hadn’t been here.
The panic and fear you’d seen on his face as he’d searched that crowd… that had all been for you.
Jasper was wrong. Silco does care.
And so what if the only reason he cares is because he wants something from you. So damn what.
Everything falls into place inside you with a resounding click.
And you finally realise how much trouble you’ve actually landed yourself in. Because you really aren’t sure anymore if there is anything you wouldn’t give Silco if he only asked it of you.
You don’t realise that you’ve drifted off into your own thoughts until you hear Sevika chuckle. Your attention snaps back to her. She’s looking at you closely, her eyes switching back and forth between yours.
“He’s got you good, hasn’t he?”
You open your mouth to respond, but no answer comes.
She chuckles again, stands, and walks away – leaving you alone to deal with the bigger picture.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 9 - In which you get drunk with The Eye of Zaun, and become a little loose lipped.
What do you think reader is going to say? Let me know your thoughts. (Psst... if I really like it, I could be convinced to add it...)
And yes. There will absolutely be easter eggs from that one Jason Spisak video - Drunk History of Zaun
Thank you all so much for your supportive comments when I was being hard on myself. ILYSM <3
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Guns For Hire - Woodkid
Chapter Text
It makes your blood run hot
It makes your spit taste sweet
It makes you feel more alive
Than you have ever been
Throw it into your mouth
Gets stuck between your teeth
Why would you die up there?
When you can live underneath
The door to Silco’s office flies open, courtesy of an impressive manoeuvre using only your elbow and hip. You step through with a huge, toothy grin on your face, and seven different bottles of booze cradled in your arms.
The man himself looks up from his paperwork, and his good eyebrow arches slowly towards his hairline.
You offer absolutely no explanation, not even a greeting. You simply place the bottles down on his coffee table and exit again.
You make three more trips between the bar and his office; carting up a variety of spirits, liqueurs, mixers, garnishes, and glassware. As well as your weapons of choice; the shakers, strainers, and stirrers necessary for crafting a killer cocktail. Silco simply watches you in silent resignation each time you return to his office to lay down your newest selection of goodies.
When you’re finally content with the spread on the coffee table, you turn to him and announce with no small amount of fanfare, “Welcome, to The Very Last Drop. The secret, exclusive after-hours bar for only the most elite persons in the whole of the Undercity.”
Silco responds to your fabulous display of showmanship with the most bored expression you’ve ever seen in your life.
“See, I figured,” you continue, entirely unperturbed by his lack of enthusiasm, “that after the few weeks we’ve just had, we could do with blowing off a little steam,” you flop down onto the sofa, “Plus what better way to celebrate the re-opening of the club?”
“Than by wiping it of stock again?”
“We aren’t going to drink it all,” you clarify sarcastically, “but it’s occurred to me that you’ve never actually seen me in action. So I thought it would be a good opportunity to show you what you’re over-paying for.”
He purses his lips a little and rises from his chair, folding his hands behind his back as he strolls casually over and surveys the spread on the table.
“So, what’ll it be stranger?”
“Bourbon. On the rocks.”
You roll your eyes, “How about an Old Fashioned?”
“Fine. But hold the bitters and water. And no zest.”
You ignore him, and reach for two different bitters and the soda water. You combine them in two tumblers – confident enough in your abilities to simply eye the amounts. You heap a spoonful of sugar into each glass and stir until the fine grains dissolve into the swirling liquid. The sofa dips next to you as Silco takes a seat, watching you work in silence.
You add ice, then reach for the fresh bottle of bourbon. You flip it into the air; winking at Silco as it spins above your head, before catching the bottle without even looking.
He looks wholly unimpressed.
You snap the wax seal, and finish both drinks with a generous slug of the amber spirit and a final stir, before expressing the oil of an orange peel over each glass and dropping the fruit garnish in to nestle atop the ice. You pass him his cocktail.
“Chin-chin,” you sing, delicately clinking your own against his before taking a sip. It slides down smoothly; a perfect balance between sweet and bitter, some of your best work.
You watch Silco expectantly as he follows suit.
“Well?”
“It is indeed an Old Fashioned.”
“But is it the best Old Fashioned you’ve ever had?” You hold up a finger, “And before you answer, if you say anything other than yes, I’m quitting in a spectacular display of melodrama. You’ll hear me screaming all the way down the Lanes for at least a month.”
The bastard pauses for a few seconds, openly weighing his options, before deciding on a slightly monotonous, “It’s the best Old Fashioned I’ve ever had.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Every single week without fail; I struggle to remember why it is that I allow you back.”
“My wit? My charm? My pizzazz?”
You could hear a pin drop as he stares back at you; right eye lidded with intentional disinterest.
“That’s okay,” you coo, patting your chest over your heart, “I know you’re laughing in here.”
He shakes his head slightly, and his eyes roll briefly up to the ceiling. But he takes another swallow of his cocktail – larger than the last you note happily.
You rub your palms together, “Okay, what next?”
“Half a minute to finish the first drink, perhaps?”
“You've got two hands – use ‘em,” you say flippantly as you begin to contemplate the bottles on the table, tapping your fingers together to aid your thinking, “Now, I know you’re more of a classic kind of man, but let’s think outside the box a little.”
Your eyes settle on the sloe gin, and your brain conjures up a cocktail suggestion that is simply too tempting to resist. You choose your moment wisely – waiting until Silco is mid-sip before turning to him and asking, “Do you fancy a Slow Screw?”
You should have known better than to hope he’d choke on his drink, but you’re still a little disappointed when he doesn’t none-the-less. The man is annoyingly unruffle-able. His eyes slide coolly over to you as he lowers his glass, and the corner of his mouth creases upwards, “You’re making that one up.”
“No I’m not,” you match his small smirk with one of your own, “I’m surprised a man as worldly as yourself has never indulged in a nice Slow Screw.”
His lips twist into that favourite smirk of yours. The one that sends something warm coiling low in your gut – like a serpent that’s been lazing out beneath the sun all day.
“What’s in it?”
“Vodka, sloe gin, and orange juice,” you reach forwards and tap a bottle of bright, reddish spirit, not dissimilar to his bourbon, “And if you add in a shot of Noxian Comfort it becomes a Slow Comfortable Screw,” your fingers trail playfully over the caps to toy next with the neck of a tall, thin bottle of golden liquid, “Then, if you’re feeling extra daring, you might add a dash of Vanilla Liqueur to make it a Slow Comfortable Screw Against A Wall.”
“And people will actually order this from you?”
“Not often,” you admit, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes, “but when they do, I always insist they at least buy me dinner first.”
Silco chuckles low in his throat.
“So?” You ask, quirking an eyebrow, “Wanna try it?”
His gaze dips briefly, giving you a casual once over before asking, “Which version?”
“Whichever version you’d like,” you respond silkily.
The way his lips curl is downright sinful, and his eyes remain locked on yours with an intensity that elevates your heart rate with each passing second. His tone deepens – making his loaded, double entendre absolutely undeniable.
“It sounds a touch too sweet for me, darling. I tend to prefer something a little harder.”
All the blood rushes straight from your brain to flood to areas that are much less conducive to holding a successful, coherent conversation. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle that you don’t faint.
You take a second to ensure your voice won’t crack, before sweetly suggesting another filthy cocktail, “How about a Screaming Orgasm instead?”
His teeth flash as he huffs a soft, feline laugh, “As tempting as that sounds,” he says, selecting a bottle of vermouth from the coffee table and presenting it to you with an elegant roll of his wrist, “I think a simple Martini will suffice… for now, at least.”
It isn’t long before a colourful line of half-finished cocktails decorates the length of the table.
Several different spirits mix warmly in your stomach; making your head feel lighter on your shoulders than it should.
“You know what we should do with all these?”
Silco hums in both question and suspicion.
“A drinking game.”
“You want to play a game?”
“Mhm. Why not.”
“I can think of several reasons.”
“Oh come on. Indulge me.”
Silco raises an eyebrow from where he reclines; one shining boot up against the edge of the table and an arm slung languidly along the back of the sofa, “I haven’t indulged you enough already? I allow you to share my very expensive whiskey. I offer you a few hours of my time every week when I certainly have better things to be doing. And you still possess all your fingers and toes despite your near constant impertinence.”
You smile at him, slow and wide, “Indulge yourself then.”
He exhales deeply through his nose, and takes a large swallow of his drink (Sidecar – another classic).
“Very well,” he mutters reluctantly.
“Truth or dare?”
His right eye closes in weary irritation, and he massages the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, “You truly wish to play such a childish game?”
“Did you ever play when you were a kid?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I would like to play. It’s a rite of passage.”
He fixes you with a withering stare; the kind that would have anyone else shitting their pants. But you’ve become much too complacent, because it merely spurs you on, “Truth or dare?”
“Neither option is appealing to me.”
“Fine, I’ll pick for you then. Truth. Hmm,” you tap your chin as you think. He swirls his half full glass as you do, and couldn’t look anymore unenthused if he tried.
“What’s your most embarrassing memory?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Then you have to drink.”
He gives you a blasé look over the rim of his glass as he takes a swallow of his cocktail.
“Okay, now you ask me.”
His chest rises and falls in a long, tired sigh, before he mutters the question like it physically pains him, “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Do you enjoy causing me mental anguish on a weekly basis?”
“Yes, greatly. Truth or dare?”
“The first option.”
You roll your eyes at his reluctance to engage properly, “What’s your biggest fear?”
He takes another drink and you tip your head right back, grumbling in frustration at the ceiling, “You’re so boring tonight.”
“And you’re even more insufferable than usual,” he snips, but there’s no real bite to the words, so you drop your chin and smile sweetly at him. He gives you one of those supercilious looks of his, and leans forwards for the ashtray that’s nestled among the glasses. He plucks up the half finished cigar that rests on the edge of it, as well as the lighter that sits to the side.
Despite being tipsy, you somehow manage to deftly snatch the metal box straight from his fingers. He glowers at you, his unlit cigar hanging from between his lips.
“I’ve killed people for much less.”
You smirk at him. Little bursts of flame dance in the corner of your vision as you flick the spark wheel a few times, before slipping the lighter into your back pocket.
“You can have it back when you play properly.”
He regards you coolly as his fingers dip into his pocket and he removes a book of matches. You snatch these too, and let out a delighted shriek of laughter when he makes a frantic but futile grab for them. You dangle them out of his reach.
His eyes flash, and his face tightens.
“Play nice,” you tease, slipping them into your pocket alongside the lighter.
His nostrils flare, and he rips the cigar from his mouth, chucking it back onto the table before turning to you, “Truth or dare?” He snarls.
“Dare.”
“Return my lighter. Now.”
You take a purposeful swallow of your drink, and watch over the rim of your glass as his expression darkens even further.
“Truth or dare?” You ask innocently.
He doesn’t answer for a very long time, only continues to glare at you in a way that makes your skin prickle. It’s dangerous. It’s thrilling. It toes the line and makes you wonder just how far you can push his ire – how much more you’d be able to get away with.
You watch him come to the internal decision not to kill you, and he finally answers a begrudging, “Truth.”
“What did you think when you saw me for the very first time?”
“'Oh good, my alcohol has arrived’,” he sneers.
You scowl in offence, but at least his self-satisfaction helps to clear away his sour mood, “Your turn.”
“Truth.”
“What’s your favourite colour?”
You wrinkle your nose and your mouth creases downwards, “That’s what you want to know?”
He hums his confirmation, and you give him a side-long glance.
“What’s your game?”
“No game. It’s a simple question.”
“Exactly,” you say, squinting suspiciously at him, “I would have thought you’d be asking me about my deepest darkest secrets."
“Would you like me to ask you what your deepest darkest secret is?”
Your mind goes immediately to how silken his shirt had felt against your skin as you’d dipped your fingers between your legs and—
Silco’s gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent, and you feel the blood drain from your face.
“No. No take-backsies,” you insist, pointing a finger at him, “I’ll answer your dumb colour question.”
He waits patiently while you mull it over. Truth is, you don’t think you actually have any one favourite colour. There are plenty that you like. But you’ve found yourself becoming rather fond of the colour red of late. And black. And gold.
You look into his right eye.
And green.
You look to his left.
“Orange,” you decide.
He cocks his head slightly; a silent request for elaboration.
“It’s not a colour you see very often down here. So I think it makes it more special when you do. It commands you to pause and take notice.”
His expression doesn’t change, he merely grunts, and you take that to mean he’s satisfied enough with your answer.
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“How’d you do this?” You tap your two front teeth with a fingernail.
“I had a run in with an Enforcer’s steel-capped boot in my early twenties.”
“Ehh,” you make a buzzer noise, “You know the rules Silco. Try again.”
He stares imperiously back at you, “You don’t believe I was kicked in the teeth by an Enforcer?”
“No, I absolutely believe you were. Probably more than once if you were as much of a gobby shit as I imagine you to be when you were younger. But what I asked was how you chipped your teeth, and I don't think you’re telling me the truth.”
Your smug smile only grows as his lips pull downwards.
“I was drunk,” he admits finally.
“And?”
He sucks his teeth, and begrudgingly adds, “Tripped over and knocked my mouth off the edge of a pool table.”
Your cackle is pure evil. He narrows his right eye as you chortle gleefully and thrust another drink into his hand, “Please, please keep drinking. I really want to meet drunk Silco.”
He purposefully places the extra drink back onto the table as he asks, “Do you harbour any regrets?”
“Hang on, you didn’t ask me the question.”
“I assumed you would pick truth.”
“You should never assume anything.”
His mouth twitches with impatience, “Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” you say pettily.
He takes his time considering, and the corner of his mouth quirks upwards every so often. You can literally see him scheming – the sly twinkle in that green eye which flashes each time he conjures a new idea, and then dismisses it. You’re dying to know what’s going on in that head of his.
“I want an IOU. One that can be called upon at anytime for anything I wish to use it on.”
“You want a favour?”
“Yes.”
“You’re daring me to give you, The Eye of Zaun, the most dangerous man in the Undercity, if not Runeterra, an open IOU.”
“That’s correct.”
“You realise how crazy that sounds, right?”
“I’m aware.”
There’s a small, banal smile on his face which severely downplays the gravity of his request. You stare at him a few moments more, before shrugging, “Yeah alright then.”
His smile widens, and you wonder if he already has something in mind. He extends his hand towards you, and you shake it. Thus sealing your deal with the devil.
“You gonna make me sign something?”
“No need. I trust your word.”
“Good to know. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
You hum to yourself, “Do you have any tattoos?”
“Yes.”
You grin and lean towards him eagerly, “Where? How many?”
“Ah-ah,” Silco chides, “No follow-up questions.”
“Fine, next round then.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your big dream? What is it that you most want to achieve in your life?”
“Huh,” you think aloud, gnawing on your lip as you curl a little more comfily on the sofa, “You know… I’m not one-hundred percent sure. But I guess I’ve always felt like there’s this specific horizon that I’ve been working towards. And there’s this pull in my gut that I’m convinced is going to lead me to it. I have no idea what it is yet, but I’m hoping I’ll know it when I get there.”
He appraises you quietly.
“But if you’re looking for something specific,” you add, “I guess running my own bar would be pretty cool. And I’d like a family one day too.”
“Children?”
You scrunch your nose a little, “I dunno about that. I don’t necessarily mean a family in the traditional sense. I just want to find somewhere I belong, unconditionally.”
His chest expands slightly, as though he’s about to say something, but he releases the breath and no words accompany it.
You give him a loaded smile, “Truth or Dare?”
“Dare,” he answers smugly, clearly thinking he’s avoided your follow-up question about his tattoo.
Silco is a man who never makes mistakes, especially not such careless ones. He’s much too calculated, much too cautious. So you take immense pleasure at the subtle shift in his expression as he realises the one he’s just made.
You can’t believe your luck. He must be more tipsy than he looks.
“Show me your tattoo.”
His mouth tightens, “No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“If you want your lighter back, you have to show me.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
His tone is sharp, and leaves no room for discussion. But something about it still gives you pause. You assess him; his expression, his body language. Silco is perpetually guarded by nature, but right now he’s being downright cagey. If you thought he was hiding something personal or sentimental, you might not push it. But unfortunately for him, what you’re sensing is self-consciousness, and your boozy haze is making you a tad reckless.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Hardly a worthwhile trade-off,” he sniffs, casting his gaze over your exposed arms, and the few, select images that adorn them.
You shake your head slowly, “Unfortunately my arms aren’t the only part of me that’s permanently inked.”
His eyes sharpen with intrigue, and he cocks his head, “Unfortunately?”
You chuckle, you know you’ve got him now, “When I was a teenager, I made a very bad, very embarrassing decision.”
He regards you for several long, intense moments. Eventually, his curiosity wins out, “You first. And if I deem it as bad as mine… I might consider it.”
You try not to let your triumph show on your face as you put down your drink and stand. The room tilts slightly, and you adjust your footing accordingly. And then your brain finally catches up with you, and your bravado disappears immediately as you realise what you’re about to do. The tips of your ears begin to burn.
But he’s sitting there, waiting. One long leg crossed over the other, with his arms spread casually along the back of the sofa. The toe of his boot draws patient circles in the air, and a small, amused smile plays on his mouth at your obvious embarrassment. His eyes drag up and down your body; clearly trying to guess which part you’re about to expose.
“Are you going to use this to blackmail me one day?”
He cocks his head, “That depends on whether or not you give me a reason to.”
You scowl at him. The corner of his mouth hooks upwards, and he places a hand over his heart, “If the need to extort you ever arises, I promise to source other information with which to do so.”
“That’s hardly any more reassuring,” you mumble.
He only meets your concern with a low, dark chuckle.
You turn, placing your back to him, and try to focus on the bookshelves across from you, despite the way they waver slightly like some cruel optical illusion. Fuck’s sake. Why do you never learn not to run your damn mouth?
You shift from foot to foot a few times, and shake your nerves from your finger tips. You can feel his eyes raking up and down your spine, and decide the best thing to do is to just rip the band-aid off. Quickly as possible. You make a short, sharp noise of nervous frustration, before pulling down the waistband of your trousers – exposing the top of your right ass cheek.
You flinch at the sudden bark of laughter at your back – a sound utterly foreign to you. Rich, and dark, like fresh tilled soil. Despite your mortification, it slides up your spine like warm fingers and slinks its way into your mind, where you know it will take root and haunt you with its delicious echos. You yank up your trousers and spin, glaring down at the man who’s continuing to laugh at your expense.
“I told you, I was young.”
Seventeen to be precise, and just as impulsive back then as you are now. You’d stumbled drunk into a tattoo parlour, and had given little thought to the crude design your asshole friends had picked out for you. Which is how you’d ended up with a terribly rendered pig on your backside. Which wouldn’t be so bad… if it weren’t also pole dancing, and accompanied by the words Bringin’ home the bacon.
Silco begins coughing in between his deep, rolling chuckles; like someone who smokes entirely too much and is entirely unused to laughing so freely. You slump back down onto the sofa and grab the nearest drink (an amaretto sour) – chugging it down to hide your flaming cheeks.
“What possessed you?” Silco rasps.
“Thought it would be funny,” you murmur, dragging a finger around the rim of your glass and refusing to look at him.
“It’s very funny.”
“Clearly,” you deadpan, finally raising your gaze. His face is positively gleeful – but in the understated way in which all his expressions are. You decide you’ve had enough of being the butt of the joke. So you smile sweetly, and cock your head, “But is it as bad as yours?”
His amusement fades so thoroughly, it’s almost as though it was never there to begin with.
“Fair’s fair, Silco, sweetie.”
He stares long and hard at you. Stubborn as a mule.
You try a different tactic; softening your voice slightly with an earnest head tilt, “I really don’t see how it can be any worse than mine.”
His expression is inscrutable, and an age seems to pass before he finally utters a soft command which sends a shiver right down your spine.
“Lock the door.”
You rise and do as he says. The slide of the bolt sounds almost ominous in the deathly quiet of his office. You sit back down silently, folding your hands neatly in your lap and pulling your lips between your teeth to keep from smirking. You aren’t sure how well you’re doing.
His chest rises and falls with steady, even breaths. But you can tell how put out he’s feeling.
He eventually unfolds himself from his seat, and your heart fumbles a beat or two when he stands himself directly in front of you and bends down. He leans his hands on the back of the sofa, either side of your shoulders, and fixes you with a stern look from beneath his brow.
“This doesn’t leave this room.”
You silently cross your finger over your heart, not trusting yourself to speak.
He hums, and straightens again.
His eyes don’t leave yours as he hooks his thumb behind the top button off his tailored trousers.
It snaps open.
A small, hysterical giggle bursts from your lips, and you clap your hand over your mouth.
His face tightens in irritation, “Are you able to be mature about this?”
You nod hurriedly, and clasp your hands tightly together in your lap. You gnaw on your lip in a fierce battle to keep from laughing again, and try to take deep, surreptitious breaths to calm yourself. You’re trapped between giddy nerves and unbearable anticipation.
He unsnaps the next button, and the flames in your stomach rise dangerously high. You suddenly feel much too hot, and your clothes chafe uncomfortably against your skin.
He tucks his shirt up into his waistcoat to keep it out the way, and hooks his thumbs over the top of his trousers, pulling down slightly to expose the pale jut of his hipbones, and the elegant, symmetrical markings upon them.
Your lips part softly in both surprise and wonder. The tattoos are beautiful. Not too big or ostentatious. Just artful, and intricately detailed. Two roses, one on each hip, rendered in greyscale. Each one crowning a carefully designed tangle of leaves, swirls, and thorns which flow in a vee beneath his trousers.
“Where do they end?” You breathe.
“Don’t push it,” the low timbre of his voice contains a warning which sends a thrill shooting through your veins.
You find it impossible to drag your eyes away from the tattoos. And from the tight, flat expanse of his navel.
“What are you embarrassed about?” You ask, distressingly breathless.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” he responds coolly, “but they’re in a rather delicate spot.”
“But still. They’re gorgeously done,” you finally manage to look up at him, “It’s a really nice tattoo, Silco.”
His eyes smoulder like hot coals, and drag over your face in search of something. You have no idea if he finds what he’s looking for. But eventually, he hums; a low, drawn out noise of contemplation. It affects you more than any sound has a right to.
He buttons himself up again, with precise, practiced movements.
“When did you get them done?”
“When I was young and foolish.”
“And were they impressed?”
“Who?”
“Whoever it was you got the tattoo for.”
He settles himself back on the sofa, and blinks taciturnly at you.
“Don’t play coy,” you smirk, “No one gets that kind of tattoo without a reason.”
His mouth quirks, “Who says that I got it for any one person? Isn’t art supposed to be admired by more than one pair of eyes?”
His words lodge uncomfortably in your chest. You attempt to swallow away the disagreeable sensation, and ask a little too casually, “And has it been admired by many?”
Your stomach clenches at the knowing tilt to his mouth. He finally answers, “No. I wouldn’t say many.”
You hide any undesirable emotions behind a sip of your drink.
And he chooses this exact moment to look you in the eye and purr, “But mostly because they tend to be facing the wrong way.”
The cocktail slides down your windpipe, and you snort so violently that the liquid slops over the rim of the glass – the exact reaction you’d been hoping to get from him earlier. You begin choking in earnest, and Silco calmly hands you a napkin with a cool, banal expression on his face.
You gawk at him through watery eyes, as you cough into your napkin and struggle regain control of your breathing, your emotions, and your wandering thoughts.
“At last; rendered speechless. Truly a moment to be cherished.”
“You’re a bastard,” you wheeze.
“I’m well aware. I’ve made quite the living off of it. Now, can we please play a less childish game?”
“Fine,” you concede, eager to change topics, “you keep any cards around?”
“There’s a pack behind you, on the bottom of the side table.”
You turn and spot them. Instead of standing like a sensible person, you fold yourself directly over the arm of the sofa and reach down to grab it. The barest whisper of fingers ghost over your ass, and you spin in surprise to find Silco smirking victoriously at you – cigar between his teeth and lighter in hand.
“Go Fish.”
“That's not— We’re not playing Go Fish.”
You frown at the cards in your hand, “We’re not?"
Silco shakes his head – swaying the loose strands of dark hair that refuse to stay back, no matter how many times he brushes his fingers through them. In fact, the repeated, clumsy movements are probably making it worse.
“Huh. S’no wonder I’m losing so bad,” you slur, giving your cards an accusatory glare.
“You’re losing,” Silco says slowly, around the smouldering cigar in his mouth, “Because you have the worst poker face I have ever seen.”
He punctuates the statement by laying down a fan of cards whose designs are all blurry and same-y looking to you.
You make an indignant noise, and select two eights from your hand, throwing them down triumphantly onto the sofa between you.
“Bingo.”
“That’s not even a card game.”
“Wait, what’re we playing again?”
“Poker.”
“Ohh,” you shake your head despondently, “Silco, I dunno how to play poker.”
“Yes you do. You were playing just fine before.”
“I think the rules fell out of my head.”
“I think you’re just sick of losing.”
“Pfft, ‘at’s pish-posh.”
“Show me your hand.”
You shake your head childishly and clutch your cards to your chest.
“Show me your hand,” Silco repeats, pointing a finger at you. He’s clearly trying to be menacing, but it’s kinda hard to be scared of someone who can’t quite hold their finger still.
You hold up your right hand and he snickers. He leans forwards and grabs hold of your left wrist, forcing it down so he can see your cards.
“I win again,” he announces unnecessarily, eyeing the useless jumble of black and red in your hand, “Drink.”
You grumble and take yet another gulp of whatever is in your glass (you’ve lost track, and it’s all beginning to taste the same anyway).
“I don’t wanna play anymore. Is’not fair, you never lemme win.”
You gather the cards up into a messy pile and try to ram them back into the box. Silco watches you struggle, and offers absolutely no help. You eventually give up, throwing them onto the table in a huff.
“You’re drunk.”
“If I’m drunk,” you say, thrusting an accusatory finger at him and drawing little circles in the air, “then how come you’re the one spinning?”
“And you’re grumpy.”
“Yeah, well, you’re smm-tupid.”
He’s right of course. You’re hammered. But you aren’t going to admit that out loud. Especially not when he’s a lot less plastered than you are. He’s still drunk though. You can tell by the way he’s concentrating very hard on appearing sober; brows pinched just a little more than usual as he sways gently in his seat.
“What do you wanna do next?”
“Why must we do something? Can’t we just have a nice, civil conversation?”
You titter, “Civil? That’s rich coming from a crime lord.”
“What’s your point?”
“Are you even able to do anything civil-y? Or is it like… anything you do just automatically becomes crime-y.”
“Of course I can be civil. I just choose not to be most of the time.”
“How many crimes would you say you’ve committed?” You ponder aloud in a sing-song voice, crossing your legs up on the sofa to face him like a child settling in for a story.
“Eternals only know,” Silco says, taking a deep drag of his cigar before tilting his head back and puffing out three successive rings of smoke, “I never bothered to keep count.”
“What’s your favourite one to do?”
Silco pushes his lips out as he muses over his answer, before settling on, “Extortion.”
“Atsa good one,” you agree.
He takes a final drag of his cigar; holding the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before allowing it to mist out from between his lips like a twisting, upside-down waterfall. He stubs the butt out in his ashtray, and smoothes his hair back as he reclines languidly on the sofa again. Those long fingers rise to his throat and loosen the knot of his tie with a sharp tug, before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.
Your mouth pops open slightly as you watch from beneath heavily lidded eyes – completely enraptured by every single movement.
He notices.
“Can I help you?”
The noise you make in response to his question is extremely unattractive; somewhere between a honk and a snort. But you’re drunk enough that it doesn’t faze you.
“Nope. Nope. You don’t have to do anything,” you gesture vaguely in his direction, “Just… as you were.”
You continue to rake your gaze over him as he frowns at you. Gods he’s so thin. And yet still perfectly formed for his frame. You’ve always enjoyed the way his vest accentuates just how slim his waist is, elegantly tapered beneath a broader chest. And you can tell that his legs are strong and wiry thanks to the way those trousers cling. Everything about his body is just so… what’s the word? Svelte.
“Pardon?”
“Hm?” You hum, raising your eyebrows high enough that they also drag your gaze up from his thighs; like a puppet on a string.
“You said ‘Svelte’.”
“You know, it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations,” your shoulder bumps off the back of the sofa as you sway into it, and you scowl at the plush leather as though it were someone who'd knocked into you on the street, and not an inanimate piece of furniture.
“What’s going on in that funny little head of yours?” Silco muses, leaning towards you with a curious little smirk.
“Okay okay,” your hold up your palms in defeat, “ya got me. I was thinking a thought, that—” you cut yourself off with a giggle, “No no I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me anything, sweetheart,” his voice lilts playfully as he scoots himself closer and attempts to prise away the hands that cover your face.
“Nooo I’m shy.”
“That certainly isn’t true.”
He pulls your wrists down and you giggle again when you come face-to-face with his impish expression. It’s inadvertently adorable for the way it pronounces his precious little overbite. His eyes scan over your face, lingering for a second on the lip that you’ve pulled bashfully between your teeth.
“I was thinking,” you bobble your head playfully, as though nuzzling at the thin air with your nose, “that out of all the crimes you commit, the baddest one is that you’re crimimanlly handsome,” you pause, and frown, “Is that— is that the word? Crininally? Crimbin—”
“Criminally?”
“Yes. That’s the one. You, Silco, are crinimably handsome.”
He raises an eyebrow, and tugs gently at your wrists when you sway backwards; causing you to oscillate back towards him again.
“You think I’m criminally handsome?”
“Thas what I said wasn’t it? And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
His brow rises further, “Oh?”
“Lemme tell you something – you’d be beating ‘em off with a bat if you ever bothered to come downstairs and visit me,” you raise your hand, with Silco’s fingers still attached to your wrist, and hold up three fingers of your own, “there were these three… mmm lets call ‘em ladies, a few weeks ago. And they were at the bar, right, and they were going on and on and on about how tight your trousers are and something about an animal and blah blah. I mean honestly, I almost had to put out the wet floor sign.”
His mouth pulls into a slow, wolfish smile, and it makes your heart flip over itself.
“What did they look like? Were they attractive?”
Your face gives away your displeasure before you’re able to stop it, and you snort lewdly. You twist your wrist free of his grasp and pull his hand towards you instead; fiddling idly with it and avoiding his gaze.
“I dunno,” you mumble towards your lap, “I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
You the trace the lines on his palm with your finger tip, and draw over the callouses and scars that are all proof of a life of hard graft. You turn his wrist to map out the tendons beneath his skin on the back of his hand. So elegant. You rest your fingers alongside his to compare the length, and are struck by just how small and delicate your hand looks next to his. Almost fragile.
Silco still hasn’t spoken, so you raise your gaze to look up at him through your lashes. He’s merely watching you with deep fascination.
“Can I help you?” You parrot.
He doesn’t avert his gaze, merely shakes his head with a breezy, “No.”
“You know,” you say pointedly, using Silco’s own hand to gesticulate your request, “the polite thing to do when someone pays you a compliment is to give ‘em one back.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhm.”
“I already told you once before that I don’t find you terrible to look at.”
“Back-handed compliments don’t count,” you puppet his arm so that he points a scolding finger at himself, “And that was ages ago, so…” you roll his wrist in a gesture that invites him to speak.
He exhales heavily through his nose, as though mentally preparing himself to solve a particularly complicated puzzle, and his gaze scans over your face for an insulting amount of time.
You scoff, and throw his hand back into his lap, “If it’s that hard to come up with one nice thi—”
“You have the most incredibly striking eyes.”
The compliment embeds itself in the centre of your chest – a kernel of soft, golden light. And you find it simply impossible to stop the way your lips pull upwards in response to the touch of its warm, gentle rays.
Silco’s gaze drops to your mouth.
“And a beautiful smile,” he murmurs, almost as an after-thought.
The kernel grows; sprouting into something fresh and full of promise. Like a spring bud. Your eyes crinkle as your smile widens – not only in response to the sensations inside your chest, but also to the small, tentative curve of Silco’s own mouth.
Your eyes meet.
And you find yourself all at once suspended – cut loose from the tethers that bind you to reality.
Caught within a small slice of time, just big enough for two.
It’s almost cliche; the way you simply gaze into each others eyes. Everything is quiet. Open. Raw. There are no jokes to hide behind. No darkness to shroud the truth that’s slowly coming to light.
Your smile falters.
Suddenly, this thing between you becomes too real. Too big. Too vast. Too deep. Too much.
You lurch off the sofa in the direction of his office door.
“Where are you going?” Silco asks sharply.
“To the ladies,” you trill, to hide the shakiness in your voice.
“You’re going to break your neck if you attempt the stairs. Just use mine,” he indicates his bedroom door with a casual wave of his hand.
You try to suppress your unadulterated glee at being granted entry to Silco’s private domain, but are clearly wildly unsuccessful by the way he narrows his right eye at you.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“That’s gonna make peeing—”
“Don’t be facetious. You know exactly what I mean.”
To your credit, you only almost trip over your boots once as you make your way to his bedroom and slip inside, throwing him a saccharine smile before you close the door.
Silco’s bedroom is… exactly that. A continuation of his office in both style and decor; dark wooden furniture, and a deep woven rug upon scratched floorboards. The room itself is oddly shaped, as seems to be the norm inside this bizarre, crooked building. There’s a round, decorative window in the corner – a smaller version of the one in his office. It’s set within a nook that contains a window seat cushioned in plum velvet. The fabric matches the dark purple runner on the end of his neatly-made bed. Dark sheets pulled crisp beneath a headboard that’s similar to the design of his desk. You’ve never seen a bed so big. It could easily fit four or five Silco’s in it.
That thought makes you titter to yourself as you find your way into the tidy, ensuite bathroom and see to your needs.
You examine your reflection in the mirror above the sink as you wash your hands. You look a little bedraggled. But you kind of dig the tousled look, so don’t bother trying to smooth yourself out – only check to make sure your mascara hasn’t smudged beneath your eyes, and pinch your lips a little to plump them up. When you’re satisfied, you stagger back out into his bedroom.
There’s a dresser against the wall beside the bathroom door which seems to house an assortment of items upon its surface. A small box of cufflinks and tie pins, a makeup compact, a few combs and some hair pomade to name just a few. You spot a fancy looking bottle and wonder whether it’s the cologne he wears all the time.
You throw a conspicuous look over your shoulder just to be safe, before pursing your lips and reaching for it. You give it a little sniff. Oh yeah – that’s the stuff. You spritz a bit on your wrist without thinking and then immediately panic. You flap your arm around in the air, like shaking it is gonna get it off you. If anything, it just wafts the smell around even more.
You scrub your skin on your trouser leg, and thrust the bottle hurriedly back onto his dresser. But in your haste you knock over several more items. Your face contorts in panic as you scramble to right them all, but only succeed in making a bigger mess.
There’s a suspicious call of your name from the office.
“Coming,” you sing, holding up your palms at the inanimate objects on the dresser to signal them to stay put.
You’re about to leave, but a flash of gold catches your attention, and Silco’s warning leaves your mind entirely as you realise what it is you’re seeing, tucked away towards the back of the dresser. Quick, clipped footsteps approach the bedroom in response to your loud, delighted gasp, and the door opens behind you.
You spin around; a manic grin plastered to your face.
Silco’s irritation is tinted red by the round sunglasses you’re now wearing.
“I told you not to touch anything.”
“I didn’t touch nothin’.”
“That’s a double negative, dear.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it Silco?” You titter, venturing deeper into his room.
“What are you doing?”
“Esplorin’”
“There’s nothing to explore in here.”
“Oh-ho, I beg to differ.”
“Come on. Out.”
You sway over to his armoire, “How many skeletons are in here I wonder?”
You fling open the doors and recoil with a short, sharp scream, then pout in disappointment, “Not even one? I’m surprised.”
You run your fingers along the neatly hanging garments. All of them sophisticated, soft to the touch, and expertly tailored in blacks, golds, reds and dark purples.
Silco strides across the room and makes a grab at you. But you flop back onto his bed, safely out of his reach, and giggle as you roll clumsily across the sheets to the other side, where you wobble back to your feet again.
“I didn’t expect to be baby-sitting a toddler tonight,” Silco grumbles.
You pick up a book from his night stand and open it up to a random page, “History? Bleh,” you chuck it back down again.
Silco appears at your back, attempting to herd you out of the bedroom and into the office. You somehow manage to slip nimbly beneath his outstretched arm and totter your way back over to his dresser. You reach to open the top drawer—
“Don’t even think about it.”
You hold your hands up in surrender as Silco stalks towards you again, crowding you back against the dresser so you can’t get away. He looms over you; a towering shadow of vexation.
“You’re incredibly tall. Has anyone ever told you how tall you—wheeeeee,” you squeal with delight as he scoops you up, one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, and physically carries you out of his bedroom and back into the office.
“So strong,” you swoon.
The corner of his mouth quirks.
“So strong and handsome,” you smile dopily up at him and smooth down the collar of his shirt, “My Silco.”
He slows to a standstill beside the coffee table; adjusting his stance when he wobbles on his feet slightly due to the alcohol. He looks down at you, limp and fawning in his arms, and his brows pinch together, just for a second.
And then he dumps you unceremoniously onto the sofa. You squawk your displeasure as you bounce slightly on the cushions and almost roll right off it. He pushes your boots out of his way and sits back down, angling himself towards you and fixing you with a stern look.
“I am… beyond wrecked right now,” you admit.
“That much is clear.”
“I can’t feel my hands.”
He digs his fingers into his good eye, and sighs. Even drunk and exasperated he still looks regal. King of the Lanes. King Silco.
“You need a crown,” you decide aloud.
You remove the sunglasses from your face and place them on his head like a tiara.
You gasp in awe, and cover your mouth with your hands as you behold your handiwork. He stares impassively back at you.
“Youlooksogood,” you whisper from between your fingers.
He sighs wearily.
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
“Then why d’you keep sighing?”
“Because you’re exasperating.”
“Is it ‘cause you’re sad?”
He sighs again, and you hold out your arms, “Do you need a hug?”
“No,” he narrows his right eye, before asking uncertainly, “Do you?”
Even such a minimal, reluctant show of thoughtfulness from him sets your lip wobbling with sudden emotion, “Yes,” you whine.
“Stop that. I’m not equipped to deal with you crying in my office.”
“I’m so sorry,” you whimper, shuffling along the sofa towards him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders before he can protest. He tenses up beneath you for a moment, before returning the hug, albeit stiffly and with only one arm.
It hits you in one, staggering rush – just how far the two of you have come. From the very first step you’d taken over his office threshold, to this moment, right now.
Your voice is quiet.
“Silco?”
“Hm?”
“Jinx told me that you’re lonely… is it true?”
He doesn’t answer for several long moments. Then, tentatively, he wraps his other arm around you and draws you close against him.
“No,” he murmurs softly.
“Is it because you have me?”
Another long pause, before, “Yes.”
The warmth in your chest has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol. It spreads, and seeps into all the broken cracks that you’ve been gifted by a life in the Undercity, until it touches even the deepest parts within you.
It was worth it; every single step you’ve taken to get here.
You clutch him a little tighter, and bury your smile into the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply, and the spicy, oaky smell of his cologne wraps itself around your senses. You hum happily, and he stiffens beneath you again.
Your head lolls slightly as he carefully prises you away.
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“It was… interesting.”
“Not fun?”
“Is there a reason it can’t it be both?”
“Is-just…” you huff, “I really wanted you to let loose a little more, y’know? You’re always so serious. I wish you’d just let yourself be a little bit silly every now and then.”
He regards you for solemnly for a few moments, before nodding his head sharply – causing the sunglasses to fall intentionally onto the bridge of his nose.
You tip your head back, and your joyful laughter spills from your lips, golden and free-flowing, just like the fine champagne they serve at those Topside Galas. And in a night of unlikely occurrences, the sight you’re greeted with when you drop your chin again is the unlikeliest of all.
Silco is smiling.
Not a smirk. Or a quirked lip. Or a barely there tilt. Or a sly grin. Or a sensual curl.
A real smile. True, and uninhibited by ulterior motive.
Close-lipped, a little lopsided, and just wide enough to soften the lines on his face and crinkle the corner of his right eye behind the lens of his glasses.
Your heart takes flight, and you beam back at him.
“You’re even more handsome when you smile.”
He cocks his head, and blinks at you, “There’s that word again.”
“Which one? I use a lot of ‘em.”
“Handsome.”
“Do you not like being called handsome?”
He doesn’t answer for a second. His smile dims. Like a cloud sweeping in to cover the sun, and leaving the world grey and chilled. He removes the sunglasses and tosses them onto the table.
“It’s not a compliment I receive very often.”
“Well that’s just downright crimimnal,” you make a displeased sound, “why is that such a hard word.”
“Because you’re hammered,” Silco says a little tightly, “words tend to mean very little when you’re in such a state.”
His true meaning registers slowly, dawning gradually through the alcoholic fog that shrouds your brain.
“Oh no. Oh nonono,” you twist yourself up so that you’re kneeling on the sofa facing him, and you grab his shoulders, forcing him to give you his undivided attention, “Now you listen here. I’ve never lied to you about anything. Ever. And being pissed doesn’t change that.”
You remove one hand briefly to poke him in the chest, “You are a very handsome sexy handsome man, and I would’t lie to yous‘bout that. Because I never lie to people I care about. And I care about you the most,” you drop your voice into a stage whisper, “even more than I care about my own mother."
“From what I’ve heard, that isn’t saying too much.”
“Okay, you have a point there. But the truth is that I don’t care about a whole load of people in my life. I care about Jasper, ‘cause he’s a good boss and he looks out for me even though he pretends like he doesn’t. I care about Sevika because she looks out for you and she gives it to ya straight and I r‘spect that. I care about Jinx. Gods I care about her so, so much. She’s so great, and she’s a become a real little buddy to me. But Silco, I care about you the most of all.”
You can’t seem to stop slurring your words, no matter how hard you focus on forming the sounds with your tongue. Frustration begins to build in your stomach, because this is very important, and you need him to take you seriously.
“I don’t think you understand,” you dig your fingers into his shoulders, and give him the most sincere expression you’re able to give while dealing with a neck that seems unable to properly support your head, “I think you’re possibly the most important person in my life. And if anything ever happened to you, I wouldn’t be okay.”
His eyes flit back and forth between yours.
“I’s never felt so scared in my whole life ever than when I couldn’t find you in the blackout,” you continue, shuffling closer until your knees press into his thigh, “not even that time when that guy with the teeth said he was gonna kill me. No. It was the blackout. Silco. ‘Cause I thought you had been hurt and I didn’t know where you were. But you found me. You found me and then you helped me with all the breathing stuffs. Because you care. You do care. No matter what Jasper says, I know that you care about me. And I care about you too. A lot. Prob’ly too much.”
His expression has remained entirely wooden throughout your rambling monologue. But his throat bobs now, and you sway forwards a little, drawn by the movement.
Your palms drag down his chest, and you speak a little quieter, a little huskier.
“And it was nice, wasn’t it? In the dark.”
Your nose is barely a few inches from his, and his right eye is just as heavily lidded as both of yours currently are. The alcohol on his breath might be making you even more drunk.
“It was nice. Just the two of us. I liked the way you touched me. I like the way you make me feel—”
Silco grabs the backs of your thighs, and sweeps your knees out from underneath you. Your head swims as you land heavily on your back.
Then he’s over you, hands braced on the sofa cushion either side of your head.
And you don’t understand the look on his face. There’s too much going on, and it’s all battling for dominance. All you know is that it’s coming from somewhere hot inside him, some inner furnace that’s been stoked too high, and you’re burning up beneath the attention of it.
His voice is all at once sensual and strained, “You’re running that mouth of yours again. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to say something that will get you into big trouble.”
You suddenly feel a lot more sober.
It’s a pity your inhibitions don’t follow suit.
You gaze up at Silco, with entirely too much adoration, and whisper your admission out into the world, “I’m already in big trouble.”
He stares at you for the longest time. Before his jaw tightens and he bows his head; dishevelled hair swaying with the movement.
“You’re breaking the rules,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost don’t hear him. And you have no idea if he’s talking to you, or to himself. Your throat bobs, and you curl your hand tenderly around one of his forearms.
He empties his lungs through his nose, “You need to sleep it off.”
“Mm’kay.”
The cushions beneath you shift as he disappears, and you listen to him moving around the office. You close your eyes, and frown at how your head spins in a different direction from the rest of the world.
You grumble your displeasure in the form of an incoherent string of curses, and hear an amused exhale from somewhere in the room. Then something warm and thick is being laid atop you, and your legs are lifted one by one, so that your boots can be removed by careful, adept hands.
You open your eyes again, and Silco leans back into your field of vision as he places something on the floor next to you.
“There’s a bin right here. If you throw up on my rug I’ll have you skinned alive.”
“Would you do it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“That might’nt be so bad then,” you mumble sleepily, nestling down a little further into the sofa cushions.
He only hums, and adjusts the fabric that’s covering you.
You giggle, “Issa scary, big bad Eye of Zaun tucking me up in bed?”
He only rolls his eyes and makes to leave, but you grab his sleeve, forcing him to pause. You smile sleepily up at him.
“Do I get a bedtime story?”
“No.”
“Do I get a good night kiss?”
And simple as that, you’re back on secure ground. The flirtatious teasing that had once begun as its own dangerous game, now seems to act as a safety net between you – protecting you both from the real peril at play.
The corners of his mouth pull upwards into a small, dangerous smile, and he leans down towards you. But his lips bypass yours entirely, going directly to your ear, where his words curl against your skin.
“You’ve been extremely naughty tonight, sweetheart, and I’m afraid I only kiss good girls.”
Your chuckle is husky and low, and you turn your head, whispering back in his ear, “I don’t believe that even for a second.”
He neither confirms nor denies – simply pulls away and smirks down at you.
“Go to sleep,” he says pointedly.
“How comes you always smell so yummy?”
“Go to sleep.”
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 10 - In which you overhear something that you definitely weren't supposed to
Dearest darlings - I am sorry this chapter took so long to go up. As you can see, it's pretty damn long, and an awful lot happens despite it being entirely self-indulgent :')
These two idiots really don't know whether they're coming or going anymore.
If you haven't already seen it, I wrote a cheeky little bonus half-chapter, set between chapters 8 & 9. It doesn't advance the plot in any way, so isn't an essential read for the story. Just a bit of fun. Check it out on my Tumblr if you haven't already! Chapter 8.5
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Dirty Little Animals - BONES UK
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Resting on a knife, you heavy souls
With all this weight buckling down on you now
Don’t you drown and float away
Not a good time to lose control
Right as your marionettes cut their strings and run away
The daylight is much too harsh.
An impressive feat, considering the permanent smog which blankets the Undercity; diluting any sunshine that manages to infiltrate its way through to touch the depths of the underworld.
That – and the fact you haven’t even opened your eyes yet.
You drift in a liminal state between sleeping and waking, but are gradually pulled towards the latter by how desperately thirsty you are. The war-drum pounding of your head certainly isn’t conducive to a peaceful rest either.
It takes the creak of leather beneath your body as you shift to remind you that you never made it home to your own bed. You crack your eyes open bit-by-bit, aggrieved by the watery sunlight which filters into Silco’s office through the large, decorative window. Your toes flex within your socks at the foot of the sofa; free from the constraints of the boots which have been placed neatly upon the floor.
You inhale deeply in a bid to oxygenate your system, but get more than you bargained for when the spice and oak of Silco’s cologne floods to the very bottom of your lungs. You drown in him for a few blissful moments, before your body insists you exhale once more. His smell is too concentrated to be a mere remnant presence in the air. But it makes sense when you look down. Sobriety offers the realisation that the blanket you’ve been nestled beneath all night is no blanket at all, but rather the kingpin’s beloved coat.
Measured footsteps sound from somewhere above your head, and then the man himself leans over the arm of the sofa to peer down his nose at you. His hands are clasped casually behind his back, and his upside-down face is the picture of perfect indolence.
“You snore.”
“Not only is that a lie,” the words crackle from your bone-dry throat, "it’s also no way to greet someone so early in the morning.”
“It is not a lie. Sevika can confirm. And it’s 6pm.”
“Shit,” you hiss, and screw your eyes shut again, “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”
You make absolutely no move.
“In a minute,” you clarify.
“No need to rush. I’ve been managing to work just fine so far, in spite of the dreadful racket.”
“I don’t snore."
“I thought there were unplanned building works happening outside.”
“I do not snore.”
“Sevika assumed there had been some kind of explosion up at the academy.”
“I don’t—” you cut yourself off with a growl at the shit-eating look on his face, “I can’t believe you just let Sevika in here while I was passed out.”
“By in here I assume you’re referring to my office? Did you expect me to pause my work for the day simply so that you could nap in privacy? I required her input on something, and therefore I received it. She was not best pleased – you’ve been sleeping in her favourite spot.”
“You let anyone else come and gawk at me?”
“Jinx popped by,” he shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, “I may have suggested she return with her camera.”
“Well I’m awake now, so—” the thrust of your middle finger is accompanied by a childish noise, “—to that idea.”
His lips quirk patiently, “She’s already been and gone again.”
You glare up at him, and grumble your irritation low in your throat. But his eyes only flash with that particular slyness which you’ve come to learn precedes a comment that’s liable to make your blood run flaming hot.
He adjusts his stance and folds himself at the hip; leaning his forearms down onto the arm of the sofa.
“It was a necessary precaution I’m afraid. I like to plan ahead for all eventualities, and I took advantage of the opportunity to gather some new potential blackmail material – seeing as I’m forbidden from using the knowledge of your delightful little piggy.”
You freeze. And one-by-one, the events of the previous night begin to amble their way the forefront of your mind, where they slot together to form a basic, patchy, shameful picture.
Your hands slide up over your face.
“I showed you my ass,” you whisper into your palms.
“You did.”
Your hands do little to muffle your strangled noise of distress.
“It seems I stand corrected. Zaun is no longer short of decent drinking partners. You were rather entertaining. And very complimentary.”
“Piss off,” you mutter from behind your fingers.
“Did you know,” he begins breezily, as though simply sharing an interesting article he’d read in the newspaper, “that I would be ‘beating them off with a bat’ if I ever came downstairs to the club. And that I always smell yummy.”
“Careful, if your head gets any bigger your twiggy ass body won’t be able to handle the extra weight. You’ll topple right over like a giant lollipop, and I’m just gonna stand there and laugh.”
He cocks his head, “Twiggy? Or Svelte?”
Your lips twist in amusement despite yourself, and you gaze impishly back at him, refusing to verbally clarify what he already knows. The scar on his lip shifts arrogantly upwards; smug.
“I’m surprised a bartender can’t hold her liquor better.”
“Your fault for winning too much at poker.”
“I might argue that it’s your fault for losing.”
The armrest creaks as he straightens and walks away. Your brain rattles unpleasantly in your skull as you turn your head to watch him disappear into his bedroom. He doesn’t look hungover in the least; as perfectly coiffed and put together as always. Bastard.
You absently tuck the collar of Silco’s coat up beneath your chin a little more; the warmth and fragrance of the fabric providing a comforting balm to how rough you feel. All your extremities are leaden, and you don’t need a mirror to know that your complexion is grey enough to rival the city smog.
At least you didn’t throw up. That might be your one saving grace. You begin chronologically running through the events of last night in an attempt to fill in the hazy gaps. You arrive as far as Silco’s hip tattoos and your brain gets stuck; unwilling or unable to move on. Like a skipping record – the turntable of your mind plays the tune of those roses over and over again.
The memory of the artwork that's inked beneath his clothing certainly helps to battle the pallid hue of your skin.
You valiantly refrain from allowing your eyes to linger on the four golden buttons of his trousers, despite the way they seem to wink at you when he saunters back into the office a few minutes later. It’s a feat which becomes even more impressive when he sits himself on the edge of the now cleared coffee table; bringing his crotch directly eye level with where you remain a pathetic lump on the sofa. You focus resolutely on the mug he’s holding instead, and not on the way his legs widen as he brings his elbows to rest on his knees.
He hovers the receptacle tauntingly in front of your face, just long enough for you to get a whiff of what’s inside.
“Nngh,” you groan eloquently, pushing yourself up and making a clumsy grab for it. He withdraws his hand, holding it out of your reach.
“Gimme the coffee or face your doom."
He’s insultingly unconcerned by your very scary threat, “I’m hoping we might be able to exchange for it.”
You pop an eyebrow, and his mouth creases into a small smirk.
“And do you have something specific in mind that you want from me?” The dry rasp of your parched throat only adds to your suggestive cadence.
“I do,” Silco confirms, openly raking his gaze over your body as his fingers toy absently with the mug.
“Do I at least get five minutes to freshen up first?” You purr.
He chuckles, “I’m afraid not, sweetheart. I need to leave to attend to some business. So if you want your coffee, you’ll give me what I want; now or never.”
Your heart leaps into your throat as he suddenly leans forward and bathes you in his shadow. And damn the way your body automatically yields to him, via the incriminating tilt of your chin. And damn Silco for noticing, and pausing above you with the careful consideration of a predator who’s deciding whether or not to let its prey live a little while longer. The sensual curl to his lips is loaded with self-satisfaction, as he pointedly hooks his finger around the collar of the coat you’re clinging to.
Your raspy chuckle grates in your throat, and you relinquish the garment with kittenish reluctance. True to his word, he presses the mug into your hands in exchange.
You clutch it like a possessive little goblin, pushing yourself up despite the way your body protests to the movement. You prop yourself back against the armrest, and take a sip of the almost scalding liquid. Strong, black, and without a single grain of sugar; just how you like it. You let out a long, pleased hum; feeling instantly more awake thanks to the bitter sting of coffee on your tongue.
“I’ll take that noise as confirmation of a coffee well made.”
“So you should. It’s perfect, thank you.”
Silco looks quietly pleased as he rises. The hem of his coat fans out as he swings it over his shoulders and feeds his arms through the sleeves with a practiced fluidity, “Be careful with that mug.”
Like you need to be told. The chaotic, hand-painted design that adorns its surface is an obvious testament to its sentimental value.
You continue to slurp happily while Silco adjusts his collar. The fabric brushes up near his face and he goes rigid. He blinks a few times, as though attempting to clear himself of an intrusive thought. He averts his gaze from you.
“Take your time. Close the door when you leave,” he says brusquely, and sweeps from the office.
Leaving you alone on the sofa; bewildered and disorientated by his whirlwind exit.
You don’t hang around.
You finish your coffee and head straight home to shower, change, and force down as much dry toast and stale water as you’re able to stomach. It isn’t long before you’re venturing back out again – allowing time for a long walk before your shift starts in the vain hope that some ‘fresh air’ might help loosen the unwelcome grip of your hangover.
You already know that the music tonight is going to seem much louder than usual, and the impending inevitability of being surrounded by the cloying stink of booze is already making you feel nauseous. You take deep breaths to try and settle the roiling in your stomach.
The air outside has taken on the fresh bite that accompanies the transition from winter to spring; that limbo stage in which the world balances on the cusp between old and new.
You don’t bundle your coat so tightly. You allow the chill to nip at your neck and fingers. It’s bracing, and helps sharpen your thoughts as you tread an aimless pattern through the Undercity. You pick-up your mental retrace of last nights events from where you’d left off earlier.
After the tattoos came the card games. You’d played Rummy for a while, before moving on to Blackjack, and then Poker. In a surprising role reversal, it had been Silco who had suggested Strip-Poker, and you who had been the sensible one to shut the idea down.
“It’s just a little unfair don’t you think? Considering you’re wearing more clothes than a prudish Piltie gentlewoman, while I only have my top and trousers?”
“Seems perfectly fair to me.”
You’d compromised by turning it into a competitive drinking game instead (in some ways a blessing; as you’d have been stark naked in only a handful of rounds). But Silco’s winning streak had been your downfall, and you’d tumbled swiftly from merrily tipsy to shambolically drunk.
From then on things become increasingly foggy. The memories are there, but they allude you somewhat, preferring to lurk as fuzzy silhouettes in the periphery of your mind. And trying to recall exact details is like attempting to hold onto a thrashing fish – they slip around while you struggle to fully maintain your grip.
What’s going on in that funny little head of yours?
No no I can’t tell you
You can tell me anything, sweetheart
You, Silco, are crinimably handsome
You think I’m criminally handsome?
You cringe at the memory of the less than smooth delivery of that compliment.
I’m not the only one who thinks so
They were going on and on and on about how tight your trousers are
Were they attractive?
The polite thing to do when someone pays you a compliment is to give ‘em one back
You have the most incredibly striking eyes
And a beautiful smile
Those four words had been a dangerous accelerant to the kindling glow that’s been steadily catching in your chest. And the moments that had followed had only served to fan the flames. The treacherous seconds in which you’d almost allowed yourself to drown in the sea of his green eye. In which you’d almost allowed yourself to burn to ashes within the inferno of his orange iris. In which you’d almost given yourself over to either or both fates.
You quicken your steps, setting a brutal pace to encourage your blood to pump through your limbs, and to clear your mind of thoughts that are too gargantuan and terrifying to linger on.
Silco had allowed you to use his bathroom, and then you’d found a pair of sunglasses. Yes – you remember pissing around in his room, and how he’d carried you out of it. Oh yeah, you remember that alright. How effortlessly he’d lifted you into his arms despite being drunk himself. How the corded muscles beneath his sleeves had been solid beneath your knees and around your back—
Your ankle rolls on an uneven crack in the pavement, and you stumble. But you regain your footing and power on, ignoring the furtive glances from passersby. You keep your eyes on the ground.
And then…
Oh.
Then he’d smiled.
And there’s no longer any need to look where you’re going, because your feet come to a complete stop. People pass by, and the world revolves on without you; leaving you behind to bask in the memory of the lopsided tilt of his mouth. So inexplicably different from any expression you’ve ever seen from him. Candid, unrestrained, and true.
You tuck the image safely away in the lockbox of your mind. Knowing full well it’s a rarity you may never be afforded again.
Perhaps it’s serendipity that you were struck to a standstill in this very spot. Because a worn, wooden shop sign catches your eye. It’s not rigged with neon as most along the Lanes are, but the proud, emblazoned image of a pipe is clear enough without it. You can smell the tobacco from where you stand several yards away, and your gut pulls you through the door before you even know what you’re doing.
A bell tinkles above the threshold as you enter. It’s deathly quiet inside, and the air is heavy and humid in a way that clings to your hair and skin. But you suppose it’s necessary to keep the tobacco from drying out. The walls are lined with glass fronted cabinets which display the overwhelming selection of products on offer. Cedar boxes full of cigars of innumerable shapes and sizes. Cartons of cigarettes and cigarillos. Loose tobacco leaves, pipes, cutters, and leather cases. Engraved lighters and glossy humidors.
A Yordle sits behind a far counter reading a newspaper. He’s wrinkled beyond belief, and sprouts thick white facial hair that’s stained a nicotine yellow around the mouth. A smouldering cigarette hangs from beneath his moustache, and he looks up at you over twisted wire spectacles; clearly mildly put out to have a customer, “Can I help?”
You eye the countless rows of cedar boxes along the wall.
“I’d like a cigar, please.”
His patronising laugh is surprisingly gruff for his stature, “I’m assuming it isn’t for yourself.”
You smile and shrug, “What gave me away?”
“You don’t look like you have a clue where to begin,” he hops off his stool and bumbles over.
“I only smoke cigarettes,” you concede.
“Nasty habit,” he comments, taking a final drag of the limp cigarette in his own mouth, before stamping it out right on the wooden shop floor, “do you have any idea what their preferences might be? Strength? Length of smoke?”
“Um, expensive probably,” you gnaw on your lip, and decide to try your luck, “do you ever serve Silco?”
The Yordle stiffens automatically at the name, but nods, “I’ve been supplying him for many years.”
“Well… what kind of thing does he like?”
“As you say, expensive,” he makes his way over to a case beside his counter, in which everything seems to hold a little extra lustre. The wooden legs of a step-ladder drag across the floor as he heaves it over, and the keys on his belt jangle as he unlocks the cabinet.
“Mister Silco tends to favour the Noxian blends. They have a bit more of a kick, and he likes them strong. Is the person you’re buying for an experienced smoker?”
“Yes, very,” you move towards the counter to better see what he’s doing.
“And this is a gift of some kind?”
“Yes.”
“For someone special?”
He turns and surveys you over his glasses when you don’t immediately respond. You shake your head to clear the fog, “Uh yeah. Yeah he’s… he’s special.”
The Yordle seems to read something into your vague answer, because after a second of deliberation he moves the hand that had been hovering over one box, and reaches for another instead. He selects a single cigar and turns to you; presenting it like a bottle of fine wine. The leaves are a rich, reddy-brown, and you can already smell the complexity and depth of it from where you stand. It’s bound together by a beautiful gold-leaf band.
“Well, this one is Mister Silco’s favourite. He doesn’t request them very often – only when he’s celebrating. Usually something that no-one else is happy about.”
You ignore the Yordle’s muttered jibe and grin widely; unable to believe your luck.
“It’s perfect, how much?”
“120.”
Ouch.
“I’ll take it.”
You arrive at The Last Drop a half hour early for your shift, and head straight up to the balcony. The absence of Vill at the bottom of Silco’s stairwell lets you know that he’s still out. Which suits you perfectly, because you want this to be a surprise.
You dash eagerly up the stairs and knock on his office door, just incase. There’s no response, and sure enough, when you enter you find the room empty, just as you’d left it a couple hours ago. The door closes behind you with a gentle snick and you trot over to his desk. You grab a fresh piece of paper from a stack he keeps to the side and pen him a note:
List of Offences:
– Theft (Of lighter)
– Extortion (Using said lighter)
– Indecent Exposure (Of right buttock)
– Disorderly Conduct (Pretty self-explanatory)
– Breaking and Entering (Seriously – not one skeleton?)
– Disturbing the Peace (Innocent until proven guilty – I do not snore.)
Does this make me a crime lord too?
It seems I have a lot of bad behaviour to answer for… Please accept this stupidly expensive brown stick in recompense.
P.S. Thank you for a really fun night.
P.P.S. And for taking such good care of me (you big softy).
P.P.P.S. Your coffee is ridiculously good. Perhaps I should stay over more often?
You draw a winky face at the end, then decide it’s a little too shameless, even for you, so colour in a pair of sunglasses over the eyes. You position the note and cigar on his desk where he’ll easily see.
Satisfied with your work, you go to head back downstairs. But your movements are abruptly halted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Multiple pairs.
Your stomach all but drops out your ass, and sharp panic lances straight through you; wiping your mind of coherent thoughts and rooting you to the spot.
If it were just Silco you’d probably be able to schmooze your way out of this. But the presence of another person complicates matters. You know that he has a reputation to uphold, and you do not want to find yourself on the receiving end of whatever punishment he’d be forced to dole out to an employee caught snooping around his office.
You can hear the familiar husk of his voice as he talks to whoever he’s with. They're already in the hallway; effectively trapping you in the dead-end of his office. Which leaves only one option open to you.
You dart over to Silco’s bedroom as quietly as you can, slipping inside and closing the door behind you just in time.
“—dealing with the mounting pressure from the Council to increase security detail around the airship docks.”
“I’m surprised it’s taken them this long to realise. HexGate’s been open years now.”
Sevika. You let out a quiet, annoyed breath from where you lean against the wood of his door. You could have probably gotten away without hiding. But it’s much too late now. Emerging from his private quarters at this point is definitely out of the question.
“I’m not surprised in the least. Not only are the Council a collective of idiots, but they’re also naive,” the swish of a coat being hung by the door, and the click of gold-tipped boots, “they think much too highly of themselves to believe their precious new trade operations could be so easily subverted.”
“Is it gonna cause an issue for us?”
“Temporarily perhaps. But I’m confident we can adapt to bypass any new protocols that come into place,” you hear the telltale creak of leather and wood as he sits at his desk, “I have a meeting scheduled with our dear sheriff next—”
Silco cuts off abruptly. The silence is broken a moment later by the whisper of paper. There’s a long pause, before Sevika scoffs a noise that’s equal parts amusement and disgust.
“Shit, if you could see the look on your face right now you’d be sick. Since when did you get so soft?”
“Do not mistake gratitude for weakness, Sevika,” Silco’s voice holds an edge; a clear warning that his Right-hand doesn’t heed.
“Is that what we’re calling it? Gratitude?”
“Speak plainly.”
“Just never thought I’d see the Eye of Zaun reduced to a love-sick puppy.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and your heart slams so loudly against your rib cage that you’re certain the beat of it would be enough to draw attention.
There’s a slippery pause, “I’m not sure I appreciate the accusation.”
“Facts are facts – if anyone else had broken into your office I’d already be snapping their neck on your orders. You even get pissed if Jinx comes in here while you’re out. Yet this chick leaves you a cutesy note and all you do is sit there and fawn?”
“I don’t think you understand,” Silco’s sarcasm is frosty and bone-dry, “This is a very nice cigar.”
“Cut the bullshit,” there’s a bite to Sevika’s voice; a rising annoyance which surprises you, given how uninterested she’d claimed to be about this very topic, “You’ve been pissy all day. Personally, I can’t decide whether its ‘cause your coat reeks of her perfume, or if it’s ‘cause she spent the night on your couch and not in your bed. If I had to guess, I’d say both.”
“I’m not going to justify that with a response.”
“You’re a practical man Silco. Always have been. You’ve never shied away from the truth just ‘cause you didn’t like the facts. So why are you burying your head in the sand now?”
You don’t need to be able to see Silco to know that his patience is wearing threadbare. You can hear it in the tight, gnarled timbre of his response, “I fail to see how my personal life is any of your business.”
“When it crosses over into work, that makes it my business too.”
The loaded silence is agonising.
“If this is about the blackout again then I—”
“Yeah it’s about the fucking blackout. You ran off into the middle of a riot to save your little princess—”
“I do not think it wise to interrupt me—”
“If you’d been killed you would have left the Nation of Zaun floundering. You put your infatuation before your people—”
“Enough,” the bellowed word is accompanied by the slam of hands upon the desk and the hiss of springs as Silco’s weight abruptly vacates his chair, “Get out. I do not want to see your face again today.”
The air is fraught with tension, and all you can hear are two sets of furious breaths that seem to battle for dominance. Your own breathing is muffled behind the hand you’ve clamped over your mouth. Every muscle in your body has seized up – so thoroughly paralysed that you’re unable to even blink.
The unbearable silent stand off finally comes to an end with the swish of a poncho and the grind of boots. The sheer force of Sevika's exit leaves the walls rattling.
It takes the burn of empty lungs to remind you to draw breath.
Silco’s desk chair groans as he sits back down.
Shit shit shit.
The small clock at Silco’s bedside indicates that you have around twenty minutes until Jasper will be wondering where you are.
You gnaw on your thumbnail, casting furtive glances back at the clock as you listen out for Silco’s movements. But he’s deathly silent. You can’t hear the usual sounds of him working; the scratch of a pen or the rustle of paper. You can’t even hear the subtle shift of his weight in his chair, or the rustle of his clothing.
Only the undeniable thrum of Silco’s unique energy lets you know that he’s still there.
You try to process what you’ve just heard. But you can’t. You’re still reeling, and it’s all you can do to remember to just stay quiet and keep breathing.
Your pulse quickens when you hear him stand again. His footsteps are laced with agitation as he begins to pace restlessly around the office.
Perhaps it’s the sudden increased blood flow to your brain, or the echos of Sevika’s harsh call to reality, but your mind choses this moment to force you into revisiting the remaining memories of last night; the ones you’ve yet to examine in the cold, hard light of day.
I don’t care about a whole load of people in my life
But Silco, I care about you the most of all
I know that you care about me. And I care about you too. A lot. Prob’ly too much
I liked the way you touched me. I like the way you make me feel
Your fingers find their way to your temples, where they dig deeply in your skin, and your blood thickens to toxic sludge in your veins.
You hear the unmistakable noise of glass-on-glass as Silco pours himself a drink. He finishes it quickly if the heavy thud of the tumbler returning to his cart is anything to go by.
You’re running that mouth of yours again
And if you’re not careful, you’re going to say something that will get you into big trouble
I’m already in big trouble
You’re breaking the rules
Your shoulders shoot to your ears in response to the sudden, enraged curse that erupts from Silco, and your stomach twists horribly at the furious crack of a boot colliding with solid wood that follows not a second later.
A few beats pass before you hear a desolate exhale and the soft rustle of fabric. It’s your mind that conjures the image of him leaning wearily over his desk; hands supporting the weight of his bowed head, and his usually proud, maroon shoulders curved miserably inwards.
He repeats the curse under his breath. And the utter dejection in that one syllable has you silently pressing your brow and palm to the wood of his bedroom door. Your chest aches as your poor, hopeless heart battles the confines of your ribcage in its attempt to reach out to him.
It’s how the two of you remain for a stretch of time. Close-by and a world apart. With your hands planted against rough, unfeeling wood.
An age passes before he moves again. Stiff, clipped footsteps cross the office. His coat rustles as it’s donned once more.
And then he’s gone.
Leaving you all alone, with only one thought for comfort.
It seems you’re not the only one in trouble.
At least there’s that.
Misery does love company.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 11 - In which Silco teaches you how to smoke a cigar.
Oop this chapter got a little more angsty than I'd planned, my bad.
Some of you may have noticed I've removed the total number of chapters for now. This is because my outlines have shifted a bit to accommodate pacing and new sections etc. So I'm not too sure how many chapters there will be at the moment. Probably somewhere between 18-20. I'll update again when I'm certain.
I just want to remind you all that I love you so very dearly. Thank you for all the overwhelming support and love you've been sending my way. It means the absolute world <3
If you haven't checked out my Tumblr then you're missing out on some amazing artwork for this fic from some insanely talented human beans:
Sublime Artwork by Soutzouart
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Mildly Dodgy Artwork by Yours TrulyI also post some occasional bonus content, such as this cheeky little Silco POV
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Chapter Lyrics: Guns For Hire - Woodkid
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I’ve never felt like this before
I think I might just want some more
I’ve never felt like this before
I think I might just
After the longest shift of your life, the club is finally cleared for the night.
You rush through your closing duties as quickly as you can, desperate to just get home, nurse the remainder of your hangover, and attempt to comprehend all that you’d overheard in Silco’s office earlier.
But it seems the universe has other plans. You’re beginning to feel like the butt of a huge, cosmic joke – because you’re interrupted from your cleaning by the stranger who walks into the bar.
Your hand stops dead in its tracks as you wipe-down the countertop, and the double-take you do is almost comical. You imagine there are very few who wouldn’t when seeing him.
He’s a walking piece of art.
His cropped hair is pure white, and contrasts beautifully against the richer tone of his skin. He’s around your height, but feels taller due to the easy, confident grace with which he holds himself. His diamond shaped face sports features which are offensively symmetrical, and his eyes are arresting; a rich brown that manages to be both deep and bright all at once, and the fox-like sweep of them are lined pristinely with gold and black makeup. His clothes are monochromatic, in shades of black and white, and are unbearably chic; fitting and flaring in all the right places.
You’re certain you’ve never seen him here before, and yet he enters through the front door as though he’s intimately familiar with the place.
His eyes land on you, and his mouth pulls into a sly smile. He makes a beeline for the bar, sits himself neatly on the stool in front of you, and speaks in a voice that can only be described as melodious.
“I’ll take your most expensive cocktail please.”
You chuckle despite your exhaustion, and give him a winning, but apologetic smile, “As much as I’d love to make it for you, I’m afraid we’re closed.”
He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment, “Such a shame. I’ve heard you’re the most brilliant mixologist in the Undercity, and I was really hoping to cash in my free drink tonight.”
Your tired brain churns over his cryptic words. But after several slow seconds it clicks, and you remember the offer you’d made Jasper – way back after he’d gotten into trouble waiting for you the very first time you’d stayed in Silco's office for a drink.
“Maximilian? You’re Jasper’s partner?”
“Max will do,” he flashes a brilliant smile as he extends his arm over the counter.
You respond with a grin of your own as you shake his hand. Much like when you met Jinx, there’s something undeniably vibrant about his energy – it’s contagious, and you find your fatigue somewhat abated simply by being in his vicinity. You can just tell you’re going to get along.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
“Likewise – now I finally have a face to the woman I’ve heard so much about.”
“All good things I hope?” You ask sweetly, propping your elbow against the counter and leaning your chin upon your knuckles. His laugh is as musical as his voice, but he’s interrupted before he can speak again.
“Don’t answer that. She’s cocky enough as it is,” Jasper appears from back of house, carrying the now empty cash-drawer which he slides back into the register.
“Why hello to you too, dearest,” Max trills.
“I thought we were meeting at home.”
“Well isn’t it a lovely surprise to see me a little sooner?”
“It's a surprise alright.”
Max scoffs indignantly at Jaspers monotonous response, “You would think after ten years you’d love me enough not to break my heart so?”
“We aren't done here yet,” Jasper turns from the register and folds his massive arms across his equally massive chest, “Now you’re gonna be waiting half an hour.”
“Oh you know me – I can entertain myself.”
“Entertain yourself quietly, or you’ll be waiting longer.”
“Mm, perhaps I’d be more inclined to behave myself if I got a proper greeting?” Max coos, tilting his face to offer up one highlighted cheekbone.
You watch their interaction with fascination. Never in a million years would you have imagined Jasper with someone like Max. They’re as different as night and day. Not only in appearance, but in temperament and character too. And yet the way Jasper’s normally gruff facade softens ever so slightly when he leans over the counter to place a kiss on Max’s waiting cheek is undeniable. It speaks to something far deeper and more profound than any superficial commonality.
The comparison comes to your mind before you can think better of making it. Their dynamic; it’s so similar to the one that exists between you and Silco.
“Max!”
The excited cry from across the dance floor is followed by a streak of blue which bowls into him with enough enthusiasm to almost tip the stool on which he’s sat.
“Jinx,” Max greets warmly, returning the hug, “How’s my gorgeous girl? Your hair is getting so long,” he pulls back and runs the sapphire ropes through his hands.
“Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too honey. Work has been very busy lately, but things are calming down a bit now, and you’ll be sick of me before you know it.”
“What do you do for work?”
He turns to you with a smile, “How about making that cocktail you owe me, and I’ll tell you.”
A few honied words from Max is all it takes for Jasper to (albeit reluctantly) agree to finish closing by himself so that you can be whisked away. You prepare your drinks – a Bellini for Max, the usual sweet pink fizz for Jinx (except in a fancy flute to match the champagne cocktail), and a simple glass of water for yourself, before the three of you bundle into one of the private booths to chat.
“I’m a fashion designer,” Max answers when prompted again, “I have a studio up on the Promenade. But I find I’m being commissioned more frequently over the river these days. So many Topsiders want a taste of the Undercity without having to sully themselves by coming down here to get it.”
“That sounds so glamorous,” you sigh dreamily, “Did you design this?” You indicate what he’s wearing.
“I did indeed.”
“And he designed dad’s clothes too!” Jinx chimes.
“You’re the genius behind that waistcoat?”
The question blurts from you before you can stop it. The look Jinx gives you is all too familiar, but Max’s small smile is loaded enough to make you wonder exactly what Jasper has been saying about you. His feathered lashes bat together in a single knowing wink, “You’re welcome, honey.”
“What else do you design?” You ask quickly, eager to move the conversation along.
“A bit of everything,” he sips his cocktail, “Suits, gowns, outerwear, underwear, you name it.”
“I’d love to visit your studio sometime.”
“I’d love you to visit too,” he takes your wrists, holding your arms out slightly as he casts a keen, artistic eye over you, “You’ve got a gorgeous figure. I’d love to use you as a model for some pieces I’m working on.”
“D’you hear that Jinx? I’m a model.”
“Can I come too?”
“Of course you can, sweets,” Max releases your wrists, and there’s a teasing tilt to his mouth that you often use yourself, “Now, can I assume from the slightly haunted look in your eye and your drab little glass of water that someone went a little overboard last night?”
Jinx snorts lewdly, “A little? Try a lot. I have photographic evidence.”
“Yeah, about that—” you begin, but Jinx is already shooting out of the booth in the direction of her bedroom with a “Be right back!” before you’re able to finish.
Max laughs as he watches her go, “She’s a firecracker.”
“She certainly is,” you agree, half fond and half grudging as the ends of her braids whip out of sight.
“I hear you can be too.”
You scoff, “What exactly has our dear Jasper been saying about me?”
“Oh, all sorts,” he places a conspiratorial hand on your arm, “That you’re very talented and hard-working.”
“Awwh.”
“But most of the time it’s how frustrating you are.”
“Oh."
Max chuckles, “It’s a compliment, sweets. He’s constantly complaining about me too. It just means he cares… and he worries about you.”
There’s no need for clarification. It’s spelled out clearly in his dark, umber gaze.
You roll your eyes, “So he’s mentioned that, huh?”
“Mentioned? Honey, sometimes it feels like it’s all I ever hear about. You’re giving him wrinkles.”
You empty your lungs, “I don’t know why he worries so much. Surely he can see by now that I’m fine? That I’m safe?”
Max weighs his head from side-to-side, “Debatable. Silco does have a tendency to be unpredictable at times. And the fact remains that he’s an extremely corrupt and dangerous man, and I can say that as someone who's seen him in his underwear.”
You laugh and Max’s eyes sparkle in response.
“But Jasper forgets that there's a human side too,” Max continues candidly, “I mean just look at Jinx. Is that a kid who lives fear of her parent? Or who’s lacking in affection or care?”
It’s true. The more you get to know Silco, the more he allows you to know him, the more you’re coming to realise just how much of a walking juxtaposition he is.
He’s cold and apathetic. And yet there’s a driving passion inside him that burns hot and bright.
He’s hard and cutting. And yet raises his daughter with a gentle hand and tireless patience.
He’s callous and cruel. And yet doesn’t withhold respect or courtesy from those who have earned it from him.
Even earlier today – he’d threatened to skin you alive, all while carefully removing your boots and adjusting his own coat upon your body so that it covered you a little more warmly.
But that’s the key to understanding him, isn’t it? Accepting that these two states can and do co-exist. That neither one of them cancels the other out. He is not a man at war within himself. There is no internal struggle between good and evil. He is neither and both.
He’s every bit the monster he claims to be, and so much more beyond it.
Your mouth pulls into a small, wistful smile, “He’s… complex. There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.”
“I can easily believe that.”
Max’s expression is open and kind, and his eyes contain an invitation that you find yourself desperate to accept. It’s become lonely; this internal struggle of yours. And you’re beginning to bow under its ever increasing weight.
Would it be so bad? To accept help in carrying the load?
You’ve known this man all of twenty minutes, and yet the whisper in your gut impels you to trust him. And who would you be – if you started disregarding that voice now. After its done so much for you. After it led you to Silco in the first place.
“How did you know?” You ask quietly, tentatively, “How did you know that— when you met Jasper… how…”
You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask, but it seems that intuition is a quality you both share. The smile Max offers you is warm and genuine, “There’s no rhyme or reason to it honey, you just know.”
What was it that Sevika had said? Facts are facts. And when all is said and done, when you strip away every extraneous factor in play and shear the matter down to its very barest bones – you’re left with one, irrefutable fact:
From the very first moment you stepped into Silco’s office, you’ve been drawn to this dangerous, unattainable man in a way that’s completely indescribable, all-consuming, and about as futile to fight as gravity itself.
Your voice is faint, as though your quiet words might minimise the enormity of what you’re feeling, “I’m scared.”
“What are you afraid of?” Max asks gently.
You shake your head, and your breathy laugh holds not an ounce of true humour. How can you even begin to put it into words? Your nose buzzes, and your eyes sting, just a little. And there is so much packed within your one word answer that it wavers slightly as it leaves you, “Everything.”
He gathers your hands within his own; they’re warm and soft, and yet provide no comfort as you spiral within yourself.
“He’s not just some guy I’ve met. He’s— I shouldn’t want— I— I don’t know how to do this.”
The empathy in Max’s face is staggering. It’s as though he feels your pain as his very own, and the judgement that you’ve come to expect from others is simply non-existent in his earnest gaze. His fingers tighten around yours in a reassuring squeeze.
“Personally, I have found that the things which scare us the most in life are undoubtedly the things which are most worthwhile pursuing. There hasn’t been a single instance in which I’ve regretted doing something that had initially terrified me. If anything, they have been the risks that have paid off the most. And that have brought me the most joy and fulfilment.”
You gnaw on your lip, and he dips his chin to look sagely up at you through his lashes.
“And as for what you should and shouldn’t want… Honey, it’s your life. No one can dictate your desires but you. Do what makes you happy, and fuck the rest.”
His words loosen something inside you; an almost painful easing in your chest that has you exhaling a long, shaky breath. It’s like you’ve been given permission to stand and stretch, after being curled in a ball for far too long. It hurts. It hurts so wonderfully.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Anytime.”
Your quiet little moment is brought to a sudden close by the hideous polaroids that slap down onto the table. You look half-dead, particularly against the vibrant red of the sofa, and your mouth is hanging open in every single picture.
Jinx’s evil cackle harmonises with Max’s seraphic laughter, and your forehead thuds down onto the table in mortification.
“Silco’s asking for you.”
You look up in surprise from where you’re packing up the dirty glasses behind the bar at the end of your Monday shift. You hadn’t even heard Sevika approach. Likely because you'd been lost in your own head again. It's where you've spent most of your time the past two days – going slowly stir crazy to the repeated tune of Max's advice.
“Says to bring up a new bottle of whiskey. He’s in a shitty mood, so don’t keep him waiting, princess.”
You balk internally at the nickname, which you now know has had a secret meaning all along.
You turn to where Jasper’s cashing up a few feet away from you. His mouth thins to a fine line as he watches Sevika’s retreating back.
“It’s not Friday. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comforta—”
“Jasper,” you cut in wearily, “Come on. Just… fetch me the bottle, let’s not get into it.”
You can practically hear his teeth grinding together. But he turns and heads down to the cellar, and your eyes go anxiously towards the balcony while you wait.
You stand at the top of the stairwell.
The hallway stretches ahead; as familiar to you by now as the back of your hand. And yet, for the first time in so long, you find yourself hesitating to make the twelve steps it’ll take to reach the lacquered black door. So you stand – trapped within this déjà vu of the first ever time you’d ever been sent up to Silco's office, frightened of what you’ll find at the end.
It feels as though you’re swimming out into uncharted waters; black and depthless beneath your treading feet.
You clutch the bottle of bourbon with sweaty palms, and force yourself to make the journey down the dim, wooden corridor. Your heart beats an ever quickening pace behind your ribs, and your stomach coils in preparation of the somersault that will no doubt occur the second you lay eyes on him.
You pause again outside his door with your fingers extended partway towards the battered brass handle.
You count your breaths as your hand hovers.
“What are you doing out there?”
Silco's question from the other side of the door is equal parts suspicious and preemptively weary by whatever smart-ass response he expects you to give.
The familiarity eases away your nerves, and soothes the tension that’s been driving you insane for days. Your teeth flash in a warm smile he can’t see, but that’s only for him regardless.
“Choreographing my grand entrance.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
“How high is your ceiling again? Do I have room to backflip?”
“I’m growing tired of conversing through a door. Be a dear and come in.”
Even after steeling yourself, your stomach still flips when you see him – a balletic accompaniment to the twirl of your heart. He’s sat perfectly innocuously on the sofa; legs crossed as he flips through some paperwork attached to a clipboard. Dual-coloured eyes rise to meet yours, and your heart beats just that little bit faster.
“Hi,” you say dumbly.
“Hello,” his smooth response is accompanied by the bemused quirk of a single eyebrow.
You stand in the doorway, blinking mutely at him, and the eyebrow rises a little higher.
“Is there a reason you’re choosing to linger on my doorstep instead of entering properly?”
You can sense the playfulness that threads through his tone, and he seems relaxed enough that you begin to doubt Sevika’s word. Not that a potential sour mood was the reason for your nerves in the first place.
You lean casually in the doorway with your shoulder resting against the frame, “I’m just a little wary is all. Sevika said you’re in a shitty mood.”
His expression tightens infinitesimally.
“Sevika has been running her mouth of late,” the slight edge in his tone belies the bad mood his Right-Hand had warned you about, “I wouldn’t listen to a word she says.”
You’re careful not to reveal the uncomfortable twinge in your stomach at that comment, and instead you push your lower lip out in mock puzzlement, “Oh… well, she also said you wanted a fresh bottle of bourbon. Should I just go put this back then?”
He doesn’t justify you with an answer, merely dips his chin and gives you one of his infamous looks.
He places his clipboard on the coffee table, and the movement draws your eye to the other items that are neatly lined upon the surface. His two favourite crystal tumblers, both already filled with ice. His lighter. His cutter. His ashtray… And the cigar you’d gifted him a few days ago.
There’s a ghost of a smile on his mouth when you meet his eyes again, likely a mirror image to your own.
“It isn’t Friday,” you say haughtily.
He doesn’t answer. His smile merely widens just a little, and his heel taps a patient rhythm against the floor; bouncing his crossed knees.
You turn your nose up slightly and sniff, “How do you know I don’t have a prior engagement to get to?”
“I don’t know,” his boot stops tapping, and he reclines, stretching his arms languidly along the back of the sofa, “But if you did, I would expect you to cancel in order to indulge my whims.”
He’s particularly indolent tonight. And that lazy self-assurance is laced through with a keen playfulness which sets excitement thrumming all the way down to your bones. It’s almost as though he’s finally beginning to understand the full extent of the power he holds over you, and he’s starting to test how far he can push it.
It would make sense. Given how shameless your booze-loosened tongue had been.
You arch an eyebrow, “So presumptuous.”
His mouth curls and his eyes travel up and down you. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He knows you’ll stay.
You take a leaf out of Silco’s book, and keep your expression cool and uninterested as you kick the door shut behind you and saunter over to the sofa. His triumph is silent, but evident in the flash of his eyes. You take a seat beside him, closer than strictly necessary, and break the wax seal around the bottle neck. His attention on you is as sharp as the snap of the ice as the whiskey hits it.
But before you can pass him his drink, he leans forward to select a different item from the table. He turns towards you; holding the cigar up between fingers that are as equally long and beautiful as the gift itself.
“What’s this?”
You smile, small and coy, “Rumour has it – it’s Mister Silco’s favourite.”
“It is Mister Silco’s favourite,” he purrs, sliding his arm along the back of the sofa as he leans towards you a little, toying the gift between his fingers, “I’m just wondering how such a fine cigar came to end up on my desk.”
Your guilt at having overheard the private conversation slithers icily over your insides, crusting the lining of your stomach like a winter frost. You dip your chin; paranoid he’ll see straight through you, “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just wanted it to be a surprise.”
Something rough touches the skin beneath your chin. The tip of the cigar, you realise. Accompanied by a gentle pressure which encourages you to tilt your face back up towards the man who holds the other end. Silco’s brow is pinched the barest amount, no doubt in response to your uncharacteristic show of bashfulness.
“It was a welcome surprise,” he assures candidly, and you watch as he rolls the next couple of words around his mouth, testing them out, before voicing them, “Thank you.”
You smile, and the frost melts, “See, I knew there were manners in there somewhere.”
His mouth quirks, and he taps the cigar against your chin a couple of times, almost chiding, before reaching for the cutter and slicing off the tip.
“Have you ever smoked a cigar before?”
“No,” you pause as you realise what he’s suggesting, “But don’t waste this one on me, I won’t appreciate it like you will.”
“It is no waste,” he reaches for his lighter, “and you will appreciate it.”
Spoken with a conviction that allows no room for disagreement.
You watch him light the cigar – twisting it between his fingers until the end is glowing evenly, before puffing into it a few times to send flames flaring momentarily higher. The actions are hypnotic and practiced; the start of a well rehearsed routine.
The lighter is discarded, and Silco finally takes a deep drag. His right eye flutters closed as he holds the smoke in his mouth and sinks back onto the sofa. He tilts his head, exposing the long, pale column of his throat, before allowing the smoke to fog slowly from between his lips in mesmerising coils that twist towards the ceiling.
The corner of your mouth draws upwards into a pleased smirk. The coin spent was well worth it, if only to witness him indulge in this moment of bliss.
“Good?”
He lets out a long, low hum in confirmation, “Flawless.”
He drops his cheek towards his shoulder, and his eye cracks open again to peer at you – a dash of green between dark lashes. He extends the cigar in silent offer. You hesitate for half a second, before taking it from him between your index and middle finger. He chuckles under his breath.
“Remember, it’s not a cigarette,” he reaches out and adjusts your hold so that it rests on your middle finger with your index curled securely over the top. And how such a simple, instructive touch can leave your stomach fluttering is beyond you, “Don’t inhale into your lungs or you’ll be sick. And take your time. A cigar is meant to be savoured, especially one as fine as this.”
He watches keenly as you bring the cigar your mouth. It’s still moist from his lips as your own close around it. You draw slowly, and your head is set immediately spinning at the rich, complex flavour; the taste equivalent to how his cologne smells. Spiced, oaky, intoxicating.
“Woah,” the sentiment drifts from you; carried by the smoke which plumes from between your lips.
Silco’s mouth curls dangerously, which only makes your head spin faster, “Didn’t I say as much?”
“Yeah, okay. I get it. I’m a cigar convert.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll have someone to smoke with now.”
“Drinking and smoking with the Eye of Zaun. My mum is gonna be so proud.”
“A lovely cherry on top of the other activities she believes us to be engaged in.”
It takes you a second to remember what he’s referring to – the lie you’d told your mother after she’d been bitchy about the lack of a significant other in your life. But when you do, you laugh, “I’d forgotten all about that,” Silco takes the cigar from you when offered.
“Are you going to correct her thinking the next time you see her?”
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“On?”
“My mood. And how shitty she chooses to be,” you settle yourself back more comfortably, propping a boot up on the edge of the coffee table, “If it provides enough entertainment to get me through dinner with her, then I’ll keep spinning the fantasy.”
“Fantasy? What an interesting choice of word.”
“How so?” You counter breezily, “It pertains to something imagined or made up, doesn’t it?”
His mouth creases upwards, “It has connotations.”
“Well it isn’t my fault if you get your connotations in a twist.”
He chuckles around the cigar, and you watch him take another blissful drag.
“Although I suppose it would have its perks – dating you.”
His natural eyebrow shoots straight up, and he eyes you closely, “Elaborate,” he instructs around a mouthful of smoke,
“Well, to state the obvious, you’re filthy rich.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he passes you the cigar.
“Then there’s the free access to booze. The fact that I could have you rough up anyone who annoys me. And of course, my new favourite, fancy cigars,” you emphasise your point with a long drag, and revel in the dizzying, luxurious feel of the tobacco rushing straight to your head.
“Seems as though you’re already living that fantasy,” Silco counters, eyeing the thick cloud which curls from your mouth, “Unless you’ve already forgotten having consumed half the bar free of charge only a few days ago. Or how I’ve killed a man for you.”
The frank statement walks its way slowly up your spine like a pair of phantom fingers, and the pressure of that ghostly touch is only amplified by the razor-edge glint in his eyes.
“For me? Interesting choice of words,” you parrot back playfully, “Considering his death warrant would have been signed and sealed regardless of who he attempted to hire to do his dirty work. What was his name again? Garry?”
“Garrett. And yes, he would have died regardless,” his gaze doesn’t waver from yours, “However, I did not have to kill him as slowly as I did. And I certainly did not have to use my bare hands to do it.”
Every single hair on your body stands on end, and your skin tightens over your bones at the implication of his words, and the directness with which they’re delivered.
“My hero,” you croon huskily.
He exhales in amusement and takes the proffered cigar from your fingers.
“But I’m certain there would be other perks, outside of the ones I’ve already experienced.”
Silco takes his time inhaling, but his eyes remain fixed on you whilst he does so. He rests the hand holding the cigar in his lap, and speaks through a billow of smoke, “Care to venture a guess at what they might be?”
Your mouth curls flirtatiously, and you rest your head back on the cushion of his arm; still draped along the sofa behind you. The fabric of his shirt against your cheek is just as silken as the one that’s hidden away in your drawer. You flutter your lashes from where you rest in the crook of his elbow.
“The honour of being on the arm of the most criminally handsome man in the Undercity?”
You’re rewarded with a rare flash of teeth, and a deep, velvet chuckle, “So you are able to pronounce it properly.”
“Only when I’m sober apparently.”
“Indeed. You were extremely drunk,” he ventures, “I’m surprised you remember anything at all.”
“On the contrary, I remember everything.”
A beat passes, “Then I expect you’re feeling a little foolish.”
His expression is carefully composed. But you've become exceptionally attuned to him over the passing months, and a master at reading the truth in his eyes. Either that, or he’s become much less of an expert at concealing it from you. There’s no mistaking the keen interest within his two-toned gaze. You think he mightn’t be so bothered by you distinguishing that from him.
But you’re pretty sure he’d be bothered by the quiet hope you discover lingering just behind.
You raise your head from his arm, and speak sincerely, “Perhaps a little. If only for the clumsiness with which I expressed myself.”
The room is so quiet that you can almost hear the smouldering burn of the cigar tip in Silco’s fingers. What follows is an unspoken conversation, volleyed between two sets of eyes.
And you don’t regret what was said?
Why should I regret voicing the truth?
The loaded silence is brought to a close when Silco slowly raises the cigar to his lips. You inhale deeply, almost subconsciously, in time with his lengthy drag. He shapes his mouth and exhales a ring of smoke.
“How do you do that?”
“Hm?”
“The rings. I’ve always wondered.”
He eyes you over the cigar as he takes another drag, before blowing a perfect, thick ring of smoke directly towards your face, “It’s all in the tongue.”
The not-so-subtle emphasis he puts on the last word has heat pooling low in your gut, and the small smirk on his lips indicates he’s well aware of how your body is reacting to him.
You tuck one leg up beneath you on the sofa so that you can face him fully.
“Teach me?”
The flames within his left eye flicker and pop, as though more wood has been tossed onto the fire. He angles his body towards you and shifts closer, your mounted knee presses into the outside of his thigh, and your other leg slots neatly between the gap of his.
“First, you make an oh with your lips.”
You shape your lips and he chuckles darkly.
“A little wider,” he instructs pointedly.
You try to take on the note without smirking, and he takes his time surveying the position of your mouth before answering, “Better.”
You give him a toothy smirk, “And then? I believe you said something about tongues?”
His amusement is evident in the quirk of his lips and the gleam in his eyes.
“And then, use the back of your tongue to push the smoke from your mouth.”
“Sounds easy enough."
He silently offers out the cigar, and your fingers brush his as you accept it. His gaze drops to your mouth as you take a drag, and attempt to follow his instructions.
You fail miserably. The smoke floats from you in shapeless puffs.
His laugh is low and delicious, and his legs shift against you as he moves just that little bit closer, his knee skimming higher up your inner thigh, “Try again.”
“Perhaps another demonstration might help?”
He plucks the proffered cigar from your fingers, and brings it slowly to his mouth, holding it between his teeth a moment before folding his lips around it. Your own mouth parts softly as you watch the hypnotic movement. He leans closer as the cherry flares, before freeing his mouth to blow three consecutive rings towards you. The smoke whispers against your cheeks and eyelashes, and even second-hand it makes your head spin.
The world feels a little slow, and the air that surrounds you both is gauzy and smoke-hazed. It makes everything seem weighty and languid. You teeter on the edge of too warm, and your mind feels foggy and sedate in a way that’s entirely indulgent; as though simply luxuriating in the present moment, without care of what’s come before, or where you’re yet to venture.
The cigar passes back into your fingers. And your eyes switch focus back and forth between green and orange as you drag, and try once more to form a ring of smoke.
Amorphous clouds drift from your mouth, but they don’t last long. They’re prised apart at the seams by Silco, who inhales your pitiful attempts through softly parted lips and gently flared nostrils.
You’re bewitched by the push and pull of smoke. Fine tendrils that pass back and forth in between you, until there’s nothing left but the memory of the misty patterns your combined breaths had weaved.
You huff a disappointed laugh.
“Clearly not one of my many talents,” you mumble, offering him back the cigar as you turn your face away in defeat.
Silco’s hand shoots out, quick as an asp, latching onto your jaw and stilling both your movement and your breath. His fingers and thumb dig in either side, with just enough pressure to toe the threshold of rough. He turns you firmly back to face him.
“I never thought of you as someone who would give up so easily.”
Something like shame slinks beneath your skin at the reproachful bite to his words, and at way he looks down his nose at you. He plucks the cigar from your fingers, and raises it to your lips.
“Try again,” he commands, “Push with the back of your tongue. Forwards and up. You should brush the roof of your mouth if you’re doing it correctly.”
The searing intensity in his gaze has you captured so thoroughly that to look away would be not only impossible, but unthinkable. The last of your resolve begins to crumble under the devastating power of the two opposing elements in his eyes. Green waters crash against your lips, begging to be let in so they might run down your throat and flood your lungs. Orange flames lick at your skin, luring you towards a fire that is certain to burn until you’re nothing more than ash on the wind.
Your mouth wraps around the waiting cigar and you draw. Silco removes it for you and waits, patient as ever. You savour the thick, opulent smoke in your mouth for a few moments more, before forming an oh with your lips, and jerking the back of your tongue as instructed.
It’s wobbly; but it’s definitely a ring. It flies from your mouth and frames Silco’s face as it expands and dissipates. His eyes flash with approval, and his mouth curls into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Very good,” he croons, rewarding you by swiping his thumb against your jaw, without relinquishing his grip.
You preen under the praise.
“Not as good as yours.”
“Years of practice, sweetheart.”
Your back arches at the pet name – at the way it rumbles from the very lowest reaches of his throat. The movement pushes your chest towards him, and tangles your legs a half inch more. Silco’s face is an infuriating mix of serene and smug as he watches you fawn beneath him. He’s playing you like a damn fiddle and you’re letting him.
You never stood a chance, did you?
“Perhaps I’d manage a better one if you weren’t clawing at my face?”
He neither responds nor relents his hold; only chuckles, low and dark, and raises the cigar for you once again.
You lock eyes with him, and ensure he sees the way your tongue meets the cigar before your teeth pinch down. His fingers are close enough that you’re able to brush them with your lips as you close them around the cigar, and you hollow your cheeks a little with your deep drag. Your suggestive display has the desired effect. It adds to the weight of his right eyelid, and the scars that line his face slacken as he watches you – totally rapt.
He moves the cigar out the way.
But before you can even contemplate attempting to form a ring, the hand on your jaw trails downwards; sliding tenderly to frame your throat. Your head tilts back at the sensual caress, and you breathe a sigh. The smoke curls forgotten from your mouth. Silco emerges through the haze, closing the space between you to that of a single cigar length.
Even sitting down, he seems to tower over you.
“Not quite,” he murmurs.
“Got distracted,” you breathe.
“Is that so?”
His palm rests over the hollow of your throat, and his hand is so large that his fingers reach almost all the way to your nape. His thumb swipes against your pulse and you shiver beneath his touch.
How many lives has he ended in this very same position?
The most dangerous man in the Undercity has you by the throat, and yet you remain utterly docile beneath his touch, wearing his fingers proudly like a diamond necklace.
Would you even fight, if he began to squeeze?
You converse in hushed, intimate tones.
“How often have you thought about wrapping your hands around my neck?”
“More often than I care to admit,” he cocks his head predatorily, “Especially when you’re being a brat.”
His fingers and thumb press ever so slightly into the arteries either side of your throat.
Your mouth pulls into smirk, “Kinky,” you tease breathlessly.
His eyes glint like a blade twisted towards the light, and he squeezes a little tighter. You’re still able to breathe, but the consistent pressure on your neck is quick to heighten your other senses. The delicious heat of his fingers soaking into your skin. The sharp press of his knee against the inside of your leg. The lavish, mouth-watering smell of cigars and cologne. The thunderous beat of your heart, which drums a relentless rhythm within your chest, inside your ears, and between your thighs.
“It would only take one minute for you to become unconscious,” he comments benignly, while increasing the pressure either side of your neck, “Another four or so to kill you. Although I tend to wait five, just to be sure.”
You pout, “You wouldn’t miss me?”
He raises the cigar to his own lips and draws deeply, taking his sweet time as the edges of your vision begin to curl with darkness. He looms closer, until only an inch separates the tip of his nose from yours.
And he finally exhales; in perfect tandem with the release of his fingers. Your oxygen deprived brain has you inhaling automatically, and his smoke floods into your mouth, tasting even richer for having been in his first.
It’s an obscenely sensual display, and leaves you reeling and panting beneath his lingering touch, peering up at him through lust-heavy eyes.
The smirk that toys on his lips is downright diabolical.
Silco’s hand slides from your throat to cup the back of your skull, and his fingers twine almost tenderly in your hair, “Perhaps,” he muses, before tugging sharply downwards; exposing the length of your throat to him, “I might miss you a little.”
You gasp at the exquisite pain in your scalp which sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body has become little more than a conduit for the hot-blooded desire that is steadily consuming you from the inside out. You’ve never, never, felt so alive before.
And he’s only laid a single hand on you.
That thought alone pushes a breathy whimper over the back of your tongue. Your own hands sit useless and trembling in your lap as you wait to see what he’ll do next; entirely submissive beneath him.
The tip of the cigar glows as Silco takes another indolent drag; close enough for you to feel the heat pinching at the skin of your cheek. The hand holding the cigar lowers, and his knuckles brush lazy circles to the outside of your thigh. He ducks his head a little, and this time the smoke he exhales caresses up the exposed column of your throat, sending a wash of goosebumps over your entire body. Your breathing becomes laboured and unsteady, and everything inside you tightens and loosens all at once.
Silco watches you slowly unravel beneath him, and the devastating, beautiful lines of his face compose a picture of complete and utter self-satisfaction. It’s intolerable, and it simply won’t do. You’re both players in this game.
And if you’re going down, you’re taking him with you.
“Be careful, Silco, Sweetie,” you tease breathlessly, “I bruise easily, and you’ve already left your mark once before.”
The smug curl of his lips falters, and his grip on your hair loosens enough for you to dip your chin and look directly at him.
“What do you mean?” He murmurs.
“My hips. Don’t you remember?”
It takes a second for the ball to drop. But when it does, his pupils blow wide. The inferno of his left eye is almost swallowed entirely by obsidian darkness.
“I marked you?” His voice is deeper and darker than the coal mines beneath your feet, and holds just as much grit.
“Yes,” your whispered answer is sibilant, and punctuated by the grazing touch of your fingertips upon his knees, “I had my very own hip tattoos for a week or so. They were almost as beautiful as yours,” you lament, brushing your fingers a little higher up his thighs, “I was sad to see them go.”
His hand tightens in your hair. Gone is the cocky, self-assured man who believed he stood above the game. With only a few teasing words, you’ve reduced him to little more than a dog, straining at his leash – a tether woven from the restraint and control he’s so desperately clinging too, but which can you tell is rapidly fraying with every passing moment.
You go in for the kill.
“But I made good use of them before they faded."
The cigar slips from his fingers, and thuds forgotten to the floor. His jaw is set so tightly that he almost looks as though he’s in pain. And his eyes are piercing, despite their frenzied dilation; as dark and glistening as fresh spilled ink. His legs shift subtly against you, and the movement draws your eyes to his lap.
You suck in a sharp breath at the undeniable, impressive tent in his trousers. And you’re almost capsized by the fresh wave of desire that crashes over you.
You look up at him from beneath the fan of your lashes, and your lips pull into a slow, wolfish grin.
“Is that a cigar in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?”
“You’re infuriating,” he growls.
“At least two or three by the looks of things.”
“Maddening.”
You graze your palms up his thighs and shift yourself closer, so that your nose almost brushes his, “I take that as a compliment.”
“I should have killed you when you first had the gall to stop and speak to me.”
“But you didn’t,” you whisper, “And now look where we are.”
His face is tight with desire, and each irate exhale that huffs from his nose is warm against the skin of your upper lip.
Your voice is soft and husky, “Seems you’re stuck with me, Sil—”
“Don’t,” the one word snarl is accompanied by the sharp dig of his fingers into your hip, and the retightening of the hand that’s still buried within your hair. It pulls a small, involuntary noise of desire from you, and has your fingernails digging crescents into the taut, slender muscles beneath his trousers.
“Don’t what?”
He doesn’t respond. But something innate inside you provides the answer you seek.
His name. Don’t say his name again unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.
There’s a wildness in his darkened gaze that you’re raring to see unleashed. By now you’ve not only accepted your ruin; you crave it. So you lay yourself bare between the open jaws of the wolf, and seal your fate.
You press your brow against his, and whisper the two forbidden syllables reverently into the remaining shred of space between you.
“Silco—”
His tether snaps. And his lips collide with yours.
And not even the Lanes, with all its neon colour, could hope to match the brilliant, catastrophic brightness that suddenly illuminates your world. Every single cell in your body is set ablaze by the sheer ferocity and passion of Silco’s kiss, and your hands fist in his vest; holding on for dear life as the universe tilts on its axis around you.
You moan, low and desperate and blissful against his mouth, and meet his hunger with your own; just as eager, just as voracious. His arm snakes around your waist to pull you even closer against him, and his fingers flex in your hair; tilting your face so that he can capture your lips more deeply. Kiss you more thoroughly. Consume you entirely.
Everything begins and ends here, with him. There is nothing else. Only the urgent press of his mouth. The heat of his breath. The velvet slide of his lips. The heavy beat of his heart beneath your palm. The emotive twist of his fingers in your hair. How safe you feel in the arms of a monster.
How Silco all at once destroys and rebuilds you.
He nips sharply at your lower lip, and your mouth parts with a small whine of pleasure at the unspoken command. His tongue sweeps in and brushes fervidly against your own, and you almost combust on the spot. He tastes of smoke and spice and whiskey and pure, unadulterated sin.
Your hands run up the side of his neck, palming the sharp hinge of his jaw before curling into the short, dark hairs at the back of his head. And the deep, throaty hum that rumbles from Silco in response to the dig of your fingers proves to be utterly cataclysmic.
It sends a flaming hot spike of lust through you.
You plant your hands on his chest and push. Silco's shoulder blades hit the arm of the sofa, and he blinks in surprise, half-laid out below you. And he looks so fucking beautiful – kiss swollen lips and lust hazed eyes. You waste no time in crawling your way into his lap; straddling your knees either side of his hips and pressing your body flush against him, before crashing your lips back to his.
He doesn’t kiss you back immediately, only lies slightly rigid beneath you with his hands hovering in the air, as though unsure where to put them. But an impatient nip from you breaks him from his stupor, and then he meets you move for move; a feverish dance of teeth and tongues and lips that sends your stomach somersaulting again and again until you’ve no idea which way is up.
His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and his palms smooth up the bare skin of your spine. Your fingers delve back into his hair, carding through the longer strands atop his head – thick and sable, and flexible despite the product that's brushed through it. You trace the jagged valley of his teeth with your tongue and press yourself deeper against him; revelling in how solid and warm he feels beneath you. The golden clasps on his waistcoat jab a little into your stomach through your top, but that’s easily remedied.
You trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses over his jaw, and his fingers dig into your back; nails scraping as he drags them back down your spine. Your noise of approval vibrates directly against his skin.
You make quick work of his tie without even looking, and toss the cream silk carelessly towards the coffee table, before going straight back in to attack his shirt. Your mouth is greedy with his neck, and you manage only a few buttons before you become entirely distracted by the sharp jut of his clavicle. Your fingers slip beneath the loosened fabric of his shirt, luxuriating in the surprising softness of his skin, despite the smattering of scars that disrupt the smoothness of his chest.
You can’t resist dipping your lips to the now freed junction of his neck, and tasting the deep groove above his collar bone. Your teeth graze his skin, and Silco exhales sharply enough that it’s inadvertently vocalised into something rough and needy and gods the sound of it threatens to be your undoing.
Already you’re devoted to his ruination, and nothing exists beyond the primal need to hear him whine again. But before you’re able to attempt to coax any more damning noises from him, his hands smooth over the swell of your ass and latch on; grinding your core purposefully down against his rock-hard length.
It feels much too good – and you’re powerless to fight the stutter of your lips, or the rapturous curse which spills from them onto his skin.
He takes full advantage of the distraction to grab the backs of your thighs and sit up. In the span of a blink, you once again find the sofa cushions springing beneath you in protest of your sudden weight, as you’re sent tumbling onto your back.
Silco rises to his full height between your knees, panting down at you with wild, flashing eyes. He looks delectably rumpled, with his open collar, dishevelled hair, and bruised lips.
“I think you’re under some misguided illusion here,” his voice is so gravelly that it almost hurts your throat just to listen, “so let me make one thing perfectly clear.”
He seizes your wrists and pins them firmly above your head, against the arm of the sofa. He lowers his body against you in a way that’s deliberate and evil; settling himself almost too perfectly between your legs and effectively trapping you beneath his weight.
“I’m in charge.”
The pure command in his voice would bowl you over if you weren’t already flat on your back, and the animal inside you is instantly cowed into willing, eager submission.
“Do we understand each other?”
The taunt makes you feel like a mouse with its tail caught beneath the indolent paw of a cat. It sends a tremble of pleasure rippling all the way through your tightly-wound body.
You can do nothing but pant and nod. But apparently, it isn’t good enough for Silco.
His mouth tightens slightly at the corners, and he presses his weight down harder – sinking your wrists a little deeper into the leather, and digging his hips sharply into your inner thighs.
“Words,” he instructs with a growl.
“Y-yes, yes,” you confirm breathlessly.
His lips loosen into a wicked smirk.
“Good girl,” he rewards you by circling the pads of his thumbs against the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrists in time with the single, deep roll of his hips, which drags his clothed cock right where you need it.
You inhale a shuddering gasp and attempt to chase his hips with your own, but his grip on you is so thorough that all you’re able to do is writhe slightly beneath him. The feeble movement sparks something lethal and insatiable in Silco’s scorching gaze.
He dips his mouth to yours, and you open readily for him when his tongue traces the seam of your lips. But he pulls back, and chuckles down at you; open-mouthed and yearning beneath him. He toys with you – hovering his lips tauntingly over yours and pulling away whenever you attempt to close the sliver of distance. You drop your head back against the sofa with an impatient huff, and his laughter rumbles straight from his chest into yours.
“So eager.”
You prove his point by responding instantly to the kiss he finally grants you; humming against his tongue as you accept all he’s willing to give. He detaches his mouth from yours and his nose brushes along your jaw until he’s murmuring into the soft skin beneath your ear, “If you’re patient, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Your eyes flutter closed and your head tips back; an open invitation for him to do whatever he damn well wants with you. He begins to work his way down your throat, agonisingly slowly. His grip on your wrists is harsh, bruising. But his mouth is painfully sensual; kissing and nipping and sucking and dragging little mewls and whimpers from you that you’re certain you’ll be embarrassed about later but right now have absolutely no way of helping.
You’re caught within a riot of soft and rough that spins your head until you’re dizzy. When it comes to the task of unravelling you, Silco applies his tried and tested work ethic. He’s meticulous, methodical, and calculated. Every minute movement is executed with the sole purpose of ratcheting up the fever in your veins, until you’re driven wild by its blistering heat.
You wrap your legs around his pelvis and lock your ankles; rolling up into him in your desperation to ease the maddening ache between your thighs. He inhales sharply through his teeth and chases the movement automatically with his hips. His breath huffs against your skin – torn partway between amusement and irritation.
“What did I just say about patience?”
“Don’t know. Wasn’t listening,” you tease breathlessly, “Too busy plotting the quickest way to get into your pants.”
His chuckle this time is rooted in amusement.
“The more you misbehave, the longer you’ll be waiting.”
“And what about if you misbehave?”
His teeth sink into your neck, and you make your most embarrassing noise yet. You feel his mouth twist into a lupine smile against your skin in response. His tongue curls over your pulse point, and you arch into him, whimpering as your fingers flex uselessly above your head. He transfers his grip on your wrists into one hand, and the other trails its way slowly down your arm to the front of your top.
He undoes the buttons on your shirt with sharp, one handed tugs as he drags his lips and teeth sinfully over your freshly exposed collar bones until you’re nothing more than a panting, desperate mess beneath him.
He loosens the last button and parts the material, leaving you entirely exposed beneath him.
Silco pulls back a little to gaze down at you, and your skin puckers with goosebumps in response to the cool air of the office, and the hungry, dilated eyes which devour you inch by inch.
His hand splays warm and large upon the plane of your stomach, and his eyes flick up to meet yours. His eyebrow arches slowly, and the corner of his lip curls upwards.
You huff a laugh, “Don’t pretend that you didn’t notice I wasn’t wearing a bra the second I walked into the room.”
“Don’t be cheeky,” he rebukes, tweaking a nipple between thumb and forefinger.
Your hips buck sharply up into his and you inhale a shuddering gasp. He seems much too pleased with your reaction.
So he does it again.
“Fuck, Silco,” you whimper breathily as your chest heaves beneath him.
His pupils blow even wider, and you feel the hardness of him twitch against your thigh. His hand smoothes over the assaulted breast and around the curve of your ribs, before he snakes his arm beneath your back, encouraging you to arch up into him. He dips his mouth, and soothes the hurt of his fingers with his tongue – sucking one pebbled peak into his mouth and drawing a long, low moan from you as your head tilts right back—
The office door slams open.
“Dad I need some money forwoahhomygod—”
Everything happens so fast. Silco detaches himself from you, and almost topples over backwards in his haste to sit up, before realising that your tits are very much out and that his arousal is very much on display, and flinging himself back down on top of you again.
“Jinx!” He snaps; teeth and eyes flashing angrily.
The teenager panics and slaps her hands over her eyes, stumbling straight into the door in her attempt to back out of the room. She removes one hand to act as a guide as she fumbles her way through the frame.
“I’m so so sorry, please carry on, pretend I was never here,” she babbles, slamming the door behind her. The sound of hysteric, mildly horrified giggles fade away down the corridor along with Jinx’s hurried footsteps.
Leaving the office dense and quiet, and filled only with the combined sounds of your heavy breaths.
Your cheeks burn red hot both with embarrassment and residual lust. The leather cushion rasps against your hair as you turn your head towards Silco.
His attention is still fixed on the door, and he looks absolutely furious.
You swallow, and speak his name cautiously.
His focus returns to you only for a second, before he’s up and off the sofa; collecting his abandoned necktie and the now extinguished cigar. He turns his back to you and walks over towards his desk.
“I have work to do.”
The cold dismissal in his tone is absolute, and the knots in your stomach that had been so pleasant mere moments ago now twist with an oily pain that radiates up into your chest.
He comes to a stop in front of his window, and stares silently out the green tinged glass to the streets below as he buttons his shirt and re-knots his tie. His shoulders are bunched enough that you don’t need to see his face to imagine the tension that lines it.
You fix your top as quick as you can, and leave without another word – abandoning your untouched drinks on the table behind you.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 12 - In which Sevika begrudgingly gives you some romantic advice.
THEY KITHED
I'm sure you can understand why this Chapter took so long to write. Not only is it monstrous in its length, but I wanted to get it right
I hope that I did this first kiss moment justice, and that all the sexy smooching was worth the wait my Darling Ratlings <3
A reminder to come follow me on Tumblr if you don't already. Because sometimes I procrastinate and make Vine Compilations to give myself a serotonin boost:
Drink With Me - As told by Vine Part 1
Drink With Me - As told by Vine Part 2Just a quick note to say that the next chapter will contain a mental health trigger warning at the top - so please keep an eye out for this if it might apply to you, and drop me a message on Tumblr if you have any concerns <3
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Dirty Little Animals - BONES UK
Chapter 12
Notes:
Trigger Warning: Depiction of severe mental breakdown (Jinx)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Taste what fell from grace
Wanna taste what fell from grace
Run away from the faith
Let’s race if you wanna taste
You wanna mess around
They gonna take you down down down
Wanna slide and turn
Such a lovely way to burn burn burn
“Focus.”
The single, sharp word is accompanied by the click of beefy fingers right in front of your face.
Your lashes flutter as you’re pulled abruptly from the muddied waters of your mind, and you drag your gaze away from the stairwell on the balcony. Jasper’s disapproval is evident in the tight line of his mouth.
“Sorry,” you mumble, before casting your eye around the half-empty club, “It’s quiet tonight, huh?”
“Doesn't mean you can slack off. If you’re bored I can find you jobs to do.”
“I’m good thanks,” you give him a saccharine smile as you pointedly return to your aimless reorganisation of the clean glasses. A bovine huff is all you receive in response, before he turns away to serve a customer.
You exhale too; more of a sigh than anything else. You’ve been sighing a lot since last night. Perhaps it’s your body's way of attempting to expel the clammy ache that made its home inside your chest the second Silco dismissed you from his office. His stoney words replay on a loop in your mind, and your stomach churns just as unpleasantly with each unwanted repeat.
You try to focus on the repetitive thump of the music instead; hoping that the bass-heavy vibrations might purge you of the undesirable sensations which linger in your body. Or at least distract you from them a little. You really wish it were busier tonight. The gaps between customers leave you with too much time to think.
The only good thing about the sparsely populated dance floor is that it allows you to spot your visitor in advance.
Big, blue eyes catch yours from across the club, and of all the shit-eating grins you’ve ever seen from Jinx, this one really takes the cake.
She saunters leisurely over to you; hands clasped behind her back and boots scuffing the floor with each over-egged step. She slides onto the bar stool, props her elbows on the counter, and blinks dreamily up at you from the cradle of her palms.
You scowl at her.
Her lips wobble with suppressed laughter, “Are you my new mummy?” She asks angelically.
The utter lack of remorse rubs you up the wrong way.
“No,” you respond bluntly, “Thanks to your interruption.”
Her smile falters, “Huh?”
The sliminess in your stomach hardens against your will, and the frustration and embarrassment you feel over the whole situation rears its ugly head. It creeps its way into your tone, and gains momentum with each bitten word.
“He freaked, Jinx. He got all moody and kicked me out as soon as you left. Now I have literally no idea where we stand.”
Now there’s remorse. It snatches away all her humour, and leaves her mouth opening and closing wordlessly while she gapes up at you with round, naive eyes. And now you feel bad for making her feel guilty and that just annoys you even more. The uncomfortable excess of hot, itchy energy in your chest expels itself in the form of an irritated growl.
“You’re not a kid anymore, you should know how to knock by now. Your timing literally couldn’t have been any worse.”
Her shoulders curl inwards, and when she finds her voice it sounds so much younger than her fourteen years, “I– I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
Objectively, you know it’s the truth. But you’re too emotional to censor yourself.
“Yeah, well,” you snap bitterly, “It’s ruined now. You fucked up your own magnificent plan.”
The words hit her like a physical blow.
And the girl you know vanishes between one blink and the next, leaving behind an unfamiliar child in her wake.
The heat of your anger is thoroughly doused by the eerie blankness which settles over her. She's almost entirely still, save for the intermittent tic which tugs at her mouth, and the erratic fluttering of her lashes, as though she’s being assaulted by images you’re unable to see. There’s a tempest brewing; and your skin prickles with ominous foreboding as you watch it spiral within the blue of her eyes.
“Jinx?” You venture carefully.
“I’m a Jinx,” she agrees almost inaudibly, with a tiny, absent nod.
Ice water trickles down the notches of your spine.
“Jasper,” you call urgently over your shoulder.
He turns, and the annoyed pinch of his brow smoothes with grave understanding the second he lays eyes on Jinx. It’s all the permission you need.
There’s no way you’re letting her out of your sight. Not even to round the bar. You hop straight up onto the counter and swing your legs over to drop down at her side.
You reach out cautiously, like you would with a skittish animal. She flinches when your skin makes initial contact with hers, but doesn’t react beyond that, and so you bundle her safely beneath your arm and head straight downstairs in the direction of her room.
She walks dutifully at your side, one foot in front of the other and eyes dead ahead as though in a trance. But you can feel the barometric pressure ratcheting up as the storm draws nearer. The winds are battering at the shutters of her mind, and each tic is a streak of lightning in the middle distance.
You pick up speed as her room comes into view, and kick the door shut behind you as you enter.
The second you have her seated on the edge of her bed, she loses the fight, and the heavens open.
Jinx’s tears are instant and manic. Her anguished sobs are what you’d expect of a very young child in severe distress, and the sound of it raises every hair on your body and twists your gut into hideous knots.
You crouch at her feet; putting yourself in her line of sight. The sheets below her twist as she wrings the material in her fists.
“Hey, hey now. It’s okay,” you soothe, squeezing her knees gently, “I know it was an accident. I know you didn’t mean to.”
Either she can’t or won’t hear you. She cries even harder, until her nose runs as freely as her tears, and her wails become shrill. An unfamiliar name tumbles from her mouth. Violet. And is followed by a torrent of slurred apologies and desperate pleas of innocence.
She’s completely lost, and you have absolutely no idea how to find her. All you know is that your heart breaks with every tear that falls.
“Please don’t cry,” you beg, even as your own vision blurs, “Please, Jinx—”
Her hands fly to her head, and you wince at how harshly they connect with her scalp, and at how deeply her nails dig between the blue strands.
“Shut up,” she shrieks. Somehow you know it isn’t aimed at you, and that just makes it so much worse, “Shut. Up.”
The heel of her palm strikes sharply against her temple, and you grab her hands when she moves to do it again. You wrestle them down, and she battles your grip as her sobs rise to a hysterical crescendo. Strings of saliva snap with each tormented howl and spatter her chin, and her nails dig ruby crescents into your skin. But you refuse to let go. You’d much rather she hurt you than herself. You’ll take the pain for her. You’d take more if you could.
Her lips pull back over her teeth, and her head cocks at an unnerving angle. You can almost see the phantom who lurks over her shoulder; whispering poisonous words in her ear.
“That’s not true,” a savage sort of anger begins to curl at the edges of her tear streaked face, “You’re lying.”
You can’t bear it any longer. So you do the only thing you can think of.
You forcibly evict whoever’s haunting her.
Without letting go of her hands, you climb onto the bed behind her and loop your arms over her head, so that you’re hugging her tightly against your front. You shift backwards and draw her with you, until you’re propped against the wall with your legs bracketing either side of hers.
And you murmur softly into her ear.
“It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong, and you have nothing to be sorry for. Everything’s going to be alright.”
As instantly as they arrived, her tears morph into something new. They’re no longer frenzied – only woeful.
She leans back into you. And simply cries.
And you let her.
You hold her for an age. While her body retches out each mournful sob. While her tears continue to flow endlessly over her reddened cheeks. While her throat becomes steadily hoarser. Every time her body trembles, or her breath catches in her throat, it only adds to your gut-wrenching guilt until you’re thoroughly twisted up with it.
You bury your nose into the crown of her head and rock her gently from side to side. The repetitive movement must soothe her, because after a short while the torrent of her tears slows to a trickle, and her chokes soften to hiccups.
The air becomes hushed. A suspended quiet that’s almost too peaceful to trust. You wonder whether the storm has passed, or whether you’re simply caught in the eye of it.
The eye, your mind offers darkly a moment later, in response to the distant click of footsteps that grow steadily louder with their approach. The achingly familiar gait makes your heart leap and fall all at once, and you find yourself unintentionally holding your breath. The sliver of light beneath the door darkens with the arrival of Silco’s boots, and his short knock is followed by a querying, “Jinx?”
You open your mouth to respond on her behalf, but your words turn to dust on your tongue. Regardless, after a few stretched moments filled only with muffled, weary sniffles, the handle turns and he enters.
The concerned knot between his brows untangles with surprise upon seeing you, but when his eyes drop to the bundle in your arms his expression transforms into one of such painful understanding that it breaks your heart all over again.
He strides straight over to the bed, and his intent is so clear that no words are needed.
You carefully extricate yourself as Silco moves to take your place; working together to ensure there’s never a moment in which someone isn’t holding her, in which there isn’t a protective barrier working to keep her demons at bay. You transfer her hands into his and perch off to the side, while he settles himself more fully and gathers her closer against his front.
Even as slim as Silco is, Jinx looks impossibly small in his arms. His hands swamp hers, and she’s almost entirely hidden from view by the long legs which bend up either side of her.
“I’m here. I’ve got you,” Silco murmurs in Jinx’s ear, before pressing a kiss to her temple and resting his cheek against her hair.
She turns herself in his arms with a small whimper that’s almost as tragic as her frantic weeping. There’s a deep-seated desperation in the way she nestles on her side and buries her face into his chest. As though the affection on offer now hasn’t always been available to her. Or as though she’s terrified it’ll be taken away if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.
You can’t help but notice how he clings to her in a similar fashion.
You feel you’re intruding, so you brush Jinx’s arm in gentle farewell as you rise to leave, but she objects with a sharp noise of distress, and she begins to struggle in Silco’s arms.
“No. Don’t leave me, please. Don’t leave.”
You sit back down immediately, “I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”
You hush her garbled words and move closer.
She manages to disentangle one of her hands from Silco's and reaches blindly in your direction. You offer your own hand and she latches on, tucking your knuckles against her chest like a treasure.
It seems to settle her, and she quietens down again.
You remain kneeling at Silco’s side. It’s an awkward position, made worse by the palpable tension between you. You dare a peek at his face, and find his attention fixed on the tiny bloodied moons which adorn your hands; the skin having split beneath the pressure of Jinx’s nails.
His eyes meet yours.
Your mouth twists briefly to the side, and you give a tiny offhand shrug, as if to say No big deal.
His chest sinks in time with his lengthy exhale, and you try not to read too deeply into the way he averts his gaze before opening out his free arm in invitation.
You accept readily regardless – shifting yourself to settle comfortably on the bed, tucked against his side. And perhaps it’s easier for him now that he can’t see your face, because his arm wraps around you and draws you closer.
You lay your head on his collar and squeeze Jinx’s fingers a little tighter.
And there the three of you remain. In relative peace, and absolute quiet.
You must have dozed off.
Because your eyes flutter open with the groggy disorientation that accompanies such unexpected naps.
You’re greeted by a soft cerulean sea, whose waves smell faintly of sweet soaps and cherries. After a few seconds more, you discern that your nose is simply buried into the top of Jinx's head, and that the two of you are sharing the same pillow; one of black, gold and plum, which rises and falls steadily beneath your cheeks.
You allow yourself a moment to be selfish. To close your eyes again and allow yourself to be enveloped within the solace he provides. His body heat soothes the ache in your chest like a warm compress. The ache he’d put there to begin with. You don’t fail to see the irony; how Silco is all at once your ailment and cure.
And with him so near, and with his thumb swiping absently where his hand rests upon your arm, your mind touches on the memories you’ve been too fraught to indulge in until now.
The first rapturous press of his lips, and each ardent kiss that had followed. The way there had been moments where you’re certain his hands had been the only thing keeping you from floating away. How your body had sung to the tune of his touch, and danced beneath the light of his gaze.
The movement of his thumb stills, and his question rumbles against your cheek, despite how quiet it is.
“Are you awake?”
“No.”
The short exhale feels more reflexive than borne from any true humour. Indeed, when you pull back enough to peer up at him he looks grave and tired. The lines on his face seem more pronounced, and the hollow beneath his good eye is smudged a sleepless purple. He doesn’t remove his gaze from the top of Jinx’s head.
“This has happened before,” you observe.
Silco dips his chin in confirmation.
You empty your lungs softly through your nose, “It was my fault,” you whisper, “I was harsh with her about the other night… and she reacted badly.”
You ready yourself for anger that never comes. He only hums quietly, and presses an absent kiss to her hair.
“You couldn’t have known.”
You blink, and search his face. But truly find him harbouring no blame towards you. There’s only weariness. Even the fire of his left eye seems banked to dim embers. You hate it. You hate seeing him like this. You hate it as much as you hate whatever stilted energy has formed between you in the past day.
You breathe his name, and the sound of it acts as an invisible finger upon his chin; turning him to finally face you. Your mind recalls the memory of the last time he was this close, and has your stomach fluttering both with nerves and longing.
You swallow, and draw breath to speak again, but he shakes his head.
“Not now.”
The words aren’t sharp. It’s a simple statement, and one you can respect, despite how it adds to the weight on your chest. He needs to focus on his daughter right now. You nod your understanding.
“Will she be okay? If I’m gone when she wakes?”
He dips his chin again, “I’ll be here.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
A beat passes, and you’re able to take a little bit of comfort from the fact that the reluctance to part ways seems mutual. And then you’re carefully disentangling your hand from Jinx’s, and slipping from beneath Silco’s arm to rise from the bed.
He readjusts his hold around Jinx now that he has two arms free to do so; and she shifts in her sleep to nestle deeper against his chest. Despite all that’s happened, your heart swells with golden warmth at the sight.
“Are you comfortable?” You ask Silco quietly, “Do you want a pillow or anything?”
He shakes his head, then pauses, “A blanket perhaps. And could you remove her boots if you’re able?”
Your lips twitch into a small smile, and you tread carefully to the cupboard which you’d seen Jinx rummage through the first night you’d stayed over. You locate a knitted throw, and tuck it beneath your arm as you return to the bed and kneel to carefully remove Jinx’s boots. She makes a small sleepy noise, but doesn’t appear to wake as you successfully free her mismatched socks. You place her shoes on the floor, and pause as your eyes catch on the pointed metal toes still propped on the bed.
“Want yours off too?” You ask carefully.
Silco takes just a split second too long to shake his head, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t be proud,” you berate quietly. His mouth tightens a fraction, but he doesn’t fight when you reach for his boots. It takes you a second to figure out the buckles which keep them fitted snugly to his calves, but then you’re loosening the leather and sliding them carefully from his feet to be placed beside Jinx’s.
You unfurl the blanket as you stand, and drape it carefully over the pair of them. You kneel back on the bed briefly and grab a pillow, before tapping Silco’s shoulder in silent instruction.
“I said I didn’t need a pillow.”
“You say a lot of shit.”
His eyes roll briefly to the ceiling, but he dutifully leans forward, allowing you to arrange it behind him to give his head and shoulders a reprieve from the unforgiving concrete at his back.
He reclines once more, and you can see the relief flicker momentarily across his face. Your lips quirk – such a stubborn bastard at times. His eyes meet yours, and you realise you’ve been lingering close enough to smell the smoke on his breath.
“Sure you don’t need anything else?”
“I’m certain.”
Your gaze drops to his lips, and your mouth forms the first letter of your question, Will I see you on Friday? But your tongue never follows through.
You sigh and avert your attention to Jinx instead; brushing her fringe tenderly from her face and planting a quick kiss to her brow.
She stirs and mumbles something.
“What’s that chickie?” You ask softly.
“Doesn’t dad get one too?” She repeats, cracking open a single eye to peer at you through her lashes. You can see the last trickles of rainwater there in the blue; washing away the debris of the storm and leaving only damp freshness and crisp petrichor in its wake. There’s no mistaking the utter, bone-deep exhaustion, but there’s also no mistaking the mischievous flicker of the girl you’ve come to care so deeply for.
You huff a soft laugh, and meet Silco’s gaze again. Jinx’s shameless audacity tugs at the corner of his mouth. And it’s where you choose to press a sweet, chaste kiss – to catch the very edge of that smallest of smiles.
His eyes follow as you withdraw, and his lips return to their usual downward tilt.
“Happy?” You ask Jinx.
You receive a tiny hum in confirmation.
“I’ll come visit tomorrow, ‘kay?”
“M’kay.”
You brush your knuckles down her cheek and straighten.
Silco’s breath hitches as though he’s about to say something, and you pause. But his exhale is wordless, and his eyes slide away from you. The gnawing discomfort in your gut twinges with each step you take towards the door.
You pause again on the threshold, just long enough to memorise the image of the two of them tucked together beneath the blanket, before you turn silently and head home, alone.
You reach for the tequila.
There’s no need for your magic intuition on this one. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Sevika needs a drink. Badly.
You slide the glass towards her as she settles at the bar. To your surprise, she reaches not for the alcohol, but for your arm instead; stilling your retreat with an unexpected gentleness.
“Can you do me a favour?” She requests earnestly.
“Um… sure?”
Sevika leans forward as though to share a secret, and you automatically do the same – meeting her halfway over the counter.
“Please, for the love of all things holy,” her grip tightens to the point of pain, and her face twists into a scowl fearsome enough to rival the man upstairs, “can you just fuck the guy already?”
Your nostrils flare with indignation, and you try to rip your arm from her grip. But you’re about as successful as a flea fighting an elephant, so you’re forced to settle for your most venomous glare instead.
“As always, your tact is on point, Sevika.”
“I don’t know what you did or didn’t do during your latest little trip to his office,” she growls, “but he’s been a world-class asshole ever since, and it’s making my life hell.”
You stand your ground; staring obstinately back into her stormy grey gaze. The blue iridescent scars which web the side of her face seem to pulse slightly – just like the markings on the HexGate tower.
“What. Happened?” She grits out.
“I thought you didn’t give a shit,” you snap.
“As long as it doesn’t affect me,” she repeats slowly, like you’re some kind of halfwit, “but seeing as though you’re a pair of dumbasses, looks like I’ve gotta step in if I ever want to know peace again.”
She waits mulishly for an explanation while you grind your molars together. But when it’s clear she isn’t backing down, you sigh, short and sharp through your nose. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that Jasper is out of earshot, “Jinx interrupted while Silco was— uh, while we were warming up,” you offer instead when Sevika cringes, “we never made it to the main event.”
Your explanation only seems to piss her off even more, “So I’m suffering because he has blue balls?”
You grimace, “I mean… kinda?”
“Get upstairs and fix it, now.”
You bark an indignant, humourless laugh, “Do I look like a hooker to you? Besides, it’s more complicated than that… after Jinx left he got all weird and made me leave. And he’s still acting funny and I don’t know why.”
“What do you mean you don’t know why?” She spits disdainfully, finally releasing your arm in order to down her drink, before rapping the counter in request of a refill, “His teenage daughter walks in on him doing— whatever the hell you two were doing. Of course he’s gonna be weird about it.”
To an extent, yes. But something in your gut tells you it isn’t quite as simple as that. Sevika must see it on your face while you pour another two fingers of tequila, because her expression darkens.
“What else happened,” she growls.
“I told you what happened,” you punctuate your sharp statement by thumping the bottle back onto the bar.
She observes you from beneath thick, dark brows, and her mouth twists as though dealing with an unpleasant taste. Clearly she’s warring some internal battle. Loses too – if her extremely grudging mumble is anything to go by, “Walk me through it. But spare me the gore.”
Your bafflement renders you speechless for a few seconds, until her mouth tightens with impatience and your brain kicks back into gear.
“Okay,” you begin cautiously, “um, well… I went up with the bottle like you said, and he invited me in for a drink. We talked for a little while and smoked a cigar together, and then I guess things got a little… suggestive. He was being very, uh, provocative. So I teased him back and goaded him into kissing me—”
“You fucking idiot.”
She’s glaring at you as though you’ve just said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.
“What?"
“Don’t you know Silco at all?”
Your heckles rise immediately, but she continues before you can argue.
“You’re both idiots. But you take the crown on this one, princess. What else you do? Jump him and pin him down?”
The last part is clearly meant derisively, but when you fail to respond she gives you the filthiest look you’ve ever received, before digging her fingers into her screwed eyes as though searching for the willpower to deal with you.
“Dumbass,” she whispers emphatically.
You yank her tequila away from her when she reaches for it.
“Can you stop insulting me for two seconds and actually help?”
“I should let you figure it out on your own.”
“Think of it this way,” you reason, holding her glass up like a bargaining chip, “The quicker you help me out, the quicker I can help Silco out. And then everyone’s happy. Capeesh?”
Her nose rumples at your choice of words, but she snatches the glass you offer and downs it in one.
“Fine. Silco 101. He needs to be in control at all times,” she says bluntly.
“He seemed to be enjoying himself just fine in the moment.”
“Sure, he’s still a man ain’t he? But now that his blood’s back in his head again he’s gonna be overly cautious of the fact you were able to get him to lose control in the first place. Sounds to me like he was setting things up for you to give in to him. Not the other way around.”
It makes sense. It makes such perfect sense that you’re annoyed for not figuring it out sooner. He’d even told you as much, hadn’t he? I’m in charge. You suck your teeth and nod slowly, “I may have gotten a little over excited.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
A pit of dread yawns open in your stomach, and your voice comes out much smaller than you’d like, “So that’s it? I’ve fucked it?”
Sevika clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, but her tone softens just a fraction, “No, you haven’t fucked it. He’s just spooked is all. Some damage control next time you see him’ll fix it. Lay yourself at his feet and he’ll forget about the rest.”
“Why are you telling me this?” You ask candidly, “I didn’t think you wanted us together.”
Her eyes narrow as she appraises you, and you internally kick yourself for speaking without thinking. You keep your expression neutral and hope she doesn’t question your thought process too deeply. Things are already bad enough right now without your accidental eavesdropping coming to light.
“I never said I was against it,” she answers finally, “What I am against is stupid, teenage behaviour from two grown adults. You’ve been skirting around each other for months. It’s unnecessary and distracting. You want him, he wants you, so get on with it.”
She slides her empty glass back across the counter as she rises to leave.
“And unless his mood improves soon, I’m dragging you up there by the ankle – hooker or not.”
“Tap needs changing.”
“On it,” you call over your shoulder to Jasper; already slipping out from behind the bar to head back of house.
Sevika’s visit earlier has replaced your dread with resolve, and you’re eager for a moment away from the noise of the club to hear yourself think. The music dampens as the door shuts behind you, and you lean back against the wood with a sigh of relief.
You’d promised Jinx last night that you’d visit her today. But perhaps after that you could head up to Silco’s office; charm him into letting you stay for a drink and then fawn over him like your life depends on it.
You push off the wood and head towards the taproom staircase, a little further down the corridor.
Maybe you should just show up at his door naked. It lacks finesse, but it would certainly get the point across.
You’re spared having to make a decision either way when the side entrance to the club bangs open ahead.
Silco looks even more intimidating than usual, thanks to the imposing cut of his coat and his clearly thunderous mood. You can practically see the storm clouds above his head. Anyone with any sense would turn and run in the other direction if faced with this version of the Eye of Zaun.
But you’ve never been particularly sensible. Especially not when it comes to him.
He stops so abruptly when he sees you that Sevika almost walks straight into his back, and his expression becomes painfully neutral.
His Right-Hand gives you a pointed look over his shoulder, and it’s beseeching enough that you’re certain she’ll forgive you for being so blatant in front of her.
You summon your best flirtatious smile, the one that sells so many drinks, and top it off with your tried and true eye technique; the open drag of your gaze up and down his body, lingering for two-seconds on his lips, before finishing with coy eye-contact through your lashes.
It works a treat.
You smirk to yourself as you descend the taproom stairs and hear him follow a few moments later after a muttered word to Sevika.
The arched cellar is dim, dusty, and filled with shelved rows of bottles and battered metal casks. You set straight to work swapping over the beer kegs for Jasper, and try to calm the anticipatory quickening of your pulse when the click of Silco’s boots enter the room behind you, and the door shuts with a pointed snick.
“How’s Jinx feeling?” You ask as you work.
“Better. Tired. She’s spent the day in bed.”
“I’ll go visit later. I owe her a proper apology,” you lock the coupler into place over the fresh keg.
He merely hums in response.
“And how are you feeling?”
No answer. You brush your hands off on your trousers as you straighten and turn. He’s barely two steps into the room, standing with his back to the closed door. His hands are clasped casually behind him, and he still wears the practiced mask of indifference he’d donned upstairs.
You tilt your head playfully, “You seem a little irritated.”
Once again there’s no answer, but his corrupted eye seems to flash in response to the tone of your voice. He watches you like a hawk as you begin to stalk your way slowly over to him and if you swish your hips a little gratuitously... that’s no-one’s business but your own.
“Rumour has it you’ve been a little grumpy for a few days now. I wonder why that might be?”
A single eyebrow twitches briefly upwards, “Rumour?”
You smirk. It’s subtle, but you can tell you’re cracking through.
“Mhm,” you hum in confirmation as you arrive in front of him, “Is it true?”
“I might be feeling a little more… stressed than usual."
You tut in displeasure and pout, “We can’t have that,” you croon, stepping into his space and walking your fingers up the lapels of his coat. The cold from the outside clings to the material; a crisp contrast to the delicious warmth of his body heat.
“I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do to help relieve the tension?”
The very corner of his mouth creases upwards, even as he looks haughtily down his nose at you, “What did you have in mind?”
You hum in thought as you smooth your hands reverently back down his chest, before slipping your arms around his waist beneath his coat and pressing your body flush against him. His hands remain clasped behind his back, but you don’t mind – it’s all part of the game.
You tilt your face and press a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his jaw.
Lay yourself at his feet.
Your hands trail down his sides as you lower yourself to your knees.
And there it is. The wicked glint in his eyes, and the dangerous curl of his lips that lets you know you’re on the right track.
“I could…” you draw the word out as though pondering, “help out with some admin?”
“I do have a lot of paperwork,” he concedes. “However, I’m rather particular about it.”
“Mm, something else then,” your palms follow the crimson seam up his thighs. “How about I cook you a nice dinner?”
His chuckle rolls pleasantly down your spine, “I don’t like to make presumptions, sweetheart, but I have a feeling your skill for mixing drinks doesn’t necessarily transfer to the kitchen.”
You huff in mock indignation as you snap open a single button on his trousers; already beginning to strain at the front.
“I’ll have you know I make a mean slice of toast.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” he responds smoothly, “But I’d like to hear your other suggestions before making a final decision.”
You smirk up at him, and your fingers dance over to undo a second button, “I could give you a massage?”
He hums in consideration, “Go on.”
“A nice foot rub perhaps?” A third button. “Or maybe I could focus on your back and shoulders, seeing as you spend so much time hunched over that desk of yours...” The final button. “Or, if you wanted something a little different, there’s always your head.”
“A head massage sounds nice.”
You pull your lower lip between your teeth and reach behind him for one of his hands. You guide it to your own head and encourage him to tangle his fingers in your hair.
“You’ll have to show me how you like it, so I can get it just right.”
Even from down here it’s impossible to miss the dilation of his pupils.
You hook your fingers over the top of his trousers and pull them down enough to free those beautiful inky roses. You press your lips to them, one by one, and run your tongue over their velvet petals. Silco shivers beneath you, and his fingers flex in your hair. His free hand captures you; tilting your face up to look at him with a gentle pressure beneath your chin.
The soft brush of his thumb along your jaw is completely at odds with the sharp glint in his gaze; cast arrogantly down the length of his face.
“You look so very pretty – down on your knees for me.”
Your laugh is low and husky, “You know what they say about flattery, Silco, sweetie.”
“It will get you everywhere?”
“Precisely."
One more tug downwards on his trousers is all you need to free him. Your mouth goes a little dry.
Despite what you’ve already gleaned through his clothing, he’s bigger than you anticipated. Long, just like the rest of him, and possibly the one part of his anatomy you wouldn't describe as skinny. The thought must be evident on your face, because his low laughter rumbles down to greet you. One look up confirms it – he’s completely and utterly smug.
Well, credit where credit is due.
“No wonder they call you King of the Lanes.”
His gaze flares with a heat that matches the intensity of the fire already raging beneath your skin, and his smirk widens to a lupine grin – complete with a flash of sharp teeth.
You ghost over the head of his cock, exhaling lightly as you do, and he twitches in response, bumping up against your lips. Now you finally know how low his tattoos truly go – almost the way to his hip flexors. You skim your mouth, featherlight down the side of his length, and press a kiss to the bottom of one of those stems.
“Don’t tease, sweetheart.”
You peer up through your lashes. Silco looks calm and collected for the most part, but there’s that dark wildness curling at the edges of his features. And you’re already entirely addicted to it. Addicted to him.
You don’t break his gaze as you slide your hands to his hips, brushing your thumbs over his tattoos in time with the long stripe you lick on the underside of his shaft, all the way from base to tip with the flat of your tongue.
Silco’s lips part, just as yours wrap around the head of his cock, and you flick your tongue playfully against the very tip.
He hisses through his teeth and his composure cracks with a yearning twist of his brow. His fingers tighten perfectly painfully in your hair, and his growl is ragged, “I said, don’t tease.”
You smirk around the flushed tip in your mouth, wide and slow enough to draw another wordless growl from him, before you finally put him out of his misery. You bob your head forwards in one fluid motion, and take him as far as you’re able to.
The noise he makes has your core clenching; a low, ardent moan that’s tinged with relief. Similar to lowering yourself into a hot bath at the end of a long, hard day. You hum your enthusiastic approval and he groans again at the vibration. His right eye flutters closed, but you’re able to track the journey it takes via the backwards roll of his orange iris.
It makes you even more determined to please him. To make him feel good. He deserves it. He works so damn hard.
With shallow, incremental bobs, you ease him deeper. The fingers of his free hand skim to the hinge of your jaw; as though wishing to feel for himself just how much you’re having to work to accommodate him. You focus on your breathing, on loosening your throat with each forward movement, until you’re able to go for gold. Your lips press flush against the very base, and you swallow around him.
Silco utters a sharp curse, and both hands fist tightly in your hair, keeping you exactly where you are for a moment longer, before allowing you to pull back to take a breath.
He husks a laugh, “So your smart-ass mouth does have another use after all.”
You scowl as much as you’re able and reprimand him with a sharp swat across his thigh. But there’s no true annoyance behind the gesture, and even if there was, it would be dispelled by the almost affectionate way his finger tips massage into your scalp, and the teasing crease to his lips.
Besides – a punishing, lascivious hum from you wipes the smirk straight off his face.
You allow him no time to recover from the reverberations. You wrap your hand around the base and begin to work your mouth and tongue over him in a steady, indulgent rhythm. There’s no way of knowing whether you’re keeping time with his heavy breaths, or if it’s the other way around. All you know is that he’s delectably hot and heavy in your mouth, and that each intermittent sound you manage to wring from him is even better than the last. Each one becoming a little rougher, a little deeper, a little more undone.
He grabs the wrist of the hand you have wrapped around him.
“You don't need this,” Silco insists, voice low and gravelled. “You’ve already proven just how well you can take me, sweetheart.”
The dark, hungry glint in his eyes and the way his fingers tighten in your hair conveys his request clear enough. You purse your lips coyly around his twitching cock, and raise a questioning eyebrow as you hold up both hands.
He lets out a low chuckle, “Wherever you wish,” he permits.
His ass may be small, but that makes it the perfect handful.
He huffs a laugh, and brushes his knuckles against your cheek in approval, “Good girl,” he praises, fingers winding their way back into your hair.
And then he snaps his hips forwards.
You weren’t quite ready for the blunt hit at the back of your throat.
You gag against the sudden intrusion, but it’s followed swiftly by a needy whine that you simply can’t help.
You relax your throat and jaw, and allow Silco to fuck into your mouth as he sees fit. Harsh enough to send tears streaming down your face, but never more than you’re able to handle. His fingers dig into your scalp just as hard as yours dig into him, and the wet noises which fill the little taproom are fantastically filthy. Each husky grunt above you echos off the bricks and embeds itself into your memory until your mind is filled only with him.
“You don’t–huh–know how m-many times I’ve wanted–ngh– to– to shut you up like this.”
The flow of his words is interrupted by his thrusts and the heavy breaths and broken grunts which accompany them. But they affect you just as thoroughly as if he’d spoken them with his usual smooth aplomb. Your thighs press together, and your needy moan is muffled by the weight of him sliding in and out of your throat.
You gaze up at him and try to communicate just what he does to you. How crazy he makes you. How much you’re enjoying this. How much you’d worship him if he’d let you.
There’s an untamed zeal in his eyes that goes straight to your head like a shot of vodka, and his lips curl back over his teeth as his rhythm becomes erratic. His navel tightens, and a few strands of hair slip forward, dark and disheveled against his brow. You smooth your hands up beneath his shirt, pressing against the sweat damp skin of his lower back.
He accepts your silent invitation, and you swallow around him as he buries himself to the hilt.
The flex of your throat sends his head snapping backwards, and he barks out in pleasure as he spills himself inside you; smooth and rich as his expensive whiskey. You massage him through his orgasm, timing the movement of your tongue with each rhythmic throb that presses against it, until he’s panting and loosening his iron grip on your head.
You work yourself back up the length of him, before wiping your mouth and tears clean on your sleeve. You feel the weight of his gaze on you as you tuck him carefully back inside his trousers, refasten the buttons, and leave your hands resting on his hips as you stand to face him.
His green eye is apple-crisp and half-lidded, and his left swirls and eddies like liquid fire. His chest rises and falls heavily still, and if you didn’t know any better you might think it awe that slackens his features ever so slightly.
Your voice is hoarse as you ask, “Still stressed?”
“Remarkably, no.”
“Good,” you gnaw your swollen lip, and squeeze his hips.
He scans your face in silence, but amusement creases his features when he looks at your hair. He begins to brush his fingers through it; no doubt smoothing his handiwork back down to a more work–appropriate style.
You chuckle, and allow him you do so. Quietly relishing in the softer touch.
You wish you could linger a little longer, but Jasper will already no doubt be wondering where you are. Once Silco’s finished fixing your hair, you give him a small smile, “Glad I could help,” you whisper, slipping past him to reach for the door handle.
His fingers shoot out and clamp around your wrist, and he spins and slams you back against the door in one, devastating move, “I don’t remember dismissing you.”
His eyes pin you to the wood just as thoroughly as his body does, and snatches the breath clean from your lungs. Your swollen lips part wordlessly, and the predatorial cock of his head is at odds with his trite little smile.
“You once called me a gentleman. I intend to live up to such high praise.”
His hand slips easily down the front of your trousers, and your startled inhale is punctuated by the twist of your fingers into his coat.
“They’ll be expecting me back—”
“I shouldn’t worry, darling,” he purrs. “This won’t take long.”
Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit.
“Goodness,” he hums, “Appears you enjoyed that just as much as I did.”
Your head tips back against the door and you let out a long, breathy whine. Silco takes full advantage of what’s on offer. His tongue drags over your exposed throat, before his teeth sink into your skin and he sucks in time with the torturous swirl of his fingers.
You wind your arms around his neck, one hand burying itself in the short hairs at the back of his head and the other clutching at the shoulder of his coat.
“Now who’s the tease,” you pant.
He detaches himself from your neck and regards you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously bored as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curls upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.
“Greedy girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.
An irritated call of your name sounds from the top of the stairs.
You break the kiss and peer wide-eyed up at Silco. He looks entirely nonplussed. If anything, there’s an amused edge in his eye which you know means trouble.
“Yeah?”
“It don’t take fifteen minutes to change a keg,” Jasper snaps, “What're you doing down there?”
Silco raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, and you glare back at him in warning.
“Um, there’s a problem with the tubing. I’m just fixing it.”
“There’s no problem. Tap’s running just fine. Only problem is I’m missin’ someone to serve the damn beer that’s coming outta it.”
“Oh, okay, that’s g-good to know,” you stutter as Silco pumps his finger slowly, “Great, so, I’ll be up in ahuh minute.”
“You’ll get your ass up here now.”
“Mhm, yeah, you go on ahead I’ll foll-s-shit—”
You bite down on your tongue to cut short your uttered curse as Silco presses the pad of his finger into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the door – your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his finger is doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on getting rid of Jasper.
“What’s goin' on in there?” Jasper’s voice now holds a hint of suspicion, and his boots resume their way down the stairs.
Silco’s jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks up to the door in irritation; clearly having lost interest and patience in this little game. He answers on your behalf, smooth and deadly, “She’s busy. She’ll be with you shortly.”
Jasper's steps halt abruptly half way down, and there’s a heavy silence from the other side of the door, before a slightly stunned, “'Course, Boss… er, take yer time.”
His footsteps retreat a lot quicker than they came.
Silco's lips draw into a wide, dastardly smile as he returns his focus to you, “Hear that? I can take my time.”
He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.
Your frustration materialises in a noise partway between a whine and a growl, and you press your brow against his – dishevelled hairs from the both of you becoming trapped between sweat and skin. There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the door thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited.
“Please,” you beg.
“Please what?”
Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot; an automatic and vain attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw electrifying patterns.
“Words, darling.”
Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes; all at once too much and not nearly enough. Once again you’re struck by the realisation that he’s eliciting all these sensations from you with only one hand. One, long-fingered, dexterous, adept hand.
Fuck. You’re drunk on him, and your lips loosen accordingly. He wants words? You’ll give him fucking words.
“I’ve had a th-thing for your hands from the very ha-start. The way you h-hold a cigar. The way you sw-swirl your drink. Even the way you flip a-uh fucking piece of p-paper. You-gods, you make everything look so f-fucking good. I’ve wanted you to t-touch me for so long.”
His self-satisfaction grows with each garbled word. He cocks his head, “I’m touching you now, aren’t I?”
“Silco,” you snarl, digging your nails sharply into him, “P-please, can you just fucking fuck me with your beautiful fucking fingers?”
His eyes blaze white hot, but his smirk remains cool, as his ring and middle finger tease their way into you.
“Such a filthy mouth,” he murmurs as you sigh your relief, “Though I suppose I’ve already learnt as much today, haven’t I, sweetheart?”
You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a deep, leisurely rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear; tugging on the lobe with a sharpness to contrast the toe curling work of his fingers.
“Clarify something for me,” Silco’s breath fans over your skin, and his free hand grabs your hip; encouraging you to grind yourself deeper and faster against his palm, “When you told me you made good use of those marks I gave you, what did you mean exactly?”
You huff a laugh, “You know exactly what I mean.”
His fingers still their movement, and he pulls back to blink mulishly down at you.
Your pained whine morphs into a frustrated groan, “You want to hear me say it?”
The shift of his fingers and the quirk of his mouth is answer enough.
“You want to hear how I pictured your face while I touched myself? That I imagined my fingers were yours? That the memory of your voice had me cumming all over my hand?”
You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising he’s at least half hard again and pressing into your hip.
“That’s precisely what I want to hear.”
He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before.
“And what about you?” You counter throatily, “You ever think about me while fucking your own fist?”
His chuckle is dark, and he leans forward and kisses you hard, “Once or twice, perhaps,” he murmurs playfully against your mouth.
You grin, and tug on his hair a little.
His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.
Silco pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—
The tension snaps. You arch against him and cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Silco guides you through each delicious swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. Clearly not content to let even a drop of your pleasure pass you by.
It isn’t until you’re whimpering and squirming against him from overstimulation that he finally removes his fingers from your still fluttering heat. He hums his approval and presses his palm flat against you as you come down from your high.
“Tell me,” he coos, right eye hooded, “Did my fingers live up to your expectations?”
“And then some,” you answer breathlessly. Your hands slide down to fist in his coat collar, and the smile you flash him is a little dopey in the wake of your climax, but still cheeky nonetheless, “I’ve got plenty more expectations, if you fancy living up to them too.”
His answer is in the wicked glint of his eyes. He pulls his hand from your trousers and sucks his fingers clean in a lewd display that makes your core throb all over again.
“Hypocrite.”
“How so?”
“You once told me I was rude for licking my fingers.”
He smirks, and braces the damp hand on the door next to your head, “Well, I suppose you’ve become a bad influence on me.”
Your bright laughter echoes off the bricks, but is interrupted when his other hand rises to caress your jaw. His thumb plays with your still swollen lips; dragging them slightly as they catch on the rough pad.
“Gorgeous,” he praises, sending a whole swarm of firelights fluttering behind your ribcage with one simple word.
He leans forward and replaces his thumb with his mouth. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you hum and kiss him a little deeper. The slide of your mouths contains a hunger that’s still not abated, and you force yourself to break the kiss before it’s too late. You really should head back up.
“I’ll see you on Friday?”
There’s a sensual promise in his reply, “I look forward to it.”
You duck your head and sidle back behind the bar.
But it’s in vain, of course. There was no way you were going to be able to slip back unnoticed.
Jasper steps wordlessly into your path; arms folded across his chest and jaw jutting in his disgruntlement.
His eyes dip to your neck. You can only imagine the state of it, given how hard Silco was sucking.
You watch Jasper's face contort as he whips through the five stages of grief: Denial; Anger; Bargaining; Depression; Before finally landing on acceptance (albeit depressed acceptance). He lets out the longest, deepest sigh you’ve ever heard in your life.
“That counts as your break,” he says brusquely.
Your lips quirk, “Worth it.”
He shakes his head in disgust and walks away.
But you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not as your gaze is drawn to the balcony in time to see the flourish of a black and gold coat, the triumphant glint of mismatched eyes, and the curl of a self-satisfied smile.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 13 - In which Silco remembers to lock the door.
I hope this update was worth the wait darling ratlings <3
Thank you for being so patient whilst life has been full on, and for your ongoing love and support. Every interaction makes my heart do a *woohoo* dance.
I posted another cheeky little Silco POV Drabble over on Tumblr - check it out here!
(If you come across a crack-fic about Heimerdinger on my Tumblr no you didn't look away)
Also check out my new Silco x Reader one-shot fic Marry Me (listed under my works)
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDaggerChapter Lyrics: Dirty Little Animals - BONES UK
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
SLIDE - shake your bones out if you wanna
RIDE - throw your head back make you feel
ALIVE - the kinda bad that make you feel good
GOD - the kind of wrong that make you feel
RIGHT - the little death that make you feel
ALIVE - the kinda shouldn’t that mean that you should
Dirty Little Animals
The oven-fresh warmth of the Sugar Bread permeates through the cardboard box in your hands, as does the sumptuous aroma of melted chocolate. The combination soothes your senses, and you hope it’ll also provide a comforting balm for the recipient of your peace offering.
You knock softly on the painted door, “Jinx? You home?”
An almost timid noise of confirmation sounds from the other side of the wood. You turn the handle and peek your head through the frame.
A blue head pokes out from beneath several layers of blankets on the bed, as does a pair of hands; brightening the gun-metal shell of a grenade with an acid green oil marker. She does look tired – paler than usual, with drawn features that don’t match her usual lively disposition. Her focus remains on her artwork, and the lack of eye-contact or greeting speaks volumes about how she’s feeling. The curl of her shoulders is telling of embarrassment, and the uncertainty in her eyes is clear, even if they aren’t raised in your direction.
“How you feeling?” You ask with an encouraging smile that goes unseen by the recipient.
The blankets shift with her shrug, “Tired I guess.”
“I bet. Your body is probably freaking out because you haven’t consumed your usual daily sugar intake,” you offer wisely as you make your way over, “Lucky for you, I come bearing gifts.”
Her eyes flick briefly to the container in your hands and then down again, “Thanks,” she mumbles, “but I’m not so hungry.”
You scoff and kick off your boots, “Who said it was all for you? Budge over,” you pull back the covers and slip into the bed beside her, propping yourself up on the small mountain of pillows. Jinx straightens too as she shifts to accommodate you, and she does finally look at you now – with an expression that’s painfully open and full of confusion.
“I schmoozed the vendor for extra chocolate sauce. I think he even threw in some chopped nuts for free—”
“Why are you being nice to me?”
It’s such a simple question, and the raw sincerity with which it’s asked has your heart squeezing inside your chest.
“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?”
“Because I ruined everything. Just like I always do,” her last sentence is mumbled back toward her lap.
Despite the layers of blankets, her hand is cool to the touch, “You didn’t ruin anything, I promise you that,” you punctuate your point with a reassuring squeeze of her fingers, “It was an accident, just like you said, and it was really shitty and unfair of me to take out my frustration on you. I’m sorry, Jinx. I really am. Can you forgive me?”
Her eyes are devastatingly round, “Forgive… you?”
You nod, “Mhm.”
Her head bobs slowly, jerkily, as though she still doesn’t quite understand what she’s agreeing to, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
You loop your arm around her narrow shoulders, and pull her into a crushing side-ways hug, and after a moment of hesitation she hugs you back; tight enough to make you glad you hadn’t eaten any of the Sugar Bread on your way over.
“I didn’t think you’d want to be my friend anymore,” her words are muffled by the collar of your shirt, “Not after you saw me all… weird.”
“You don’t quit on the people you care about just ‘cause things get weird or tough,” you give her a gentle, reassuring shake to emphasise your point, “And you’re one of the people I care most about in the world.”
“Really?”
“Really really.”
She breaks the hug in order to blink at you with entirely too much painful hope. You offer her the exact same words you’d once offered her father. A simple truth, spoken by a waters edge far above where you currently sit.
“I like you just the way you are.”
Like a flipped switch, her eyes become as dazzling as her smile, and it’s simply impossible for you not to reciprocate.
You flip open the lid of the box, and you’re extremely pleased when Jinx doesn’t hesitate to ditch her grenade and tuck right in. You watch her shovel a large piece of scrappy dough into her mouth, leaving behind a string of chocolate on her chin which she quickly hoovers up with her thumb.
But there’s still an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed, and you can tell by her furtive, side-long glances that she’s working very hard to hold her tongue. You can’t see anyway in which this conversation isn’t going to be at least somewhat awkward, so you decide to just dive in.
“So. Me and your dad—”
“I knew it! I’ve known it for ages. How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me? Have you made up yet? Does this mean you’re moving in? Are you going to be together now?”
You flinch at the shower of crumbs and sugar granules that she sprays with each garbled question.
“Okay wow, um,” you sort through her questions as you brush away the debris of their delivery from your shirt, “Not long, that was the first time we, uh, kissed. Which is also why I didn’t tell you – ‘cause you know, I was a little busy. Yes, we’ve made up. No, I’m not moving in. And I don’t know… we haven’t talked about it yet.”
“I thought you said you made up? Didn’t you talk about it then?”
There wasn’t much time for talking, your brain supplies. Somehow, you don’t think Jinx will appreciate the sentiment.
“Well, it’s still early days,” you answer carefully, “and it’s a big conversation to have. For now we’re just… spending time together.”
She rolls her eyes as though you’re being purposefully obtuse, “Like you haven’t been spending time together already.”
“But it’s different now,” you insist, floundering slightly on your point. You don’t really know what to tell her. Truth is, you have no idea what Silco wants from you, and you’re not about to get into the topic of commitment versus casual sex with a fourteen year old. Especially when her father’s involved. It’s easy to forget with Jinx sometimes, given the burdens she bears and the responsibilities she already carries as part of Silco’s empire, that she’s really just a kid. Still too young to fully understand all the variables that accompany romantic relationships. That it isn’t always as simple as one-plus-one.
“But if he asked you to be his girlfriend, you would, right?”
You’re overtly aware of the naive hope which shines in her eyes; further emphasising the innocence of her question. But Gods, you may as well be Jinx’s age too for the giddy flutter in your chest. You’re not in the habit of lying to her, and the involuntary twist of your lips has likely already given you away regardless.
“Sure,” you chuckle, “I’d be his girlfriend if he asked me.”
Jinx beams, “In that case, I have something for you.”
She almost upends the Sugar Bread box as she dives over your lap towards her rickety bedside cabinet. But you’re just about quick enough to save her blankets from a chocolatey fate, and you hold the container still as she rummages around one of the drawers. She pulls out a scrappy leather album which she opens across both your laps.
The first spread is a decorative title page, with alternating letters of pink and blue which read ‘My Family!’
She flicks through the pages, offering you glimpses of dozens and dozens of polaroids, stuck chaotically down with no apparent order. They’re mostly pictures of Silco, and he looks mildly vexed in nearly every single one. Likely because it appears Jinx’s favourite photographic subject seems to be the unwitting kind. Among various snaps of Silco squinting up from his desk at the bright flash of the camera, you also spot Sevika – with her face half blocked by a blurred metal hand. Jasper – behind the bar and scowling mid-blink. Max – offensively photogenic as he spins towards the lens in surprise. You even see Vill – staring vacantly into the middle distance at the bottom of the stairwell, clearly completely unaware he’s even having his photo taken.
Jinx finds what she’s looking for; pausing on a spread towards the middle of the album and pointing out a picture with one pink nail, “Here!”
And your throat constricts; fast and tight.
You’ve never seen the photo, though you remember it being taken the night you’d been tricked into dinner. It’s a little haphazard, given that Jinx was at once attempting to operate the camera while also being in the photo itself. But squashed close together, within the small square border, are three faces. Jinx in the middle, with her tongue stuck out. You on her right, also flashing the lens a lovely view of your taste buds. And Silco on her left, side-eyeing the both of you with thinly-veiled disapproval.
And we were kinda like a little family, right?
You truly thought Jinx had spoken those words in her workshop as an act of cunning – to cleverly exploit what she’d clearly guessed as one of your weaknesses. But it seems she’d truly meant it. You hold a place in her family album.
She sees you as her family.
And hadn’t you secretly imagined yourself to be part of their odd little family too that night? Just for a selfish moment. Seems you needn’t have pretended at all.
“You should have it,” Jinx insists, slipping her nail beneath the corner to peel it from the page.
“No,” you quickly still her hand with yours, “No… I like it better here. It belongs in this album.”
You remember the dream you’d shared with Silco – the hope that you’d one day find somewhere to belong unconditionally.
Perhaps the culmination of that wish is displayed too openly on your face, because Jinx requests no elaboration from you. Only offers a heartfelt, sunny smile which crinkles the corners of her eyes. You both drop your gaze back to the album at the same time.
Your attention slides to a photo of Silco spinning irately around from the full length mirror in his bedroom – tie unknotted around his collar and shirt only half buttoned.
“I’ll take this one though.”
The bourbon is whisked out of reach just as you make an over-enthusiastic grab for it.
Jasper holds the amber bottle high over-head, and the look he gives you makes you feel about sixteen years old. As does his tone.
“Be. Careful.”
“Yeah yeah,” you dismiss, making grabby hands at the whiskey.
“I mean it kiddo,” his voice is laden with a weight that refuses to be overlooked, “You’re playin’ with fire here. And I really don’t wanna see you get burned.”
You push your impatience to the side at the genuine concern which softens his hazel gaze, and you’re gripped instead by a surge of affection so strong that it drives your arms to band around his middle. Your head only reaches his sternum, tall as he is, and that’s where you squash your cheek and murmur, “I like that you care about me so much.”
A few moments of stunned silence are brought to a close by three dull thuds, as he awkwardly pats your back with enough inadvertent force to rattle your skeleton.
“You big Teddy Bear.”
“Alright, piss off with ya.”
Jasper's barely pressed the bottle into your hands before you’re darting off towards the stairs with a quick, parting grin. Your greeting to Vill is equally rushed as you pass him.
Two days worth of giddy anticipation and brain-melting impatience bolster your speedy trot up the stairwell.
It’s embarrassing; how excited you are to see him. How much you’ve been looking forward to it since your last encounter in the taproom. How often you’ve glanced up at the balcony in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him passing. How your lips have curled into a soft, secret smile for the last two nights thanks to the polaroid which now sits on your nightstand—
Something flickers in your heart – akin to the gauzy brush of a firelight wing. You quash it. Along with any other ill-advised feelings or expectations that may lead to hurt or disappointment.
You force yourself to slow into a casual saunter which sways your hips. It wouldn’t do to burst into his office like a dizzy teenager. The door swings open under your touch, and you breeze into the room with perhaps a touch too much arrogance.
It isn’t until you’re several steps over the threshold that you realise his office is empty.
You come to a standstill, your gaze switching between the vacant desk and the equally uninhabited sofa.
But your heart only has a second to sink, before it’s sent shooting skywards by the rustle of fabric at your back. You spin in time to see Silco emerge from the shadows beside the opened door. He closes it behind him, and the bolt on the lock slides into place with a flourish of fingers and a metallic scrape.
His eyes meet yours, and your breathing shallows in response to the predatory hunger which darkens them.
He moves towards you with a feline grace that radiates nothing short of pure power, and each measured step herds you steadily backwards. There’s no way to misinterpret the slow, purposeful way in which he rolls up his sleeves as he prowls.
It’s clear he intends on getting his hands dirty.
“I’m afraid I have been somewhat dishonest with you,” Silco’s voice is velveteen. Each syllable caresses up your spine and convenes as a warm buzz at the nape of your neck.
“Oh? How so?”
“The night we played truth or dare, you asked me what my first thought was when I saw you.”
You cock your head, “Are you saying you lied to me? Despite the rules being clearly stipulated in the title of the game?”
“I’ve never claimed to be an honest man.”
Your backside hits the edge of his desk, but Silco continues forwards.
“The very least you could do is to offer me the truth now? Don’t you think?”
He leaves only a splinter of space between your bodies, and you’re forced into a delicate backbend to accommodate the way he looms over you; leaning his weight forward and pressing his hands flat onto the desk. There’s no escaping the cage he’s created. But you’re more than eager to serve the entirety of your sentence.
“Very well,” his smokey answer fans across the skin of your upper lip, and he drags his gaze over your features in turn, “The very first thing I thought, when I saw you standing in my doorway, clutching my bottle of bourbon, and wearing those tight little trousers you’re so fond of – was how good you would look spread out on my desk.”
The languid cadence of that rich, beguiling voice fogs your mind until there are no thoughts in existence other than ones of him. Your chest brushes against his with each inhale, and the heady smell of him draws you ever deeper into his thrall.
“That so?”
His throaty hum of confirmation rumbles like approaching thunder, as he coaxes the bottle from your fingers; placing it off to the side of the desk which you only now come to realise is suspiciously clear of items.
“More specifically – without those trousers on. Or anything else for that matter.”
“What an impertinent thing to think,” you chastise, with a haughty little sniff, “Not only have you revealed yourself to be an unchivalrous swine, but it seems you’re also a liar, and I’m not sure I appreciate your dishonesty.”
He ghosts his lips along your jaw. It takes a conscious effort not to grab him by his damn vest and close the maddening distance.
“Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear as you murmur your saccharine suggestion, “You could get on your knees and beg?”
“That’s not something I’m in the habit of doing,” he presses a harsh kiss beneath the hinge of your jaw to drive home his point, and there’s a slight viciousness behind the bite of his words, “I don’t get on my knees for anyone."
Clearly you’ve hit a nerve, but you’ve always enjoyed toeing the line when it comes to Silco.
Even though he can’t see, you pout your lips a little, and it lends itself to the teasing lilt of your voice, “You wouldn’t make an exception? Not even for me?”
He nips punishingly at your jugular, but your sharp little inhale expels itself as a sigh when he curls his tongue over your skin to soothe away the hurt a moment later.
“I’ve made plenty of exceptions for you already,” his tone has returned to its smooth, feline purr, and he pulls back enough to look down his nose at you, “Now, be a good girl and hop up on the desk for me.”
Your lips curl into a smirk, but you do as you’re told, and your legs open automatically to allow him to step between them. His hands alight on your thighs, and his thumbs drag up the insides with the northward slide of his palms.
“I don’t know what to tell you Silco,” you lament, your fingernail idly tracing a line of golden piping on his waistcoat, “It doesn’t sound to me like you’re overly willing to atone for what you’ve done.”
“Oh, but I am. You misunderstand me, darling,” his hands find your hips and he drags you to the edge of the desk, so that your torso is flush with his. You can feel the hardening evidence of his desire pressing into your belly, “I fully intend to make amends. I’m merely informing you that I won’t be on my knees while doing so.”
Any retort is wiped clean from your mind by the flaming crush of Silco’s lips, and your appreciative hum echos that of the one you’d made the very first time his whiskey had touched your tongue. He kisses you deeply, intensely, agonisingly slowly, as though you’re a meal to be consumed in stages. And you too savour the tobacco taste of him, as you’re swept further out to sea by each rolling caress of his tongue, and each tidal surge of his mouth.
There’s no logic to the way in which he makes you feel both lost and found.
The hem of your shirt is deftly freed from your waistband, and his knuckles graze sensually up your sides as he peels the material away. Your mouths part long enough for the garment to be shucked and discarded over Silco’s shoulder, before his lips are on you again; meticulously devouring your neck.
Call it presumptuousness, but you hadn’t bothered with a bra today, and Silco wastes absolutely no time in palming the weight of your chest; greedily taking what had been purloined from him the last time you were in this position. The ridged callouses that embellish his hands catch against your skin in vivid contrast to the smooth slide of his mouth along your clavicle.
You arch yourself further into his touch and run your own hands up his chest, reaching for the knot of his tie—
“Ah-ah,” Silco chides, grabbing your wrists and forcing your hands back down onto the desk, “I want to touch you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be atoning for your bad behaviour?” You huff, “Doesn’t that mean I get what I want?”
His eyes flash with with promise, “You’ll get what you want,” he assures you.
“I had better. You should know that I have a list of demands. It’s rather long, you should probably grab a pen and write this down—”
Your words are cut off abruptly by the dig of Silco’s fingers into your jaw, gripping hard enough to emboss the pattern of your teeth to the inside of your cheeks.
“Am I going to have to gag you?”
Your skin tightens. Your core throbs. And your blood burns.
You sorely consider saying yes. Truthfully, you can’t get enough of the way he dominates you. It’s just that you like to make him work for it, and the best weapon in your arsenal is your tongue.
You pout, and coyly shake your head as much as his grip allows, “No, Sir.”
The scar on his lip shifts with his smirk, “Another time, then.”
You flash him a wicked grin as his hand trails down your throat to splay against your sternum. He applies a gentle but firm pressure which conveys his silent instruction clear enough. You lie back onto the desk. He takes a moment to wrench your boots from your feet, before following you down and dipping his mouth back to your chest.
It seems the gag isn’t needed anyway. You’re rendered speechless by the magic of his touch, and can do little else but mewl as he tastes his way slowly down your body; laving your nipples with the flat of his tongue, dragging his teeth against the groove of your ribcage, kissing across the plane of your navel. His journey can be tracked by the blooming marks he leaves upon your skin; a red and purple map of his conquest.
His mouth doesn’t stop as he unfastens your trousers, nor when he hooks his fingers over the waistband of them and your underwear. You lift your hips off the desk to aid him as he drags them down, and his lips only detach from you when he straightens in order to discard them fully, and to admire your now complete state of undress.
You spread your arms; lengthening and twisting your torso provocatively. Displaying yourself for inspection.
“As good as you imagined?”
Silco’s eyes are dark and depthless, only a thin ring of colour accounts for each iris as he all but devours the sight of you spread naked on his desk, “Even better.”
“Then perhaps you might consider ditching a few items yourself?” You purr, lifting your leg to graze your knee up the outside of his trousered thigh.
His fingers hook beneath your knee, stilling the movement with a cocky smirk, “There’s no need.”
He hitches your leg higher as he bends over at the waist—
“You know, Silco, sweetie,” your taunt has him pausing halfway down, “you’d have a much better angle if you just got over yourself and knelt for me.”
He straightens, looking down his nose with half-lidded superciliousness whilst he considers you for several pointed moments.
Wordlessly, he gathers both your ankles in one hand and casually stalks his way around the edge of the desk; lazily dragging your entire body to face the other direction as he goes, and paying no attention to your indignant squawk. He sits himself in his high backed chair, and with one sharp tug – yanks your ass right to the edge of the desk, before hooking your knees over his shoulders.
“You bastard.”
“Watch your tongue,” he scolds, before pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “Or I won’t use mine.”
Your breath leaves your body in a rush, and your hips cant automatically towards him. His eyes track the movement; dark, glittering, and visually consuming what’s laid bare in front of him.
The drag of his mouth is hot and wet and wicked, and your inner thighs are soon dappled with plum blooms to match those he’s already painted on your body. The heat that rages beneath your skin escalates to catastrophic temperatures the closer he gets to his inevitable destination. But each time you brace yourself for the caress of his mouth, he merely passes over you and returns to work on the opposite thigh.
Honestly, you deserve a damn medal for resisting the temptation to wrap your legs around his head and force him the rest of the way.
He ghosts over you again, and you swallow your whimper in favour of words, “I seem to recall someone complaining about the very same thing that you’re doing to me right now.”
His lips quirk upwards, and his thumbs draw idle circles on your thighs. He continues what he’s doing; speaking between kisses so that his words rumble against your skin, “Need I remind you that our time was limited before? My haste was entirely justified. Tonight, however, I have cleared my schedule especially for you, sweetheart. And Vill has strict instructions not to allow any disturbances.”
“What if the Undercity catches fire?”
“Then someone else can put it out for a change,” he hovers his mouth over your core, “You have my full and undivided attention,” he cocks his head, like a bird of prey, “Aren’t you lucky?”
His forearm bars over your hips, pinning them against the desk. Good job too, because the first sinful flick of his tongue has you bucking so violently that the muscles in his forearm flex with the strain of keeping you down.
You swear emphatically, and your head thuds back against the wood.
His amusement floats up to you in the form of a breathy chuckle that ghosts over your exposed heat and makes you quiver beneath his iron hold.
“I haven’t been able to rid the taste of you from my mind,” he murmurs, before sweeping a long, deep stripe up your centre with the flat of his tongue. Your desperate moan almost drowns out his next words, “Nor the way you felt around my fingers. It’s made focusing on my work somewhat of an impossibility of late.”
You’re about to tell him to shut up and get on with it, but the words dissolve to nothing in your mouth as he begins to massage you with slow, fervent undulations.
Silver-tongued indeed.
Your eyes roll backwards in your skull in time with the hands which smooth their way to your waist. Silco’s fingers snake beneath you to splay either side of your spine, pulling you a little deeper against his mouth with a low, lascivious hum.
The reverberations drag a throaty moan from you, and has you rolling your hips to compliment his toe-curling work.
“Not so witty now, are we?” He murmurs directly against your clit.
It’s with great effort that you gather your aforementioned wits and prop yourself up on your elbows, “D-hidn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s r-rude to talk with your mouth full?"
He pauses mid-lick, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.
You almost begin weeping on the spot as he pulls away entirely, and cushions his cheek on your inner thigh – peering up at you almost demurely.
“Nonono,” you plead, pathetically shifting your hips and whimpering in response to the cold air which hits your exposed core, “Fuck. Please, I’m sorry, please don’t stop. Please Silco.”
His mouth curves, wiping away any poor pretence of innocence, “You should beg more often. It suits you."
That comment has you clenching around nothing, and of course, his eagle-eyes notice immediately.
He chuckles, but it seems the Eye of Zaun is capable of mercy. You flop back onto the desk with a whine as his tongue delves greedily inside you, curling with perfect dexterity against your tightening walls.
It may not be the most conventionally attractive feature, but you’ve always thought that Silco’s distinctive nose fits him perfectly. Right now, as the bridge of it grinds against your clit, you think it might fit you even better. You file the cheeky comment away for later use – when the fate of your pleasure isn’t in the hands of a sadistic tease.
The sight of him between your legs, consuming you with unwavering assiduity, is possibly the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen and it’s driving you near mad.
Your hand flexes against the desk.
“Silco,” you pant from behind the cage of your teeth, “Puh-please can I touch your hn-hair?”
“How considerate of you to ask,” he purrs, sliding his middle and forefinger inside you to replace the retreat of his tongue, “You may.”
You don’t hesitate to delve into the styled hair atop his head, and the thick, dark strands spike between your fingers as you fist your hand; an automatic reaction to the lips which close around your clit and begin gently to suck.
Your thighs tremble upon his shoulders, the buckles and ridged-edging of his vest are coarse against your skin as you grind your hips deeper against him. But every sensation, both soft and rough, fast and slow, lends itself to the rapidly mounting pressure that winches every fibre of your body taut.
His fingers reach places his tongue simply can’t, and his tongue does things that even those dexterous fingers can’t hope to imitate.
And all of it is fucking magic.
Your spine bows violently off the desk, and his name flies from your mouth in a rapturous sob that echos all the way up to the rafters above you. The sheer force of your orgasm blacks out the edges of your vision, and your body is locked in place by the iron grip of pure pleasure. Silco laps at you like a man starved, keeping you cresting the glorious peak much longer than you could ever have thought possible.
When the swells finally lessen to waves, and the waves gradually soften into ripples, your body flops back onto the desk. Your chest heaves with each ragged pant that passes your lips, and it takes a few moments to gather your strength enough to lift your head.
You’re almost unravelled all over again by the look of pure evil on Silco’s face. His hair’s a dishevelled mess thanks to your rough treatment. His nose, mouth, and chin are all glistening with your release, and his lips are set in the smuggest smirk you’ve ever seen. He withdraws his fingers slowly, and you whimper at the loss.
His eyes flick down to the desk.
“You’ve made a mess,” he says haughtily. You don’t doubt it; you can feel how slick the wood is beneath your ass, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’ve never felt less remorseful in my life.”
Silco chuckles, and unhooks your legs from his shoulders; cradling them in the crooks of his arms instead.
“Are my sins forgiven?”
“I’d say so.”
“Good.”
With a few quick, seamless movements he flips you onto your front, your feet once again touch the floor, and you find yourself very much bent over the edge of his desk.
Silco stands, sending his chair wheeling backwards into the wall with a dull bump.
And there’s no mistaking the four staccato snaps behind you.
Nor the rustle of fabric which follows.
One large hand smoothes over the embarrassing tattoo on your ass, accompanied by a small roll of laughter.
Your jaw tightens and you glare over your shoulder at him.
“Just don’t look at it.”
His gaze flicks briefly to yours then back down again as he tuts – barely more than two contemplative clicks of his tongue. He kneads the flesh of your backside with both hands, spreading you slightly, “The art may be crude, but the canvas is exquisite. Truly.”
His boot catches the inside of your foot, kicking your stance a little wider.
You huff a laugh, “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
“I must be,” you inhale a shaky breath as he steps closer, and the length of him drags torturously through your arousal, “considering my current position.”
“Your position as a leader? Or your position behind me?”
“Why not both?”
The head of him catches at your entrance, and you tilt your pelvis with a needy little whine. But he grips either side of your hips to stop you from pushing back onto him. And then the warmth of his body surrounds you entirely, as he bends to press his front against your back. He kisses your ear, and murmurs, “What’s the magic word?”
“Fuck me Silco.”
“Close enough.”
And then he’s pushing slowly into you, inch by glorious inch; stretching and filling you in a way that’s entirely too perfect.
Your long, low moan harmonises with his, and you both only fall silent when his hips are pressed flush against your backside; relishing in a moment that’s been months in the making.
“You feel too good,” you whine, despite the sentiment being far from a complaint.
Silco’s nose grazes your cheek as he jerkily nods his agreement; seemingly all he can manage for the time being.
His fingers flex against your hips, and he finds his tongue again as he begins to move with slow, shallow thrusts.
“As good as you imagined? When you were shamelessly pleasuring yourself to thoughts of me?”
Your breathy chuckle fogs the surface of the desk beneath your cheek, “Thinking about you wasn’t even the most shameful part.”
You can see just enough of his face from the corner of your eye to track the inquisitive quirk of his brow, “Dare I ask what was?”
Your lips curl into a smirk, “That I was wearing your shirt while doing it.”
His breath rushes out of him in a low, gravelled huff of laughter, and yours rushes out of you with the single, harsh snap of his hips.
“You dirty girl,” even through the melodic inflection of his taunt, you can hear the carnal grit which colours his words.
His agonising withdrawal drags against your inner walls, until only the head of him remains buried – and then he slams back into you, hard.
Your fingernails catch against the grain of the wood with your strangled noise of desire. Silco presses his mouth against the shell of your ear, and his breath comes hot and wet, “You’re to wear that shirt next Friday for me. And it will be the only thing I allow you to keep on.”
“Is this you cashing in your IOU?”
“No,” his rough words are accompanied by pointed thrusts which gradually build in momentum and speed, “I’m saving that for something special. Neither is this a request. This is me telling you that you are going to wear that shirt, and that you will remain wearing it while I fuck you until you’re unable to walk, speak, or even think straight.”
Silco never swears. And so that single harsh syllable has you moaning and clenching around him, and he muffles his own grunt of pleasure by biting down into the flesh of your shoulder, which in turn has you inhaling a shuddering gasp and tilting your pelvis in a way that makes his cock twitch.
It’s a vicious cycle, really.
His palms smooth up your sides, and slide along the length of your arms until his hands cover yours, “Now, may I suggest that you save your breath, sweetheart,” he guides them up above your head, and his fingers pointedly curl yours over the edge of the desk, “and hold on tight.”
It’s all the warning you get before he rises to his full height, grabs your hips, and begins driving into you with a carnal ferocity that sends your eyes rolling right into the back of your head.
The edge of the desk rams into your hip bones, likely adding to the bruises that already cover you. But it’s a small price to pay for how unspeakably good he feels pistoning into you again and again and again.
The vulgar slap of skin-on-skin rings off the wooden slats that line the office walls, as do your enthusiastic, unabashed sounds of approval. You don’t care who might hear. Silco’s sure as hell earning this badge of pride.
He really does fuck like an animal.
You hang onto the desk for all you’re worth as the entire thing rattles beneath you. Each deep, serrated grunt from behind you embeds itself into your bones. Each burning touch brands itself upon your skin. Every second ruins you just a little more.
You can feel where his trousers are bunched around his thighs as he shifts himself; digging his fingers into you and altering his trajectory to hit at a spot inside you that has stars bursting in your vision.
It sneaks up on you.
Within the space of a few well angled thrusts you’re propelled into the throes of a second orgasm, and you cry out a garbled string of nonsense as every synapse in your body fires with all the intensity and devastation of an electrical storm.
You expect Silco to begin chasing his own pleasure, but to your surprise his thrusts slow right down alongside the ebb of your climax, until they’re as shallow and languid as they were at the start. He leans down again, pressing his body atop you, and both his breathing and voice are ragged.
“That’s twice now, isn’t it darling?”
You’re only able to offer an incoherent whine in response.
He plants a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on your neck, and murmurs, “Do you think we can make it three?”
Your pitiful whimper is supplemented by the feeble shake of your head, but discredited entirely by the responsive flutter of your walls. He clicks his tongue playfully, and tugs you a little closer; creating a small space between you and the desk in order to snake his hand between your legs, “Come now, don’t underestimate yourself.”
He locates your clit, and begins to sketch slow, torturous circles in time with the deep roll of his hips. He seems determined to drag himself against the farthest reaches inside you; pressing himself so deeply into each thrust that your toes threaten to leave the floor with the way his hips catch and push yours upwards. You’re held in place only by your own grip on the desk, and the hand that curls firmly around the back of your neck – pinning you down in a way that might be considered cruel if it weren’t for the almost affectionate swipe of his thumb through the fine, sweat damp hairs at your nape.
All of it toys the intense line between far too much and mind-blowingly perfect.
Whereas your previous orgasm had flung itself abruptly upon you, Silco drags this one from you slowly and meticulously. It builds and builds with every careful movement he inflicts, and when it breaks, it does so in one long, warm, swollen wave that’s sweeter than honey and spreads its way through every nerve inside your body like a stretching patch of sunlight.
You’re so blissfully out of it – lost within the swells of your own ecstasy – that you’re only half aware of the muttered praises he whispers in your ear. Snippets of, “There we go,” and “Good girl,” as he removes his hand from your core and grips your waist with dewy fingers.
And now he does finally begin to seek his own release; picking up the pace to something that’s not quite as savage as before, but still contains an edge of wild, unhinged desire.
He hits something inside you, and your body convulses with an aftershock that has you clenching around him with a short, sharp cry – and Silco’s hand slams down onto the desk beside your head with a choked-off growl in response. His fingers curl over the edge, and the wood groans with his white knuckled grip, as the pound of his hips becomes fevered and erratic.
His nails dig into your skin, and his ragged breaths dampen your shoulder. You reach up behind you, and tangle your fingers in the sweat-slick hair at the back of his skull.
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck, slams himself to the hilt, and groans his throaty, ragged release against your skin.
You feel every delicious twitch and throb of his cock as he spills himself inside you, and you hum your approval, tightening yourself as much as you’re able to in your fucked out state to help elongate his pleasure.
He slumps on top of you. The clasps of his waistcoat pinch into your back, but the sensation is entirely secondary to the undeniable comfort his weight provides. It grounds you. He grounds you.
Whether consciously or not, your heavy panting falls in sync with his, and you happily lay beneath him; basking in the warmth of his body, and in the glow of your satisfaction and contentment.
You slide your hand to his jaw, and the pads of your fingers caress idle, comforting shapes into the soft skin behind his ear.
“I don’t know about you,” you pant out, eventually, “But I could use a drink.”
It’s almost as though nothing has changed between you.
And surprisingly, that’s the best bit about it.
Silco is attentive to your comfort; ensuring that you’re cleaned and dressed promptly, with a level of consideration that warms your insides. (Despite his arrogant, self-congratulatory smirk when you wince a little as you sit on the sofa.)
You converse easily over your tumblers of fine bourbon as the night wears on. Just like always. Your smart-ass comments are met with either cool indifference or small amused chuckles. Just like always. You forget about the existence of anything beyond this room. Just like always.
The only real difference is the physical closeness. The way in which you sit pressed to his side with your legs swung over his lap. The way in which the arm he always slings over the back of the sofa now curls round and plays with your hair as you talk.
The way in which once the suggestive flirtations begin, they don’t stop until your mouths are hungrily moving against one another; teeth clacking and tongues urgently questing for more.
Until you find your clothes flung halfway across the office again. You can see them crumpled over by his bookshelves from your vantage point – straddling Silco’s lap, with his still-dressed chest pressed between your shoulder blades as he fucks up into you.
You lean back into him and meet each of his ardent thrusts until your thighs quiver with exertion. The wrap of his arm around you is warm and secure; a diagonal brace across your body with his forearm cushioned in the valley of your breasts, and his hand hooked over your shoulder whilst the other one digs even more bruises into your hip.
He uses the embrace to lever himself deeper inside you, until you once again unravel around him; tipping your head back against his shoulder as you keen your ecstasy in the form of his name.
Just like the first two times, you miss the expression of his own pleasure – thanks to the position you’re in, and the way in which he once again buries his face into the crook of your neck. But you don’t miss the wrecked, reverential utterance of your name as it’s moaned into your sweat-slick skin.
Nor the way in which he seems a little reluctant to let you go.
You gather your clothes as you head through to his bathroom to clean up, and by the time you return he’s refastened his trousers and is prepping a cigar at his desk.
You linger in the doorway a moment, suddenly feeling a little awkward.
“It’s getting late… Guess I’d better head home.”
He doesn’t respond straight away, and the odd niggle of tension in the air heightens with the brief, furtive flick of his gaze toward the bedroom behind you, before he dips his chin in a small nod, “I suppose so.”
You gnaw your lip, and resolutely ignore the unjustified sinking in your stomach as you saunter over to him. He discards his cigar and cutter on the desk and meets you halfway, until you’re stood toe-to-toe on the office rug.
There’s humour in the way you both peer silently at each other; your hands clasped casually behind your own backs, and small, secretive smiles twisting your lips.
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” you croon.
“Likewise.”
“I hope nothing too bad has happened to your glorious empire whilst you were otherwise engaged.”
“It would have to be something truly catastrophic for me to find myself in any way regretful.”
You giggle; a light trill of laughter that quirks up the corner of his mouth and softens his features, just a little.
You place your hands on his chest and rise on your toes to kiss him farewell.
But the second your lips touch his… you evanesce. And you realise there was never any hope of you leaving this office unscathed.
The energy shift is unexpected, undeniable, and as instantaneous as a streak of lightning. You know he feels it too. The way in which any and all walls between you momentarily fall away – capturing you both within a slice of time that’s soft and pensive.
And the brush of that single firelight wing you’d felt in your chest earlier resurfaces now as the silken beat of an entire swarm.
His hands smooth across your lower back as he winds his arms around you, gently pulling you flush against him, and you in turn wrap your arms around his neck and surrender yourself completely.
This isn’t like any kiss you’ve shared with Silco before. Nor with anyone else, either, if you’re being truly honest with yourself.
It’s tender. Deep. Unhurried. There’s no destination to it. No urgency. No expectation.
It’s a kiss for the simple sake of a kiss.
Your eyes don’t flutter open until a few seconds after your lips have parted. Likewise, his remains half-lidded and a little fogged as he gazes down at you.
Your throat bobs, “Goodnight, Silco.”
“Goodnight,” he murmurs.
Reluctantly, you slip from his arms and head for the door, but you’re halted by a soft call of your name.
You pause at the threshold and turn back to him.
He remains standing where you left him; facing the side of the room in a way that leaves only his unmarred profile visible to you. His expression is tight with an emotion you’re unable to name, and his head is bowed slightly. The muscles in his forearm tick in time with the fidget of his fingers against his thigh.
He directs his low question towards the rug beneath his boots.
“Why do you keep coming back?”
He twists his head to meet your gaze full-on. His makeup is sweat-streaked from your evening activities – ragged stripes of scarred, grey skin peek through to frame the unblinking void of his corrupted eye.
The answer comes so simply, for something so monumentally huge.
It’s a truth that’s been toying in the periphery of your mind for longer than you care to admit.
But you aren’t ready for it. You’re hardly ready to admit it to yourself, let alone out loud. Let alone to him.
And yet you’ve never lied to Silco. Not once. And you have no intention of starting now. So you offer what you can, in the form of a soft whisper that perhaps reveals more of the truth than you intend.
“Because you’re the most beautiful monster I’ve ever seen.”
The tension in his face dissolves and shifts into something that devastates you. It reminds you of the candid confusion with which Jinx had looked at you when you’d offered her such a simple and deserved kindness. But on Silco, it seems to clench at your heart ten times harder.
And there’s something else in his eyes too. A hopeful longing that’s far too raw for you to look directly at.
The memory of it haunts you the entire way home.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 14 - In which you and Silco discover you share a mutual acquaintance. And Silco is not happy about it.
Please take a complimentary cigarette on your way out darlings.
Big, huge, bow-down-I-am-not-worthy shout out to the amazing Bepis. Who created an amazing piece of art that I've been able to stop thinking about for damn weeks, and which heavily inspired a certain saucy section of this chapter. They've kindly given me permission to link to it here -> [Bepis Art - NSFW warning]
I have been writing lots of little extra canonical snippets for the Drink With Me universe over the weeks, and have collated everything into a Master Fic List which can be found below. I will update this regularly with new content. It also contains links to some INCREDIBLE fan art - which you would be truly remiss not to check out.
Love you all an obscene amount <3
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Dirty Little Animals - BONES UK
Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That’s when everything went wrong
Now that’s when everything went wrong
I lay down to die on the concrete floor
Now that’s when everything went wrong
The Devil’s coming after me
Silco is the bow of a ship; a devastating figurehead cutting effortlessly through the choppy waters of the crowded club.
Which must make you his True North.
Because the point of his compass is fixed unwaveringly upon you.
He moves with the utter confidence of a man who knows that people will clear the way for him. And they do. Quickly, and with mixed expressions of terror and awe.
It’s been a few days since you last saw him, and your body is still dappled in pretty shades of mauve and merlot that you can’t help but admire any chance you get. Connecting the dots with your fingertips; retracing the journey he’d taken by touch and memory. The secret smile which graces your lips whenever you do is just as much a mark that he’s left upon you as the bruises are. And it’s one that’s unlikely to fade so fast.
The vulnerability he’d worn when you’d left his office is nowhere to be seen. The man who approaches now is every bit the dynamic, self-assured King of Zaun. Though there’s a quiet shine in his eyes which you suspect is only for you.
You lean your elbows on the bar as he arrives; tucking them together just a little and offering him a lovely view straight down the front of your top.
But he’s a gentleman, and allows himself only a brief, surreptitious glance at your cleavage before meeting your eyes again with a small smirk – the one that accentuates his slight overbite and makes you embarrassingly giddy.
“What can I get you, handsome?”
His smirk widens.
“I’m not here to drink. I have need of your talent.”
“Which one?” You ask with a suggestive little head tilt. Your back is to Jasper – but you can feel the roll of his eyes all the same.
A flurry of filthy responses cross Silco’s mind – you can tell by the way he sucks his teeth to keep from voicing them in such a public setting, and he eyes the marks which peek over the collar of your shirt like an artist proudly surveying their work, “I have a meeting in half an hour with a business associate.”
You pout, “Is she prettier than me?”
“He’s a bastard,” amusement colours the drawl of his words, “Regardless, social etiquette calls for me to offer him refreshment during his visit.”
“Well it’s a good job you keep a drinks cart up in your office then, isn’t it?”
His chuckle is low and dark beneath the music, but it vibrates through you just as surely as the bass-line, “I find myself with a craving for one of those Old Fashions you make.”
“You do, hm?”
He inclines his head in confirmation.
You straighten and plant your hands on the counter. With a little hop, your boots leave the floor and you lock your elbows into place so that you hover eye level with Silco. The edge of the bar presses a little into your still bruised hip bones as you hinge your weight forward – bending your knees and crossing your ankles casually over one another in midair behind you.
“You know, Silco, sweetie,” you purr, definitely overly brazen with how close you lever yourself towards him, and how openly flirtatious you’re being. But you find that you no longer care who sees. Besides, he doesn’t make any move to retreat, or to hide the obvious attraction he feels for you from his gaze, "If you want to see me, you don’t need to come up with some bullshit excuse. You can just come and say hi.”
The scar on his lip quirks in time with the flash of mirth in his eyes. He doesn’t even try to deny it.
“What does your friend drink?”
“Gin.”
You wrinkle your nose, “So he’s a Piltie, huh?”
The club lights catch on the brief flash of chipped teeth, a sight which accompanies a chuckle that’s spontaneous enough to actually shift his shoulders a touch, “Sometimes I forget about that clever little intuition of yours.”
You click your tongue, “Should I be insulted?”
“Never, darling.”
“Pity. I’m a big fan of your method of repentance.”
His only response is a wicked little smirk that has heat pooling low in your belly. You pull your lip between your teeth, and he tracks the movement.
And then he turns and stalks wordlessly away.
You’re insulted for half a second, until you realise he’s headed out back instead of up to the balcony. And then your indignance is replaced instantly by a giddy fizz of excitement.
Your feet touch back down, and you set to work serving the surge of clubbers who suddenly press forward now that the bar is clear of Silco’s intimidating presence. You quickly begin to get fidgety, and by the fourth customer you’ve lost patience entirely.
“It’s on the house,” you blurt as they dig, slowly, through their coin pouch. The foam of their beer slops over the rim of the tankard as you hastily push it across the counter and dart away towards the door which leads out back.
As soon as you enter the dim, narrow hallway, he’s on you.
Your back hits the wall, and the press of Silco’s mouth is hot and urgent. His hands drag and paw without any of the finesse he usually possesses; as though desperate to touch all of you at once.
And you, too, become instantly swept up in the moment. Taking full advantage of the opportunity to dig your fingers into any and every part of him you can reach; drinking your fill of him after having been parched for days.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” he murmurs pointedly in-between kisses.
“Customers,” you explain breathlessly as his jagged teeth drag a line down your throat, “did you want me to tell them all to fuck off?”
“Yes.”
“That’s poor business practice. No wonder your profits have increased since I arrived if that’s how you’ve been—”
You’re silenced by the crush of his lips, and your conversation continues in the form of tangled tongues instead.
The cold, unforgiving concrete at your back only serves to heighten every movement of the warm, slender body which pins your front. Compact muscles shift beneath his clothing as he presses himself ever closer; all but devouring you. Large palms diligently map your body, lingering only to squeeze at the softest parts, or to tangle briefly in your hair. And there’s certainly no mistaking the hardness which juts insistently into your lower belly.
You’ve no doubt your skin is incriminatingly flushed. Molten heat pools in your cheeks and stomach and between your thighs as you pull him against you with equal hunger. Following the tailored lines of his waistcoat. Feeling the wiry strength of his arms beneath his sleeves. Carding your fingers through the salt and pepper strands at his temples.
As deliciously intoxicating as all the teasing and power-plays are, it also feels so good to touch him so freely like this. And the hot-blooded, equal-footed passion of this moment between you makes your head spin faster with every passing second.
So it’s with great, great reluctance that you murmur against his mouth, “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”
Silco growls his annoyance low in his throat and pulls back, tugging your lower lip between his teeth as he does. He lets it go, leaving you simply panting beneath the weight of his torso with your head resting back against the wall. His expression is wonderfully lust addled; right-eye half lidded and kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. His hands splay and smooth possessively over your ribs and waist.
“Come up when you’re done for the night.”
“But it isn’t Friday,” you point out demurely.
He peers down his nose at you, cool and unamused, and presses his hips insistently against you in both promise and warning. You smirk, slow and wide.
“Fine, you make a convincing case,” you concede, smoothing your hands down from the wings of his shoulder blades to rest instead at his perfectly tapered waist, “And I’ll be up in half an hour with a drink for you and your Piltovian bastard too.”
His small laugh huffs into the limited space between you, and he dips his chin to look directly into your eyes. A single hand removes itself from your ribcage, rising to gently tuck a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, “That’s my girl.”
You melt.
Instantly, completely, and irrevocably.
Silco’s tender touch, paired with those three simple words prove to be a fatal combination from which you know there’s no hope of survival.
You think of Jinx and her photo album. Of the three faces forever captured within a small square of glossy card.
Are you going to be together now?
Silco’s throat bobs, and his palm comes round to cradle your jaw. His thumb sweeps along your cheekbone, and you lean into his touch.
It certainly feels like it.
The clamour of the club fades to little more than an indistinct murmur in the distance, and the only thing you can truly hear is the deep but steady rhythm of your heart. You wonder if it’s loud enough for Silco to hear too. You wonder if the reason it seems so loud is because his heart is keeping time with yours; coming together to drum one single, audible beat to fill this little corner of the world you find yourselves in.
You’ve been afraid to think too deeply on what Silco might want from you, especially after he’d placed such careful barriers between you in the midst of intimacy. You still have no idea what he might be looking for in the long-run, if he’s even considered such frivolous matters when he has an entire empire to rule.
But right now… it might not be so hard to believe he could want something more meaningful. That he’s willing to connect. To commit, even. That he’s willing to try and let go with you.
Gods you can see that he’s trying.
With the way his thumbs continue to stroke carefully along your ribs and cheek. With the way he tentatively leans forward to press your brows together. With the timid graze of his nose against yours.
With the way he looks at you. Soft. Contemplative.
It’s almost as if he—
“Aren’t you going to head up?” Your faint whisper cuts through the moment before your mind can spin fantasies that you aren’t entirely certain are true. For the first time in a long time you remind yourself that this man is the Eye of Zaun. And that you need to temper your expectations accordingly.
A beat or two passes, before he answers with a slightly sketchy, “In a minute.”
You huff a soft laugh, and arch a single brow, “I don’t think staying pressed up against me is going to help the situation.”
He, too, exhales a quiet chuckle, and reluctantly steps back, adjusting the tent in his trousers as he does so. You snort a laugh as you push off the wall. But your heart is still fluttering with an excess of affectionate warmth, and it needs an outlet.
“You know, for a scary, murder-y kingpin,” you capture Silco’s face in your hands, and rise on your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips, “you can be pretty damn cute sometimes.”
His face loosens a little in surprise - whether at the casual display of affection or in response to being called cute of all things, you aren’t sure. But in his eyes you spot a fleeting echo of what you’d seen the other night; something a little broken. A little confused. A little too open.
You don’t let on that you’ve picked up on his inadvertent show of vulnerability, not wishing to spook him, and focus instead on the oddly adorable expression he wears.
“See,” you coo with a small giggle; swiping your thumbs simultaneously along his high cheekbones, “Cute.” You press another chaste kiss to his lips, before leaving him to cool down ahead of his meeting, with a parting smile over your shoulder.
He even reciprocates it – a tiny, lopsided quirk of his mouth that makes your heart somersault over itself.
The noise of the club hits full blast as you re-enter and slip back behind the bar.
You’re preparing a drink for a customer when a pissed off shadow looms behind you and a voice grumbles in your ear, “If it were anyone other than Silco, I’d have fired you by now.”
You flash Jasper an innocent smile over your shoulder, “Good job I’m such a fantastic bartender.”
“Yeah, you’re a great bartender. When you’re actually tendin’ the fuckin’ bar.”
You wait thirty minutes or so before taking advantage of a lull in the crush of customers to fix a classic Old Fashioned for Silco.
When he’d told you his guest likes gin you’re certain he was referring to a Negroni or the like. But that doesn’t stop you from preparing a simple gin and tonic instead. Only because it affords you the opportunity to garnish the drink as ostentatiously as possible, and you know it’ll amuse Silco.
You explain where you’re going to Jasper (who scowls at you), and chirp your usual friendly greeting to Vill (who only grunts in response as always), and head up the stairwell. You carefully transfer the glasses into one hand (a skill you’ve long mastered), and knock on Silco’s office door (to keep up professional appearances).
He bids you entry with a smooth, “Come in.”
Silco’s demeanour is one of total boredom; the insolent, arrogant kind that’s crafted as a purposeful display of superiority. But the very corner of his mouth twitches upwards as soon as he clocks the excessively flowery drink in your hand, and you give him an impish grin behind his guest’s back.
The man is sat in a chair opposite the desk, and the cat and mouse dynamic between them is easy to decipher in an instant. Silco’s clearly been baiting him, if the tense set of his navy-clad shoulders is anything to go by. The prickly energy which radiates from him speaks of someone who knows their proverbial hands are tied, and that there’s precious little they can do about it.
But all of that simmering resentment is wiped clean the second he turns around and sees you.
His thick, dark brows shoot towards his equally dark hairline in surprise, and you freeze mid-step in your journey across the office.
He opens his mouth and blurts your name – half in question, half in greeting.
“Yup. Mhm,” your response is as dumb as it is awkward, “That’s— that’s me, um…” you trail off as your memory fails you.
His brows pinch with a touch of indignance, “…Marcus,” he reminds you.
“Yeah, ‘course. Marcus.”
Silence reigns supreme in the office; unbearably long, and heavy enough to rest upon your shoulders as tangibly as a yoke.
“I’d make introductions,” Silco’s tone is slippery as an eel, and sets you immediately on edge, “but it appears you two already know each other.”
Hardly.
Marcus had come into the club you’d been working at a month or so before Jinx had recruited you. He’d ordered a Gibson, and had set himself stubbornly upon a bar stool; a pissy and unwelcome presence that quickly drove patrons from the premises altogether. You’d only started talking to him because your manager had ordered you to figure out a way to get rid of him.
As rotten luck would have it, Marcus’ appearance into your life had coincided with a visit to your dear mother – and so your foul mood had been one to rival his. Which is why you did what you did. Misery loves company after all. It certainly wasn’t from any sort of sparkling conversation, or easy charm, or dashing good-looks – although you wouldn’t call Marcus ugly.
No. It’s simple really. You’d needed a distraction badly enough that not even his starched Enforcer’s uniform had been enough to deter you from dragging him home for a quick, and quite frankly disappointing fuck.
Not your finest moment. Far from it.
The tips of your ears scorch from a perfect cocktail-blend of awkwardness, mortification, shame, and self-loathing. You can’t bring yourself to look at Silco. Your mind scrabbles frantically for a way to tactfully delay this revelation until you can discuss it in private.
But as even more shitty luck would have it – Marcus finds his tongue first.
“We uh, only met the one time… at a bar,” he says it so awkwardly that the nature of your encounter would be glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain cell.
You cringe. Discomfort and guilt drives your gaze downwards to the rug, and your skin itches with the desire to ditch the drinks and run. Staying put takes every ounce of will you possess, especially with the palpable heat of Silco’s gaze switching back and forth between you and Marcus; a metronome counting the beats that comprise this endless orchestral pause.
When Silco finally speaks, his voice is as cold and flat as a sheet of ice, “I never would have thought the illustrious Sheriff of Piltover would be one to frequent clubs down in the slums.”
“Sheriff?” The vague question floats from your mouth before you can stop it, and you feel Silco’s gaze snap to you. But your own is fixed with mild horror upon the chest of Marcus’ uniform. The golden roundel is one that you hadn’t noticed until now, and it makes your already traitorous crime so, so much worse.
“Yes. I’m surprised you missed such a shiny badge,” the cruel mockery in Silco’s tone disappears, and it drops down into something utterly lethal. Each clipped word drips with enough vitriol to render his question entirely rhetorical, “Or was he not wearing it?”
You finally summon the courage to look at him.
Silco’s gaze is piercing. It cuts straight through you and stings like salt water in an open wound. But those scorching eyes are set within a face that’s hewn from stone. Each harsh line is chiselled deep; sculpted into an expression cold enough to burn.
All the moisture sucks from your throat, and your mouth opens and closes several times as you struggle to speak, “I-It was a while ago. Before I even started working h—”
“It is of no consequence to me.”
You flinch at the dispassionate bite of his words.
The glasses you hold become much too slippery; a combination of condensation and clammy sweat. You grip them a little tighter, but it only serves to introduce the delicate rattle of ice into the deafening silence, thanks to the tremble of your hands.
You drop your gaze again to avoid looking at either man, and hurry forward to put the drinks clumsily down on the desk.
But your hasty retreat is thwarted by the curt call of your name, and you turn slowly back to face him.
Silco’s voice is as tight as his face, “Inform Vill that I will not be receiving any more visitors today.”
Your stomach crumples in on itself. The message couldn’t be any clearer.
Don’t bother coming back tonight.
You take a moment to compose yourself, but your voice still croaks with your quiet response.
“Yes, Sir.”
You resolutely ignore the man sat at the furthest corner of the bar, despite how he insistently stares.
He’d come down from Silco’s office twenty minutes ago, and you’ve served every customer as slowly as possible to delay the inevitable. But just like last time, the presence of an Enforcer thins out the numbers until you’re left with no choice but to confront him.
Your lungs empty through your nose, and your jaw sets itself. You fold your arms over your chest as you approach where Marcus sits; looking every bit the miserable bastard he did the first time you met him. Maybe you have a thing for men who scowl a lot.
“You’re scaring away the customers.”
“I am a customer. I’ll take a Gibson.”
You make absolutely no move to prepare the drink.
“There a problem?”
“Yeah,” you snap, “I don’t serve Sheriffs.”
“Didn’t have a problem serving me last time.”
“You neglected to tell me your occupation last time.”
“Thought the uniform made it clear enough.”
“Your rank, then.”
His armoured shoulder lifts and falls, “Didn’t think it made a difference.”
Your head shakes with disgust to accompany your humourless exhale. There’s no point dwelling on whether it would have made a difference. You’d been feeling shitty enough back then, and you feel shitty enough now. What’s done is done, and you have limited headspace to think on it.
“What are you even doing down here, having private ‘business’ meetings with the Eye of Zaun? You a crooked cop?”
Marcus’ mouth tightens; shifting the dark facial hair he’s grown since you first met, “It’s a valid partnership. A way to keep the channels of communication between Piltover and the Undercity open.”
“Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
Again, his mouth twists and his gaze drops briefly, guiltily, in time with his quiet grunt of annoyance, before raising to meet yours once more.
“Gotta say, that was probably one of the quickest meetings I’ve had with the guy. Seemed eager to be shot of me.”
There’s a not so subtle inquiry in his gaze. But even if you had a definitive answer for him, like hell you’d share details of Silco’s personal life with anyone, let alone an Enforcer. You’re not giving Marcus anything that could be used against him.
“Can’t say I blame him,” you snipe.
“Much more of an asshole than usual though. So I guess it all evens out. Seems finding out about us really riled him.”
“Mhm, that’s nice. Listen, don’t you have any Topside buddies you can go yammer to?”
“None that look like you.”
Your eyes almost stick in your head with how hard you roll them, “Real smooth.”
“When do you finish work?”
Your disbelief expels itself in the form of a derisive scoff, “Are you for real?”
His lips twitch into what you think might be a cocky smirk, and he jerks his head briefly to the side in time with his single shouldered shrug, “I find that if someone does something once, they’re normally willing to do it again.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
It irks you that his smirk remains on his face as he stands.
“I come down for meetings every once in a while. So I’ll be around, if you change your mind.”
You don’t bother hiding the hostility from your glare as he puts his helmet on and casually adds, “Or whenever you’re finished fucking around with the old man upstairs.”
You give absolutely nothing away on your face.
“He’s got good taste, I’ll give him that,” Marcus’ snide comment is followed by the hiss and click of his respirator attaching to his jaw, and then he turns and strides from the club.
You thrust your middle finger towards his retreating back; giving him the same treatment as the HexGate Tower.
You don’t see Silco for days. Not even in passing. He could be holed up in his office like a hermit for all you know.
At the end of every shift you’re faced with the internal battle of whether you should go up to him. But something stops you each time. Whatever it is - gut, guilt, instinct, fear - it insists he needs space to calm down. That going to him sooner than he’s ready is going to cause more trouble than it’s worth. That you need to be patient and weather this through.
No matter how much your chest aches. Or how many nights sleep you lose out on; staring at the ceiling to keep from looking towards the photo on your nightstand… doing so anyway, despite knowing how much it hurts when you do.
The only consolation in all of this is that neither Sevika nor Jinx confront you about it. Though they undoubtedly know something is up if the slight hesitation in their interactions are anything to go by. Maybe Silco has instructed them not to question you about it.
Fine by you. It’s not like you’re ready to discuss it anyway.
Your usual coping mechanism for when life becomes a little too much to bear is always the same; you throw yourself all-into your work in a vain effort to keep your mind from spiralling. In the naive hope that time might move quicker, and before you know it this whole stupid mess will be behind you both.
Hell, maybe cashing in some extra coin for the club in the meantime will help put you in good stead with Silco.
Opportunities to up-sell are always easy to spot, and the young, mousy-haired man who approaches the bar is as piss-easy a target as they come.
“Can I get a—”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
He hesitates, before continuing with an apologetic, “Actually no, I was going to—”
“You were going to order a whiskey soda,” you summon a playful smirk from the hardened recesses inside you. Something any Trencher worth their salt possesses; the ability to do what needs to be done in order to survive, no matter how else you might be feeling, “And then I was going to sweetly, but firmly convince you to throw caution to the wind and to live a little,” you weigh your head playfully from side to side, "We might have gone back and forth a bit, but the end result would have been the same. You would have surrendered to me and my convincing argument, and ordered a scotch on the rocks.”
The guy stares dumb-struck at you for a moment, before huffing a stunned laugh and displaying his palms in a show of defeat, “Scotch on the rocks it is then.”
You flash a winning smile. If the lights were up in the club, maybe he’d notice how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. But in the dark it does the job well enough to reel him in for the next phase of your routine.
“We have a new case of stuff in from Bilgewater,” you lean forwards onto the bar, and he mirrors your movement, “it’s a little pricier, but I guarantee you’ll taste every coin, and it’s got a kick that’ll put hairs on your chest,” a quick glance down at his shirt then back up through your lashes, “What d’ya say?”
The guy’s voice lowers to the same husky register you’ve dropped yours into, “Can’t say no to a recommendation like that.”
You twist your lips in a way that makes it look as though you’re holding back a coy smile, “Double?”
“Just a single.”
You push your lower lip out in a pout and press your hand to your heart, “You’re killing me here.”
His attention drops to your mouth, and he runs a hand over his hair; poorly slicked back waves which remind you of instant noodles.
“Wouldn’t want that,” he replies in a way you think is supposed to be seductive, but only sounds smarmy, “Fine, a double. Just for you, mind.”
You force another wide smile to your face as you begin preparing his drink, “You won’t regret it, I promise you that. Anyways, this stuff is good enough that you would’ve been back for another pretty quick.”
“Maybe I should have gotten a single then,” he says, handing over the money while blatantly running his eyes over you, “So I could’ve come back for seconds.”
Ugh, what a line.
You slide his glass over, and alight your hand on his bicep with a flirtatious smirk, “Nothing to stop you coming back for another double,” you squeeze your fingers in time with your wink, before withdrawing your touch and surreptitiously wiping your palm on your trousers beneath the bar.
He straightens with his drink and saunters away with a puffed up chest and a cocky smile over his shoulder at you.
You’re about to cash the palm full of coins when your intuition niggles. You realise your discomfort hasn’t entirely disappeared with the man’s retreat. No, there’s still some unknown energy attached to you, and it’s heavy, and sharp, and hot.
Instinct has you looking upwards.
Your blood drains from your entire body, leaving you ice cold and stiff, and every organ inside you pitches violently downwards as though dropped from a great height.
Silco’s hands are white-knuckled in their iron grip around the balcony railing.
And if you’re frozen – he’s burning.
His face contains nothing but pure, unbridled fury; brows sloping into a dark and violent vee, and green eye almost as wide and unblinking as the other. His lips have all but disappeared with how thin and bloodless they’ve become, and the corners of his mouth are pulled dramatically downwards. And even from here you can see the tense jut of his chin, and the enraged depth to his breaths.
His gaze bores straight into you with enough blistering intensity that you might be able to hear your skin sizzling if the music weren’t suddenly so loud. The blinding flash of his eyes clashes with the strobing lights of the club to make you feel disorientated and woozy, and beneath it all, one memory surfaces from the back of your mind.
And for your future reference, you would know very swiftly, and with absolute certainty, if you had displeased me.
Yeah. No shit.
“Double rum.”
The request yanks you back to the present, and you blink mutely at the patron now standing in front of you.
“Coming right up,” you mumble vaguely, before returning your gaze to the balcony.
But in the few seconds your attention has been diverted, Silco has disappeared without a trace.
You ignore it at first.
In part because your mind is still reeling, but mainly because it isn’t uncommon for fights to break out in the club, and it isn’t your job to deal with it besides.
But you do begin to pay attention when you realise it isn’t a fight at all, but rather a forcible eviction at the hands of Sevika.
His face is already swollen and bloodied. You only recognise him as the man you’d served less than twenty minutes ago by his noodle hair. He’s almost completely limp in Sevika’s grasp, but his feet still struggle feebly for purchase beneath him as he’s dragged towards the front doors.
Two and two click together.
And of all the emotions that have plagued you the past few days, you finally find your anger.
What right does he have?
What right?
To dismiss and recall you to and from his side whenever it suits him and his shitty moods? To bear a childish grudge over something that happened before you two had even met? To interfere with your work like this at the expense of another human being?
The poor bastard is dumped out onto the street, leaving Sevika free to approach the bar wearing a grim expression. You toss her a rag and she catches it, and sets to work cleaning the blood from the divots in her metallic hand.
“He’s asked for you,” she says without preamble, “You’re to go up the second the club closes.”
“Why not now, if he’s so damn impatient?” You snap.
“He wanted you up now,” Sevika confirms, leaning on the bar and levelling her gaze at you, “But I convinced him to wait til later, for your sake. He’s real pissed.”
Nerves begin to nip at the edges of your anger.
“That guy didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Sevika says, tossing the ruined material back onto the counter and inspecting the cleanliness of her brass knuckles, “I’m just following orders. From what I can piece together, you haven’t done anything wrong either.”
The woman does surprise you sometimes. You can’t help but feel vindicated, especially since you were half-expecting another lecture.
“Then what’s his fucking deal?”
“He gets possessive over things he believes rightfully belong to him.”
That comment whips up a blizzard of conflicting emotions. Blinding indignance. Scorching fury. And something desperate and yearning that should not be in play right now. You slap it away, fast and hard.
“I am not a thing to be owned.”
Sevika doesn’t offer a response to that, but there’s enough rue in her eyes to make you feel even more nauseous over the mess you’ve found yourself in. Her mouth pulls downwards, and her voice lowers into a solemn enough cadence that your outrage is momentarily eclipsed by trepidation.
“Listen to me, princess, and listen good. I know you enjoy being clever, but this isn’t the time for it. Doesn’t matter whether you’re in the wrong or not – go up there, keep your head down, agree with whatever he says, and apologise for whatever he thinks you’re guilty of. I don’t wanna have to follow through on any orders I might get when it comes to you.”
You don’t simply walk in as you usually would.
You knock on the office door out of spite.
And perhaps it’s out of spite that he waits so long before responding with an ice cold, “Enter.”
You do so; keeping your spine ramrod straight and your chin held high as the door closes at your back with an ominous snick.
Silco stands behind his desk with his weight braced forward onto his hands. A half empty bottle of whiskey sits not far from his fingers, as does a single crystal tumbler containing nothing but amber dregs. His ashtray is full, which would account for the lingering grey haze in the air above him.
Green-tinged light bathes the office through the twisted iron window at his back; casting the severe lines of his face into sinister, angular shadows. But his gaze glints in full colour; razor-sharp and hostile from beneath his brow. The entire cut of his body is painfully tense, but it doesn’t make his demeanour any less intimidating.
However, your ability to feel fear is rendered null and void by the sour heat of your own acrimony.
Silco tracks your measured approach, and you come to a complete stop a few feet in front of his desk.
The silent standoff between you stretches on for an obscene amount of time.
It’s only when you can’t bear it any longer that you bring the crushing silence to an end. Your words are bitter enough for you to taste as they leave your tongue.
“Green doesn’t suit you, Silco.”
His expression doesn’t alter even a fraction of an inch. He straightens to his full height and folds his hands behind his back, before addressing you down the length of his nose in a tone that’s as frigid as it is patronising.
“I was prepared to forgive you for your dalliance with Marcus. After all, everybody makes mistakes, and we deserve the opportunity to learn from them.”
You bristle. It’s damn clear that he had no intention of forgiving any such thing. Not that it’s even his fucking right to do so in the first place.
“That was, until I witnessed the indecorous manner with which you conduct business behind the bar. This may not be the most reputable of establishments, but I still expect my employees to behave with a certain—”
“This isn’t about me as an employee, this is—”
“I am not finished speaking,” he snarls, teeth and eyes flashing with equal viciousness.
Your nostrils flare with the effort of snatching your tongue back, and he continues after a pointed pause; sharper than before.
“I still expect my employees to behave with a certain level of professionalism. And I cannot help but wonder – given the salacious nature of your interactions in the club, and the fact that you were willing to sully yourself with not only a Topside Enforcer, but the Sheriff of Piltover, how many other mistakes you are hiding from me.”
Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it takes you a second to prise your teeth apart enough to speak.
“You’re right. I made a mistake. A colossal fuck-up. And one that I already feel enough shame for by myself without your damn help,” you’re already doing a piss poor job of following Sevika’s advice, but you’re too incensed to care, “And I am allowed to classify it as a mistake because I am the one who made it. But you? You have no right to label my past in such a way. It isn’t your call to make.”
“I will make whatever judgements I see fit to—”
“Don’t pretend that this is only about Marcus—”
“I do not want to hear his name leave your mouth ever again. Do I make myself clear?”
Every muscle in your body seizes in terror at Silco’s bellowed demand, and the abrupt twist of unhinged rage which warps his face.
And you watch, stricken, as he physically reels himself in; subduing the beast that had broken free of its cage. Until his ire is once again controlled, detached, and precise.
Slowly, your body thaws out under the continuously stoked heat of your own indignation; simmering hotter by the second.
“Do you honestly expect me to stand here and tell you that I didn’t have a life before I came here? That I’ve never had relations with anyone else before you?”
“That is not the point I am making.”
“Then make it a little clearer,” you hiss.
“I would like to know,” Silco enunciates every syllable with a staggering amount of pettiness for a man of his age, “How many others you have allowed between your legs since you began working for me.”
The accusation is as good as a slap across the face, and it stings just as keenly. Your breath hitches in time with the spike of hurt that drives itself through your chest. You search his gaze for any remorse at having made such a comment, and find him lacking. There’s nothing there but a thick, frost-crusted sheet of steel – keeping you firmly out.
“No one,” your answer is breathed on an exhale that’s rife with disbelief and pain, “Is that really what you think of me?”
He doesn’t answer. And you have no idea what to read into his lack of response.
“And even if I had, how is it any of your business?”
His jaw ticks a few times before he responds, “You are under my employ.”
You bark out a laugh that’s harsh enough to rattle your teeth, “That’s it, is it? Well you should know I saw Ran pick up some company down in the club last week. Are you going to reprimand them too? Or Sevika? Who I can assure you is hardly celibate if the amount of women she befriends downstairs is anything to go by.”
Silco’s nostrils flare slightly with each exhale, but he once again refrains from any kind of verbal response.
You gesture between your chest and his, “How do you expect us to discuss this properly if you refuse to be honest with me? Or with yourself for that matter?”
The muscles around his nose and mouth contract briefly in an involuntary tic, and his continued silence only fuels your temper.
“And as for the way I work – I thought you of all people would understand the need to do whatever it takes to survive down here. If I’m condemnable for a bit of harmless flirtation to sell a few more drinks, then what does that say of you? A man who bullies and blackmails and kills in order to achieve what he needs—”
“I fail to see how behaving like a—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” your impassioned shout flies from you with enough force that he actually looks mildly chastised for a split second, before it’s wiped clean from his face by the return of his enmity.
But you allow him no time to respond; storming the rest of the way to his desk with the continuation of your tirade.
“It makes me indispensable. It keeps me in work. You said yourself that alcohol sales have never been higher. In fact, it was you who told me to keep doing whatever it was I was doing. Well guess what; this is it. It’s the most effective way to sell drinks, and I am not the only bartender in the city, or even in this club who does it. I have never hidden this from you or anyone else. It’s not my fault that you’ve never noticed before now.”
You stop for breath. But breathing proves difficult. Because the way he’s looking at you threatens to sunder something delicate in your chest, and it’s all you can do to attempt to hold the pieces together. You struggle to reconcile the man who had held you so tenderly, and gazed at you so softly in that narrow corridor only a few short days ago, with the callous, unfeeling man standing in front of you today.
It’s not that you’ve ever forgotten or disregarded the cruelty he’s capable of; as much a part of who he is as everything else. It’s just that you’ve been foolish enough to believe you’d never find yourself on the receiving end of it.
So perhaps it’s with slight desperation that you insist, "It’s just what I do. It’s what I’m best at. I flash a nice smile. Say a few nice things. And I can have anyone eating out the palm of my hand without them even realising it. But it’s all fake, Silco. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not real.”
It isn’t until the words are out of your mouth and oscillating in the air between you with far too much poignance that you realise the implication of what you’ve just said.
Now it’s Silco who looks as though he’s just been slapped.
And simple as that – everything you’ve built together over the past several months begins to unravel in front of your very eyes. Fraying, loosening, and falling away to pitiful scraps like a shorn rope.
You stand there, with your heart in your throat, and you watch him pick apart every conversation, every flirtation, every smile, every minute you’ve spent together, and are completely powerless to stop him from doing so.
Finally, Silco speaks.
“I see.”
Your heart descends from your throat, and sinks lower and lower with every word that follows. They slink from his mouth like night-dark serpents, and it truly looks as though Silco is suffering the effects of the poison they bear just as much as you are.
“An expert at wielding clever words. At weaving pretty little lies to make someone feel important. Special, even. Simply in order to get what you want.”
You’re going to be sick.
You feel sick and devastated and furious.
There’s no point telling him he’s wrong. Pleas of innocence will only serve to make you sound guilty. And it’s painfully clear to you, with the contemptuous curl of his lip, and the unconcealable anguish which peeks through the cracks in the barriers he’s raised, that he’s unwilling to believe anything you have to say.
And if he can’t see. If he won’t see all that you’ve been trying to show him for weeks and months… then you don’t know what else you can do.
Your voice comes out dangerously quiet, and quavers with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. Your fury. Your grief. Your deep, deep hurt, “And what is it that you think I want from you, Silco?”
In a perfect loop, you find yourselves right back at the beginning of this conversation; locked in a silent standoff that seems to last a lifetime.
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Silco’s words are so bitter that simply hearing them leaves a foul taste in your mouth. His eyes remain on you as he reaches into his desk drawer and removes a second crystal tumbler, placing it on the desk with intent, “Which is why you’re going to take a seat, and enlighten me.”
You’re struck completely dumb as he uncaps the bourbon and pours himself another drink. But your wits return in time to intercept before he pours one for you.
Your hand shoots out, covering the glass and forcing Silco to pause with the bottle held aloft.
His eyes rise to your no doubt incredulous expression.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” You seethe through the cage of your teeth, “You want me to stay? After everything you’ve just said to me? After you all but accused me of being a whore?”
He doesn’t answer. Simply stares at you.
Your husked laughter comes from a place of disbelief and pain, but it mixes with your anger to form something which sounds cruel. Derisive.
“Go fuck yourself Silco,” you sneer, turning the glass over. The metal rim slams against the desk with a sense of finality, “Drink alone.”
The temperature plummets.
And only continues to fall alongside the foreboding energy that rolls off Silco like a sentient, malevolent fog.
Every emotion you’re feeling is forgotten in favour of the primal fear which curls its icy fingers around you; seeping down through your pores to chill the very marrow inside your bones.
His face warps into the stuff of nightmares; more beast than man. The part of the monster you’d yet to see, finally come to light. And his gaze transmutes right before you into something unrecognisable. The aquamarine of his right eye pales to glacial coldness, and hones into something sharper than sea-glass. And the left… no longer burnt orange; but hellish, vermillion red.
He spits two words with enough venom to render you momentarily paralysed.
“You’re fired.”
And for a man who is always in complete control, even in the midst of his anger, the way his hands begin to shake is utterly petrifying.
The little voice inside your gut speaks up. Louder and more insistent than usual.
Get out. Quickly.
You spin on your heel and stride for the office door as fast as you dare.
The back of your neck prickles.
Run.
You fling yourself the last few steps, and your sudden burst of speed instigates movement behind you; a rustle of clothing, the scrape of glass—
You fumble the handle, wrench open the door, and slam it behind you - only a second before the bottle shatters against the other side of the wood. Amber liquid seeps beneath the door, spreading between your boots like a pool of blood.
Silco doesn’t miss, the small voice reminds you, He didn’t have to miss—
Your shoulders shoot straight to your ears at the second smash which rattles the door at your back. A tumbler this time, given the added clang of a metal rim amongst the symphony of broken crystal.
It takes a third round of shattering glass, and a wordless, animalistic roar to unlock your joints.
You bolt down the corridor, ricocheting off the narrow walls once, twice, three times in your uncontrolled speed, and you half slide down the stairwell on the outside of your thigh when your boots slip from beneath you. But you don’t stop. You fling yourself past a startled Vill and rebound off the balcony railing – using the momentum to propel yourself towards the next set of stairs down into the club proper.
A flash of green intercepts; latching onto you as you hurtle across the dance floor, and every tendon in your body strains as you’re brought to a lurching halt by Jasper.
He spins you to face him, holding you in place with a vice-like grip around your biceps when you automatically struggle to free yourself. His face is knotted with both concern and confusion.
“Slow down kid, what happened? Are you—”
An almighty, earth-shattering crash from upstairs has both your heads whipping simultaneously towards the balcony.
And your stomach turns over itself, just as surely as Silco’s desk clearly has.
You turn your imploring gaze back to Jasper in time to watch his skin blanch sheet-white, and his eyes widen with realisation and horror. It’s enough to make you want to cry.
“I’m sorry Jasper,” you babble through the tightness in your throat, “I’m so so sorry—”
“Get outta here. Now.”
He’s not gentle as he bundles you swiftly towards the entrance, and he shoves you out onto the Strip with enough force to almost send you to your knees.
“Keep goin’ and don’t look back.”
The glass panes of the door clatter in their iron frames from the force with which Jasper bars the door from the inside. Not an impassable obstacle should Silco decide to come after you, but a barrier that will slow him down enough to give you a head start.
For once in your life, you actually heed Jasper’s words.
You run the entire way home. And you don’t look back once.
Your boots pound into the ground as you sprint through the crowds, uncaring of the stares you draw or the indignant shouts when someone doesn’t move from your path quickly enough.
Everything burns. Your lungs, your legs, your arms, your throat and eyes and head and stomach and heart. But you do not stop until you’re faced with the front door of your apartment.
“Shit,” you gasp, burying your fingers into your scalp, and thinking of the coat that’s still hung at the club, or more importantly the keys inside the pocket, “Shitshitshit.”
You swing your panicked gaze around the landing as though the answer will miraculously appear to you, and when it doesn’t you suck in as deep a breath as you’re able and brace your weight into your left leg.
The first impact of the sole of your boot against the door rewards you with a splintering sound that likely speaks more to the weakness of the wood than your own strength. The second kick has the lock buckling, and the door bursts inwards.
It’s slammed shut behind you as soon as you’re through, and the chain is latched into place by your violently shaking fingers. It’s the only damn thing holding it closed now that the bolt is gone.
You grab your one kitchen chair and ram it under the broken handle, then drag over the small dining table you own and push it up against the door too; knowing full well that if Silco wants to get in, a few flimsy pieces of wood and a crappy rusted chain isn’t going to do anything to stop him.
You wrench open your cutlery drawer and fumble for the chopping knife that never usually sees the light of day.
And your knees finally give way as you sink into a seated position against the wall directly opposite your front door with the useless, blunt weapon clutched in your hand.
Your heart thunders so fast that you’re actually concerned it may give out, and your entire body is wracked with uncontrollable tremors that are borne from pure fear and adrenaline.
Everything is quiet.
The only sounds are your laboured breaths, and the clack of the blade rattling within the loose plastic handle in your grip.
You stare, wide-eyed at the door. Alone in the dark.
And wait to see if you’ll survive the night.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 15 – In which you're awakened by an insistent knock at the door.
*runs away and hides*
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: When Everything Went Wrong - Fantastic Negrito
Chapter 15
Notes:
Trigger Warning: Shock, Dissociation, Depression
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I am the monster you created
You ripped out all my parts
And worst of all, for me to live
I gotta kill the part of me that saw
That I needed you more
“You’re fired.”
Ruby flames in his eye; spilling over to ooze down scarred trenches like fine molten rivers.
Get out. Quickly.
You turn and wade through swampy air that drags at your limbs and slows your movement to a laboured crawl.
Run.
You can’t. Your legs simply won’t allow it.
The world rumbles around you – something akin to the subterranean tremors of a mining tunnel collapse. Entombing the workers within. Turning their bones to coal for future Trenchers to excavate.
It closes in. A landslide you can’t ever hope to outpace. Already darkening the fringes of your vision.
Your bones creak; threatening to snap under the sheer force of effort required simply to place one foot in front of the other.
It touches the back of your neck just as you reach for a brass handle that passes straight through your fingers like mist—
You jolt abruptly awake at the insistent banging on your front door.
The muscles in your neck tweak sharply with the sudden movement, certainly not helped by the awkward, upright position in which you’d fallen asleep. But you ignore the strain in favour of scrabbling for the knife; having slipped from your grip at some point in the night.
Ten fingers choke the handle, and you swing the point of the blade in the direction of the front door; locking your arms out in front of you and pressing your back into the wall behind you like some kind of brace against whatever awaits on the other side.
But a questioning call of your name has the tip of the weapon wavering in hesitation.
You bite back the automatic urge to respond; listening carefully instead for any further sounds of movement on the landing outside.
You flinch when a few more bangs rattle the furniture that’s blockading the door.
“You in there? Please answer, I’m real worried.”
“Jinx?”
An audible sigh of relief and a murmured, “Thank Janna,” before a louder, “Yeah! Lemme in.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Come on, open up!”
The knife clatters forgotten to the floor behind you, and wooden legs scrape the ground as you drag the pitiful furniture out of the way. The busted latch has the door swinging inwards a little without the chair to hold it in place, and blue and pink nails curl impatiently around the edge of the wood in a premature attempt to enter.
“Hold your horses,” you gripe, batting Jinx’s hands back through the frame so you can close the door and unhook the chain.
It bursts open again almost immediately, and you’re winded by the hurricane force of the teenager who flies over the threshold and throws her arms around your middle. You stumble back a few steps, but return the embrace just as fiercely as soon as you secure your footing.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Jinx babbles into your shoulder, fingers clutching at the back of your shirt as though convincing herself that you’re no mirage or figment of her imagination.
You press your cheek into her hair and squeeze her even tighter; wondering if she can tell by how desperately you cling that you need her far more than she needs you in this moment.
“I’m okay. I’m— No, I’m not hurt. Not physically, anyway. It’s complicated. He— What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. He wouldn’t tell me anything,” her voice is pitched with panic; words bubbling from her with the swiftness of a river-rapid, “Just said that you were gone and that you weren’t coming back and to just forget you, and his office was totally trashed. I– I was scared something bad had happened to you and that was why he was so upset—”
You grip her shoulders and pull back to look directly into her eyes; brilliant azure and wide with fright, “Hey, hey, I’m fine. Look, see? Still here – alive and kickin’.”
The tension ebbs steadily from her shoulders, and they lower in time with an exhale that puffs out her freckled cheeks. She nods jerkily, and you somehow manage to conjure a small, encouraging smile.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” You ask. Jinx shakes her head, and you nod, “Good. That’s probably best.”
“Why? What happened? Why was he like that? When are you coming back?”
Your lungs constrict as you struggle to voice the reality, “I… I can’t come back chickie. He fired me.”
It takes a few seconds to register, but when it does her features morph from mute stupefaction to furious disbelief, “He what?”
Weariness grips you, suddenly and profusely. It’s only skin and muscle that keeps your bones from clattering into an exhausted, formless heap upon the floor.
You reach past Jinx to re-hook the chain onto the door, “Come on, lemme explain.”
Shock. You’re in shock. You must be, right?
How else could you feel entirely numb and battered raw in equal measure?
Nothing quite feels quite real or right. Like you’re existing in a liminal state of being.
The terror which had gripped you in Silco’s office was so visceral that it clings to the edges of you like fuzzed lichen, making everything slow and gummy. Moving, speaking, even thinking is equatable to wading through thick, sickly treacle.
Yeah. Your body and mind are definitely in shock.
Perhaps your dissociation is for the best right now. It enables you keep your explanation of what happened plain and neutral without really trying. You’ve been afforded no time to even begin processing your own feelings, not that you’re in any way ready to. But one thing you’re certain about is that you have absolutely no desire to pit Jinx against her father, regardless of what he’s done.
Not that she doesn’t come into her own opinions pretty quickly. Even if she can’t quite decide on the wording of it.
“What a colossal fuckin’ bozo— stupid dumbass— monumental dunderfuck.”
“Jinx—” you begin wearily in response to her clumsy outburst.
“Nuh-uh, it’s true,” she springs restlessly from the tiny, moth-eaten sofa you’ve both been squashed onto and begins pacing irately in front of it, “he’s an idiot. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and I can’t believe he’d just throw it away like this.”
You massage your eyes with the heels of your palms until fireworks burst in your vision, and try to will away the oncoming headache, “Neither one of us handled things well.”
“Yeah, well, I’d say he did a way shittier job.”
You can’t argue with that. So you don’t. You drop your hands into your lap and try to reason with her. Or maybe yourself.
“I knew what I was getting into with your dad—”
Jinx’s spins on you, her face thunderous, “He’s not my dad.”
Her virulence stuns you for a handful of seconds, until you recover enough to huff a small, humourless laugh, “Yeah he is.”
“No, he isn’t,” she insists obtusely, “He’s just some guy who took me in after I was abandoned and looked after me and stuff.”
Even Jinx realises how it sounds when she says it aloud, no matter how pissed she is.
She sets her jaw and averts her gaze from the knowing look you give.
“He’s your dad,” you confirm, mouth quirking wistfully.
“Whatever,” she mumbles, toeing at a rip in the fabric along the skirt of the sofa.
“Listen Jinx,” you say with as much diplomacy as you can muster, cocking your head to try and catch her eye, “What’s happened between me and your dad… it shouldn’t come between the two of you. Sure, feel angry at him for a little while, but please don’t hold it against him too long.”
“Why are you defending him?” Her eyes flick up then back down again, “After what he did to you?”
You sigh deeply. Something you can already tell you’re going to be doing a lot.
“I knew from the very start what kind of man he is, and I still chose to pursue a… friendship with him. Just ‘cause somebody hurts you, doesn’t mean you stop caring about them.”
“So you don’t hate him?”
A veritable rainbow of conflicting emotions colour her question. Anger and disbelief being the dominant shades, but it's impossible to miss the golden thread of hope she’s long harboured for you and Silco, still weaving its way throughout, even now.
“Hate is a strong word,” you say carefully.
It’s also something that’s borne upon a tide of strong emotion. And with you feeling next to nothing right now beyond a soul-deep exhaustion, it’s hard to comprehend being gripped within the jaw of something so astringent.
You don’t know that you’ve ever truly hated anyone.
To pass that judgement you’d need to know a person in their entirety. The good, the bad, and the monstrous. Though you suppose after last night you can finally say you’ve seen every part of who he is.
You know Silco now more fully than you ever did before.
“No. I don’t hate him.”
How can you? Morals and principles aren’t something you can righteously pick and choose for your own convenience. If you’re unable to hate him for what he does to others in pursuit of his goals, then what right do you have to hate him for turning the beast on you?
You’re no hypocrite.
"Yeah, he fucked up big time,” you continue, “But I said some things too. It’s why he lashed out. I’m not saying it’s right, but… it’s a defence mechanism. He’s hurting, Jinx. Just like I am. And right now you’re all he has.”
Her mouth thins, and her jaw juts in begrudging acknowledgement despite how bitterly she mutters, “Yeah, and whose fault is that?” She rocks back onto her heels, pirouetting and plonking herself heavily beside you, much to the chagrin of the knackered sofa springs.
She doesn’t speak a while. Simply folds her arms across her chest and slumps so low in her seat that her spine practically moulds to the right-angle of the sofa cushions. Where your knees are drawn to your chest, Jinx’s striped legs stretch out in front of her, and she stares angrily down at the toes of her boots which tap together to the beat of her vexation.
You take advantage of the quiet moment to sit alongside your thoughts – letting them wash over you without bothering to be an active participant.
Jinx peers at you from corner of her eye.
“How’re you feeling?”
Your shoulders somehow fall farther than you’re able to initially lift them, “I don’t know.”
It seems to be answer enough for her. Jinx’s hand slides along the sofa towards you, and you reach down to twine your fingers with hers. You both sit quietly for a time, staring off into the middle distance while the bustle of the Undercity drifts faintly through the window.
“How is he?” You ask quietly, giving into your curiosity against your better judgement, “You said he was upset.”
Your clutched hands shift in time with the heavy rise and drop of Jinx’s annoyed shrug, “Dunno. Found him moping around in his office like a pathetic loser. Or what was left of it. When he said you were gone I didn’t hang around. I came straight here to see if you were alright.”
Her concern is a warm balm inside your chest. You focus on that sensation, and not on what else is gradually beginning to wax beneath the surface of you; threatening to eat its way through your waning numbness.
“Well, I’m alright… As alright as can be,” you amend, never one for lying, “Do you think maybe you should go and make sure he is too?”
She turns wide, painfully youthful eyes on you, “Don’t you want me here?”
“No, no that’s not it at all,” you say quickly, angling towards her and taking her hand in both of yours, “Of course I want you here, and I’m so glad you came chickie. It’s just…”
Pathetic. You’re utterly pathetic.
“I don’t like the idea of him being all alone right now,” you finish weakly.
Jinx’s voice is equally as small as yours, “But what about you being all alone?”
It hits you.
That you’ve lost so much more than this… half-baked entanglement with Silco.
You’ve lost a friend. You’ve lost a job that you love. You’ve lost a home. A family.
Lost? Or was it taken from you? Was it even ever truly yours to begin with? Or have you been kidding yourself this entire time?
The edges of your vision blur with unwelcome warmth, but you force the tears away before they can materialise. You point-blank refuse to cry. Never in your life have you cried over a romantic partner, ex or otherwise, and you’re sure as hell not about to start today.
But the battle is hard-won when Jinx’s face drops into something quietly devastated, and her own eyes swim with guilt in a way that tugs at your heartstrings.
“This is all my fault.”
“No,” you insist with a forceful head shake to dislodge the tightness in your throat, “None of this is your fault.”
“If I hadn’t hired you—”
“Then you and I never would have known each other, would we? I never would have known Jasper. Or Max, or Sevika.”
Or Silco.
It remains to be seen whether the forthcoming pain will outstrip the joy his company has brought you these past several months. And if it does, would you go back and change it?
"No matter what,” you finish simply, firmly, “I will never regret taking you up on that job offer.”
A pact is formed to replace part of what you’ve lost.
Once weekly ‘hang-outs’, alternating between your apartment and Jinx’s workshop. She’d made the suggestion timidly, as though it were a poor consolation prize. But she’d been instantly buoyed by how eagerly you’d latched onto the idea.
It had been sealed with linked pinkies, and you hold onto that promise now like the lifeline it is as you stand all alone in your apartment once more, with the chain re-hooked behind her.
What’s next? Where do you go from here?
Something simple. A shower and change of clothes to rid yourself of the dried sweat which clings to your skin; a viscid reminder of the events that put it there.
You go through the mechanics of washing, after which you stand vapidly beneath the faucet, unaware even of what temperature the water is as it runs over you. Only a sharp thud on the adjoining wall and a pissed-off shout from your neighbour about the communal tank pulls you from your reverie, and you hurry to switch the shower off.
You wrap yourself in a towel, and drift back into your bedroom. What comes next? Brush wet hair with the comb on your nightstand.
It’s silly that you should have forgotten about it, considering it’s been an item you’ve been all too painfully aware of the past few days.
The polaroid beside your bed hits like a blow to the stomach, so forceful that you almost double over.
You’re frozen, unable to breathe, staring at it as though it might come alive and begin scuttling around. Or throwing glass bottles.
And there it is. The first sharp stab of pain, puncturing through the film of your numbness. And with the first cut made, the anger and resentment and grief begin to bleed through too, tearing the hole wider and wider until that anaesthetic shroud is nothing but tatters.
Your arm shoots out, and the polaroid is grabbed, flipped and slammed face down with enough force to rattle the nightstand. Fingers remain pressed against the blank white card at the back; still tacky from where it was stuck in Jinx’s album.
I will make whatever judgements I see fit to—
I would like to know how many others you have allowed between your legs since you began working for me—
I fail to see how behaving like a—
You’re fired—
Somewhere amidst the sudden assault his voice launches inside your head, the photo finds its way between both thumbs and forefingers; poised in the air, ready to be torn in two.
Your arms shake in a battle between stop and go.
Tender fingers rising to gently tuck a few loose strands of hair behind your ear.
That’s my girl.
Stop wins.
A small, ruined noise of defeat or relief croaks from your throat as your arms give up the fight.
You keep the picture flipped away from you as you storm over to your chest of drawers. It’s shoved right to the very back – nestled within the folds of a soft black shirt whose material your traitorous fingers linger on a second too long, before withdrawing your hand as though from an open flame.
The drawer slams shut with a snap.
Max’s studio isn’t hard to find.
He’d mentioned it was on the Promenade level, near the river. It only takes a bit of asking to be directed towards the cream bricked building, set within a row of businesses along the boardwalk, close enough to Piltover for its facade to possess a clean, crisp lustre.
A melodic bell tinkles as you step through the glass panelled door into an open plan room that’s airy enough to create the illusion of far more space than is actually available. Not that the studio is by any means small. Clearly both men have been modest about Max’s success.
Photographic art lines the walls; beautiful people posing in beautiful clothing, no doubt of Max’s creation. The room is dotted with free standing railings and mannequins, all sporting various outfits of a sleek, tailored style that’s instantly recognisable.
In that case, I had better get out my shovel.
Careful, wouldn’t want you to get your fancy clothes in a mess.
I shouldn’t worry, they’ve washed well enough in the past.
You push his voice quickly away, just as you’ve been doing near constantly for the past few days whenever it slinks unbidden to your mind.
A beauteous face looks up from an expansive workbench towards the back of the shop; features flurrying from practiced geniality, to surprise, to relief over the course of a few seconds.
“Honey,” Max greets emphatically as he hurries over and wraps you within a warm, tight embrace that belies his concern, “I’m so glad you came. We’ve been worried sick about you.”
“You shouldn’t have, I’m fine,” you murmur as you return the hug, voice rusted from disuse.
He clicks his tongue, mouth thinning as he pulls back to scan your face.
“You’re not fine,” he corrects, smoothing cool palms affectionately over your cheeks and sweeping his thumbs across the sleep-deprived bags beneath your eyes, “And it’s perfectly okay not to be,” he says pointedly, raising his snow-white brows at you.
You don’t bother countering – simply take a selfish second to enjoy the nurturing touch, and marvel once again how he can provide it so naturally given he’s only met you once before.
“Jasp,” Max calls over his shoulder, “She’s here.”
A distant Huh? From overhead, and what sounds like pans being put down, before a large pair of scuffed boots come into view down a spiralled, wrought iron staircase in the back corner. As soon as Jasper’s descended enough to duck down and peer into the studio, you give him a sheepish wave.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs, hurrying down the rest of the way and striding across the studio.
Your joints grind together, and your toes clean leave the floor with the all-encompassing bear hug you find yourself scooped into.
“You’re damn lucky to be alive kiddo.”
“I’ll be dead pretty quick if you don’t let up,” you croak.
Your lungs expand again as your feet drop back to the floor. The relief on Jasper’s face is short-lived, as it crumples into something much more familiar to you.
“I warned you this would happen,” he growls roughly.
“Jasper,” Max snaps sharply, turning piercing eyes on him, “That’s not helpful.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” you mumble, entirely lacking any energy with which to defend yourself.
“I'm sorry won’t do much good if he wakes up one day and decides he wants you dumped in the sewers—”
“Jasper.”
If you had any humour left, you might laugh at the way the mountainous man balks slightly at the withering look his partner gives him. His stubbled jaw grinds in an open show of ire, and he grumbles low in his throat before turning on his heel and stomping wordlessly back upstairs.
Max's eyes roll in an exasperated arch.
“And what my dear Jasper meant by that boorish grunt is ‘Please come upstairs and have some food’. You don’t look like you’ve eaten properly in days.”
You don’t deny, nor fight the arm that encircles your shoulders and leads you towards the spiral staircase.
Jasper could rival your mother for his passive aggressive pot banging.
He’s much easier to forgive though, given his ability to show that he actually gives a damn beneath it all. That, and the smell which comes from the kitchen far surpasses anything your mother can produce.
You’re sat at a polished oak dinning table within the stylish apartment above the studio. A cup of mint tea clutched in front of you; acting more as a hand warmer than as a refreshment. Your eyes remain on the gentle curls of steam which lift off the amber liquid, and Max’s eyes remain on you in turn – a watchful weight you can feel from his position opposite you.
“I’m not going to force you to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he says softly after a short time has passed in silence, “So long as you know you can. Our door is always open to you.”
You dip your chin once, twice in acknowledgement.
Tawny brown hands come into view and wrap around yours; encasing them between cool skin and warm ceramic.
“Break-ups are never easy.”
“It can’t be a break-up,” your voice is dull, monotonous, “we were never even together.”
“Semantics,” Max jokes ruefully.
You worry at the chapped skin on your lip with your teeth. A pair of manicured thumbs smooth over the backs of your hands with enough purpose that you find yourself automatically lifting your chin to meet Max’s umber gaze, crinkled empathetically at the edges.
“I may not have known you all that long, honey. But from what I’ve garnered, you’re the type of person who has a habit of suppressing their feelings. Especially if they’re under some misguided illusion that they have no right to those emotions in the first place.”
Your mouth twitches guiltily in response to the knowing curl of Max’s own lips.
“You need to let yourself feel what you need to feel, sweets. If you try to hold it in you’ll only end up hurting yourself even more.”
Shame has your gaze dipping towards the table again, and your voice lowering to match, “I’m worried that if I let myself feel it all, then it’ll completely overwhelm me. That it’ll be too much, and I’ll lose who I am.”
“That won’t happen,” your chin is lifted to a proud height by Max’s thumb and forefinger, “You’re stronger than that.”
He looks so certain of his claim, but you’re not so sure.
Would a strong person have waited to be summoned when they had something they wished to say?
Would a strong person have turned and run when faced with something they’d been given ample warning about?
Would a strong person allow another to hold this much power over them?
Your internal questioning is halted as the largest bowl of stew you’ve ever laid eyes on in your life is placed firmly in front of you with a heavy thud.
Jasper scowls down at you.
“You’re not leaving til that’s empty,” he informs you gruffly, before retreating back to the kitchen to retrieve what smells like a fresh loaf of bread.
Max pushes the bowl towards you with a small smile, “For once, I’m in agreement with him.”
One Week
The stone balustrade bites into your elbows.
Your hair lifts gently about your face, ruffled by the breeze off the River Pilt. The ocean air rolls in with the tide, leaving your skin tacky to the touch and kissing your lips with salt.
You stare vacantly across the water, and attempt to ignore how empty the space beside you feels.
Shit Silco, you scared the crap outta me.
Force of habit.
Yeah, well, if I’d died of a heart attack you’d be feeling guilty right about now.
Only a little.
You gnaw at the inside of your cheeks between drags of your smoke.
You’re a damn chimney.
Your fingers dip into your pocket and draw out a fresh cigarette. You lay it on the railings next to you like some sort of morbid offering.
And you stare bitterly at it.
I’m not hiding anything, sweetheart. I’m very much a monster, and perfectly content to be so.
That doesn’t scare me.
It should.
A quick flick of your middle finger has the cigarette spinning through the air, and you watch it hit the water below, gleaning not an ounce of satisfaction when it’s immediately swallowed by the rushing current.
Two Weeks
You pick at the food in front of you; twizzling the overcooked pasta around the twines of your fork and contemplating the tasteless red sauce it’s drenched in.
“I wish you’d told me you weren’t hungry,” your mother gripes, “I wouldn’t have made so much otherwise. It’s a waste.”
“Sorry,” you mumble towards your plate.
“Did you eat before you came?”
“No.”
“Then is there something wrong with my cooking?”
“No.”
She makes a snotty little noise in her throat which you pay absolutely no attention to.
You can sense her watching you with the distinct energy that always accompanies her searching for something snide to say.
“How’s that thug boyfriend of yours?”
The full body ache that you’re beginning to accept as a constant part of your existence now hones to something keener; a painful, droning vibration that resonates through your bones.
It takes you a few seconds before you manage a tight, “I’d rather not talk about him.”
“Oh dear. Trouble in paradise?”
Your cutlery clatters to your plate at the sharp stab in your chest, and your head whips up with your savage, “For once can you not be so—”
You bite your tongue, forcing a deep breath in and out before finishing with a gloomy, “Can you just not. Not today. Please.”
She stares at you, long and hard.
You brace yourself for an onslaught that, to your surprise, never comes. Instead she sighs, short and sharp, and her expression loses just a little of its usual pinch.
“He was always going to hurt you,” she says matter-of-factly, “I’m just glad it was only your heart that took a beating.”
The sentiment is entirely back-handed and in no way comforting. Yet it’s still probably one of the nicest things she’s ever said to you. Gods. How pathetic must you look to be receiving any kind of sympathy from her?
“Thanks,” you mutter.
You go both back to eating in familiar, uncomfortable silence.
Three Weeks
“Ready?”
You pull the borrowed goggles down over your eyes, “Ready,” you confirm.
Jinx nods solemnly, and plucks the pin from the grenade in her hands. The tiny piece of metal pings, discarded off the metal turbine blade beneath your feet, and the grenade itself is dropped within the confines of a large perspex tank on the work bench in front of you both.
The lid is quickly latched into place and you both take a few steps back as the grenade begins beeping and flashing within the transparent box.
Jinx holds her breath high in her chest, but it leaves in one irritated rush when a thick, gloopy substance begins oozing from the seams in the metal casing. Not the messy, debilitating explosion she was hoping for.
“Why won’t it work,” she slaps her palm against the glass, causing more goo to ooze from the grenade within, “It’s been months now and I still can’t figure it out.”
“You’ll get there,” you promise, pushing the goggles back up upon your head, “that one was definitely messier than the last.”
“It’s always the non-lethal weapons that cause me the most trouble. I dunno why I bother. I mean sure, temporarily blinding the target will slow them down without killing them, but so would blowing off a leg or two,” Jinx gnaws at her lip and presses her nose up against the glass, peering thoughtfully at the failed experiment, “Dad thinks I should try a weaker casing, but then it might not transport as well…”
She trails awkwardly off, and her eyes flick surreptitiously over to you before she abruptly busies herself with scribbling notes into the journal that lies open next to the tank.
You huff a small laugh through your nose, “You’re allowed to mention him Jinx,” you reassure gently, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Her pen slows to a stop. She doesn’t respond or look at you, but you can tell by her sketchy energy that she’s harbouring a question she’s too shy to ask.
“Go on,” you prompt kindly.
She nibbles on her lip, and blue eyes flick up to meet yours.
“Do you miss him?”
But Silco, I care about you the most of all.
You clear your throat.
I think you’re possibly the most important person in my life.
You nod tightly.
“So much I can barely breathe sometimes.”
A halo of navy sorrow lines her irises, and her brows tilt in simple desolation.
“I don’t understand why you can’t just—”
“I can’t, Jinx,” you interrupt quietly.
Her gaze drops, and her mouth tugs downwards. She returns to her notes.
For several stretched moments the only sounds are the scratch of her pen and the eerie groaning of the abandoned shaft around you. When she speaks again, it’s in a small, sincere voice.
“He misses you too.”
Jinx told me that you’re lonely… is it true?
No.
Is it because you have me?
Yes.
You don’t request elaboration. Nothing can come of knowing but more pain.
And you’re barely dealing with what you already have.
Your gown flows to the floor; draped artfully upon the curves of your body like fine spun spider-silk.
Couples dance gracefully in time with the orchestral music which soars to the ogival arches high above you. Regimental lines of white stone pillars run the length of the ballroom, each one adorned with flickering candles and crystal trinkets that catch the light and reflect it further – dappling the walls with pinpricks of luminosity like suspended raindrops.
Every single face that twirls past you is hidden behind a mask of porcelain or leather, lace or felt. A dizzying array of designs both fantastical and artistic. Adorned with pearls or feathers or jewels. Overlaid with satin or silk or velvet.
You’re certain it would all be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, were your attention not so thoroughly captured by the tall, thin man standing across the dance floor – gazing at you as though you’re a rare and precious treasure that’s just been unearthed.
He’s young. Handsome. Long, sharp features, and thick raven hair styled effortlessly back. He’s wearing the finest suit you’ve ever laid eyes upon, made from a red so rich that your mind cannot comprehend such a shade, and black so dark it seems to swallow the light around it. The top left side of his face is covered with a mask edged in gold leaf, with an unfurled rose where the eyehole should be. Leaving only half a gaze visible to you; vibrant turquoise, brimming with passion and sly mischief.
Surrounded as you may be by opulence and splendour – in your eyes, he puts everything in this room to shame.
The crowd parts readily for him as he strides directly towards you, moving with a lithe grace that commands attention and exudes power.
His arrival culminates in the extension of a long, elegant hand; palm up.
And you take it, without hesitation.
It’s the most natural thing in the world to step within his embrace. His arm winds around your waist, holding you close against him as he begins to lead you with easy confidence in a slow, indulgent waltz.
His voice is as velvet and rich as the lapels on his suit jacket, and more beautiful than the music which echos around you in haunting swells.
“I’ve been looking for you, Darling.”
You nod, “I’ve been looking for you too.”
He smiles. And so do you.
You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment. Peaceful. Happy. You don’t know how you know, but you’re flooded with the unquestionable certainty that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
The press of his brow against yours is achingly tender, and he tilts his face to capture your lips with a kiss that’s soft and sweet.
“Do you want me?” He asks, each word brushing featherlight against your skin.
“Yes.”
You expect him to be happy with your answer. But the corner of his mouth ticks downwards just a little – now sliced with a scar you hadn’t noticed before. And when you look up to his aqua eye, you find the hollow beneath it more prominent. Lines trace the skin that was so smooth mere moments ago, and his raven temples are dashed through with silver.
“How about now?”
“Yes.”
He guides your hand towards the mask he wears. Your fingers slip beneath the gilded edge, and you carefully peel it away. Beneath lies an expanse of mottled grey skin, musculature unmoving, sweeping to his hairline. And set within the centre, like a crowning carnelian jewel, is an unblinking hellfire eye.
Your fingertips gently trace the ridges and grooves, committing the pattern and texture to memory.
“And now?”
“Yes.”
You’re left suddenly cold. His arms no longer around you.
The warm candle glow becomes frigid and pale; watery daylight shining through grimy, broken windows.
The stone arches above you now nothing more than rusted girders and corrugated metal.
Ornamental stone pillars gone, leaving behind only crumbling concrete walls.
An abandoned warehouse. Yes. You’ve been here once before.
He stands in the middle of the space with his back to you.
Blood drips rhythmically from the crimson coated blade in his hand. Each drop clinging to the tip for a second before falling to join the steadily growing pool upon the floor – seeping ever closer to the sundered body at his feet.
His head cocks slightly, predatorily, peering over his shoulder at you with one cold-water eye.
“Do you still want me now?”
“Yes.”
Why can’t he see that you mean what you say?
The dead body at his feet becomes only one of dozens, multiplying each time you dare to blink.
“Are you so sure?” There’s a cruel lilt to his voice. It teases. Toys. And still your answer is immediate and unequivocal.
“Yes.”
Your feet catch and tangle with the bodies that litter the floor. Treading upon purple veins which emit a shimmering vapour as you pass. Your body is weighted and slow, but you desperately battle it all to reach him.
You clutch his shoulder, and turn him to face you fully.
The skin around his left eye is no longer scarred, but scaled.
Each charcoal plate is finished with an opalescent shine, and layered around a garnet eye; cut vertically with a thin, serpentine pupil. And when he speaks, you catch sight of teeth which are just a little too sharp.
“Do you really want me, Sweetheart?”
Your hands rise to caress the silken scales which gradually spread until his entire face is coated, “Yes. I want you, Silco.”
Claw-tipped fingers slide lovingly to your throat, long enough to wrap easily around the entirety of your neck. Talons puncture skin as he steadily begins to squeeze.
“You shouldn’t.”
You jolt upright, tangled within your sheets, hands flying to your neck to feel for wounds that aren’t real, coming away slick not with blood but sweat.
You cradle your brow in your palms, elbows upon drawn knees as you attempt to slow your breathing.
Can’t— Can’t—
Yes, you can. Use me as a guide. In and out. Focus on me, sweetheart.
A chest expanding purposefully beneath your hands. Warm, large palms covering your own.
Breathe.
Breathe.
You keen low and long in your throat like a wounded animal. Fingers digging into your scalp as if to claw the memory straight from your mind.
His ghost is souring your life.
Every day transforms you more and more into a haunted husk and no matter how you try to push him away he always finds you.
Even your dreams aren’t safe.
You snatch the blankets off yourself and swing your feet out of bed.
Your lack of job has fucked with your sleep schedule. You have no idea what time it is and couldn’t care less regardless. You need a walk to clear your mind, and maybe it’ll shake his ghost from your trail too.
You doubt it though.
Mental absence is a dangerous thing in the Undercity, and you should really know better.
But you’re so preoccupied with attempting to rid yourself of the lingering remnants of your dream, and you’re so used to allowing your feet to take you wherever they will, that their route goes unquestioned until the paving beneath your boots begins reflecting a toxic green hue.
You lift your chin, and recoil at the singular, unblinking eye that looms ever watchful upon the outer wall of the club dead-ahead.
Your feet tangle beneath you with the hurried, instinctual retreat they attempt; three clumsy steps backwards that are stilled by the opening swing of the front door, and the familiar, imposing figure which fills the frame.
Your eyes meet, and your heart flatlines.
Storm gaze narrows, and red cape flutters as Sevika begins to stride purposefully for you.
You spin and duck back into the crowd; head down, hands in pockets, moving as fast as you can without drawing anymore attention to yourself. There’s no doubt she’s following – you can feel it in your gut, and you can track how quickly she’s gaining by the way the people in front of you begin to pale and move out the way.
A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, and you squeak in fright. Flesh fingers tighten, encouraging you to continue walking as she falls into step beside you.
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“That’s exactly what someone who was going to kill me would say.”
“If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
She makes a fair point. You relax a little.
Her strides are purposeful, and you’re swept along as she cuts down the Strip, clearly with a destination in mind.
“Where are we going?” You peer up at her from the corner of your eye, but she’s looking dead-ahead, “Are you taking me to him?”
Relief and disappoint turn your stomach equally when she shakes her head with a grunt, “He hardly leaves the Drop anymore. Started delegating a lot of his footwork to the inner circle. Probably for the best right now anyways.”
Your brow pinches, “Why?”
Her gaze slides briefly to you, then away again, “Nothing for you to worry about. Just politics.”
Her words prickle unnervingly at the base of your skull, but you can tell further questioning won’t yield any answers.
“How is he?” You ask quietly instead.
“Miserable asshole.”
“Nothing new then.”
She huffs a small, rueful laugh, “More miserable than asshole these days.”
It’s so fast and subtle that you almost miss it; a fleeting shadow that crosses her face. It’s enough to make you wonder how much of her bitching about Silco is genuine, and how much is habit. You suppose it would be impossible to work with someone so closely for so long without forming some kind of emotional bond, reluctant as it may be.
Her grip tightens, bringing you to a stop outside a nondescript, back-alley bar.
“What are we doing here?”
“You look like you could use a drink. I know I could.”
“Damn Princess. Really? Marcus?”
There’s nothing but drunken mirth in her voice, and dare you say it, a touch of awe? If only for your impressive stupidity. You snort into your glass.
You’ve never been a great fan of tequila. But since Sevika’s buying you don’t have much say in the matter. Besides, after a while the taste becomes inconsequential.
“In my defence,” you slur, “he didn’t haves'he moustache at the time.”
Her laugh is short and rough; teeth flashing in a brief, sharp grin. Her metal arm rests along the back of the cracked leather booth you’ve commandeered, as far away from the jukebox as you can get. The table between you houses a half-full ashtray, a half-empty bottle, and two glasses in constantly fluctuating states of refill.
Your throat burns from an astringent combination of tequila and the pack of cigarettes the two of you have already blasted through together.
Out of everyone you’ve explained what happened to, Sevika has been by far the easiest. There’s been no need to alter your language or censor any details; free to speak plainly.
Being a weensy–teensy bit sloshed helps too.
“Still. Only real reason to fuck an Enforcer is to rob ‘em. Did you at least lift his coin?”
“Ya know, I totally forgot. Was too busy searching ‘round for my lost dignity.”
She chuckles again in time with the hiss of the match she strikes against the edge of the table, lighting the fresh cigarette that’s pinched between her teeth. Turns out tipsy Sevika is a lot more fun than not-tipsy Sevika. But you guess alcohol has a way of loosening even the tightest of asses—
A coffee table full of colourful glass. A small, goofy, over-bitten smile, and round red sunglasses perched upon a sharp nose—
You grab the bottle and slosh a few more fingers worth into your glass before doing the same for Sevika’s.
“It’s all so stupid,” you spit, the alcohol teasing forth part of the anger you’ve been refusing to work through. Same as all the other unwanted emotions you keep squashed away inside, against Max’s advice, “Silco is stupid. And a hypocrite. No one, and I mean no one who hasn’t been around the block a few times fucks the way he does.”
“Ack, Janna,” Sevika hisses with a grimace, “Could’ve done without knowing that.”
“I think some’a my brains are still on his desk.”
“I can change my mind about killin’ you easy.”
“But do you see me marching up there and demanding to know how many holes he’s stuck it in? Nope. ‘Cause I’m a mature adult. I couldn’t care less.”
You punctuate the statement with a large swallow of drink, before returning the glass clumsily to the table. Sevika says nothing as you drag your finger aimlessly around the rim, before flicking your gaze up to her. Grey eyes narrow.
“Soo—”
Your totally innocent question is cut off with a disgruntled scoff.
“Oh come on,” you whine, “I pinky promise not to tell anyone.”
“What makes you think I keep track of how many people he invites to his office?”
“Uhh,” you ponder sarcastically, “your literal job description perhaps?”
She rolls her eyes and you fold your arms upon the table, rocking your glass precariously on the edges of its base by rolling your index finger around the inner rim.
“He was quite the charmer when he was young,” she eventually begins, albeit grudgingly, “Before his eye. Different person most weeks.”
Your childish noise is followed by a pettily mumbled, “Slut.”
“Last several years though?” She shakes her head, “Too busy. Playin’ the part of Industrialist. Bein’ a dad and what not.”
“So there’s been no one?”
She appraises you a few moments, before answering carefully, “He’s hired company on occasion. Few times I’ve seen him pick someone up in the club the old-fashioned way. But on the whole, no. And definitely no-one since you came on the scene, if that’s what you’re angling to know.”
You rumple your nose and let the base of your glass return fully to the table, “Still,” you murmur, refusing to acknowledge the fact you’ve been called out, “Where does he get off penalising me for having a past when he has one too. Worse one by the sounds of it.”
“It’s not that you have a past, it’s that your past involves Marcus,” she says bluntly, “Silco hates the guy. He’d be long-dead if he weren’t so damn useful. My honest opinion? In Silco’s eyes – I can’t think of anyone worse you could’ve fucked.”
Your pathetic whimper is punctuated by the dull thud of your forehead hitting the table.
“Then that shit with the guy in the bar?” She continues as if you haven’t just face-planted the wood, “Bad timing. Sure he would have been pissy and jealous regardless, but not as bad as this.”
“I’m not easy,” you gripe directly into the table, words slightly muffled. You hear the gentle hiss as the tip of her cigarette flares, followed by an exhale of smoke.
“I know you ain’t Princess. He knows it too, deep down. He’s just bein’ a baby. Said it to hurt you.”
She says it like it’s a consolation, but it only makes you feel worse.
“Well it worked.”
Gods you’re pathetic. You don’t know that you’ve ever felt more sorry for yourself.
You straighten when she doesn’t respond, and your head swims as you do; her sombre expression swaying a little in your vision before it settles. Those grey eyes flicker thoughtfully over you, before metal and wood meet as she sits forward in favour of mirroring your own position.
“I don’t mean this to be patronising, and neither is it an excuse; only a reason. But the guy’s been through a lot of shit. More than you probably realise.”
“I know,” you mumble, “I’d know it better if he just opened up to me.”
A sharp hiss of sardonic air through her nose, “That’s the irony of it. If you knew his history then you’d understand better why he has trouble opening up.”
“Is this about the friend that tried to drown him?”
Sevika’s glass stills on its way to her mouth, and her storm-cloud gaze narrows, “Who told you about that?”
“He did.”
And now they widen briefly in surprise before she catches herself, suspicion clearly etched upon her face. Her glass returns to the table untouched by her lips, “When?” It almost sounds like an accusation.
River tousled hair and a high collared coat. Street lanterns casting golden pools upon the ground.
It’s how I got this.
That must have hurt.
Yes, it did. It does.
“Ages ago,” you supply cautiously, “'bout a week after the whole thing with that Garrett guy.”
Her eyes flicker between yours for the longest time. You may be half-way hammered, but it’s obvious to you that she’s piecing some kind of puzzle together in her mind. The last piece slots into place with a small, amused uptick of her mouth.
“Then let me tell you another secret, Princess,” she lowers her voice enough that you’re forced to lean forwards to hear over the drone of the club, “I’ve known Silco a real long time. Most my life. Knew of him from stories about the revolutionaries, til I was old enough to join the cause myself. He’s never had much of a personal life, and what he does have he keeps very private.”
She takes a drag of her cigarette, leaving you hanging on her words until she exhales and continues.
“Even so, I’ve been in his orbit long enough to know that the guy’s never been in a relationship before.”
“But you just said—”
“Sex ain’t a relationship,” she answers before you’ve even finished, “Another thing is that he’s always upfront about what he wants from the get go. Never hangs ‘round when he has his sights set on someone. Which is why I was surprised it took him so damn long to make a move with you. Thought it was just ‘cause you were an employee. But makes more sense now. It can never be just sex when there are feelings involved. Seems even he knows that.”
She pauses to inhale another lungful of smoke, leaving you once again suspended with the mounting implication of what she’s telling you.
“He’s a clever bastard, never gets himself mixed up in anything he doesn’t have the knowledge to navigate, or at least a sure-fire plan of remaining in control of the situation. This thing with you? Prob’ly the first time in his life that he has no idea what he’s doing.”
You blink slowly at her, quietly marvelling in the revelation of yet more uncanny parallels between your life and Silco’s. But your thoughts are cut through with a sudden streak of indignance.
“I don’t know what I’m doing either. Don’t see me going apeshit and flinging bottles around.”
She sucks her teeth as she considers you.
“You know he wouldn’t have hurt you, right? He was aiming to scare.”
Several breaths pass, during which your anger quietens and is swamped by something far more miserable.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly, “I know… not sure how much better that makes it though.”
Sevika only grunts, and reclines back in her seat again.
“Can I ask you something? And promise to answer honestly?”
“When don’t I?”
“Fair,” you admit. You roll your question around your mouth like a pair of dice, before throwing it out onto the table, “Does it make me stupid and pathetic that I still want him?”
She appraises you for several long moments, before shaking her head slightly and knocking some ash off into the tray between you, “Nah. Makes you genuine.”
You blink sluggishly at her, one eyelid slightly delayed by the tequila in your system, unsure what to take from that answer. Smoke funnels from her nostrils as she elaborates.
“You’ve been insisting from the start that you like him for who he is. The fact you still want to be with him after having seen the worst he has to offer means you weren’t bullshitting. I respect that.”
Despite everything, a small bubble of pride swells in your chest at the praise.
“What would make you stupid and pathetic is crawling back to him on your knees. That what you were planning on doing tonight?”
The bubble pops, and you pinch a scowl at her.
“Nuh-uh.”
“What were you doing outside the club then?”
“Accident,” you mumble towards your glass, “Wasn’t payin’ attention to where I was going.”
She hums as she knocks back her drink. You’ve no idea whether or not she believes you.
You look around the dive of a club you’re sat in, so starkly different to The Last Drop. All the punters here look miserable. Dull, blunt, and grey, compared to the sharp, wild, and colourful crowd you used to serve.
There’s no life here. No vitality.
It’s a physical representation of what you’ve had to become in the past month to protect yourself from the thoughts and feelings which wait in the darkest corners inside of you – ready to lash out and crush your heart as soon as you slip up and pay them too much of your attention.
“I dunno what to do with myself, Sevika.”
She refills your glass a little fuller than she has the last several times.
“Same as every other Sump rat,” she says candidly, lifting her glass and tapping it briefly against yours in a sardonic cheers, “Whatever you gotta do to survive."
Three Months
The Lanes never sleep.
The sunken streets may lie beneath Piltover’s heavy shadow, and the faults are numerous and deadly; but no one can claim that the Undercity is boring.
There is always colour to be found, if you can bring yourself to look.
It’s something you used to pride yourself on – the ability to see what others can’t. Some mistook it for simple optimism.
And perhaps they were right all along.
The bass-line is loud in the club. It beats through the concrete floor like a thunderous heart and vibrates through the thick rubber soles of your boots. The room lights up with intermittent flashes; the kind meant to disorientate, to amplify the effects of alcohol and other such substances until you have no idea who or where you are. Only that you’re still alive, and vainly searching for a way to make the monotonous grind of each day more bearable.
You’ve been working here, serving drinks at The Dead End for a few months. It’s as much of a shit-hole as its name suggests, but it’s the only bar you’ve found that’ll touch you now that you’ve become a persona non grata in the club scene. Turns out finding work is nigh on impossible when your previous employer is the most notorious crime lord in the Undercity.
You’ve been a bartender far too long. It’s a vocation you used to enjoy greatly. Until the memory of a man with mismatched eyes and cruel lips began to taint every drink you poured.
You live from day to day. The impulsive itch that used to reside beneath your skin has long since faded to nothing. Leaving you barren, with only enough energy to focus on the immediate present.
Looking back threatens to shine a spotlight on the pain you’ve taken such care to thrust aside and ignore the past few months. Looking forward is equally unthinkable, now that the elusive horizon you used to chase so enthusiastically feels further away than ever before, and no longer holds any interest besides.
You don’t bother to flip the bottle of vodka; simply pour a line of shots into the glasses along the counter in front of you. You spill a little, but the wooden bar is already battered enough that it doesn’t matter. Not that you care anyway. The party of six knock back the crystal liquid without so much as a word to you, and the tiny glasses slam back down on the counter with an almost synchronised thud. You palm their coins and turn to cash them safely in the till.
And you feel it; the second the atmosphere in the seedy club changes.
A weighted hush settles over the crowd despite the blaring music, and the air crackles with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike.
It isn’t quite déjà vu.
Jinx’s energy had been fizzy with youth and bright with excitement. The presence which arrives at the bar directly behind you now holds indisputable gravitas. It’s mature, commanding, and so agonisingly familiar that it fractures the carefully cultivated hollowness you’ve come to rely on. Leaving you vulnerable to the flood of yearning that sweeps in; so strong and swift that you’re drowning within seconds.
You bow your head so low that your chin nearly rests upon your sternum, and you close your eyes for several, hard-won breaths.
How can you hope to prepare yourself for this?
You reach for a clean glass. Add ice. Pour a few fingers worth of the best whiskey this dump stocks.
And you finally force yourself to turn.
Every emotion you should and shouldn’t be feeling meets inside your chest and stomach with a vicious clash, equivalent to the colliding front lines of two opposing armies, and the force of the attack weakens your knees.
All this, simply from laying eyes on him once more.
Silco’s face is marble-hewn. A perfect veneer of dispassion that’s expertly cold and effortlessly cutting.
You’re certain he intended for the frigid detachment to cloak his gaze too. Maybe it did, before you turned around to meet it. But as it stands, his eyes are the only part that gives him away; a hint of something subtle within them that you only recognise for how explicitly it matches your own miserable longing.
He holds himself as assuredly as always. Clothes as crisp and decadent as ever. But the makeup which covers his scarred skin so well doesn’t work quite as effectively at hiding the purple smudge beneath his good eye. And his naturally narrow face seems more gaunt than you remember.
The attention of countless eyes around the club press upon you both, watching, even as they pretend not to be.
But you pay them no heed. All you see is him.
You school your face into neutrality, hold his gaze, step right up to the other side of the bar, and slide his drink across to him.
Dual-eyes flick down to the glass before meeting yours again. One hand removes itself from behind his back to reach for the tumbler, but stills halfway when your fingers unfurl; casually flicking a maraschino cherry into his whiskey.
It plops into the amber liquid, and nestles amongst the ice cubes.
Silco's lips thin.
“A reminder not to piss off the person who pours your drink.”
The orange of his corrupted eye deepens, and the door to the club swings as several people leave in a hurry.
“You wouldn’t have liked it anyway,” you continue flatly, “It’s swill compared to what you—”
“I want you to return to your former position at The Last Drop.”
His demand is blunt, one-note; none of the euphonious timbre with which he usually speaks.
But still your heart rate spikes with ill-advised hope before you can stop it; catching in your chest like a spark to dry tinder.
A chance to return to the job you adore. A chance to see Jinx and Jasper every day.
A chance to be near him again.
If only it were as simple as saying yes.
“You ever heard the saying ‘I want never gets’?”
Silco doesn’t respond. There’s no humour in the quiet tsk of your tongue, or the small roll of your eyes. As endearing as his stubbornness can be, right now it’s only tiresome.
You fold your arms, and rest your weight into one hip, “I already have a job,” you point out, jerking your chin in a vague gesture to indicate the club around you.
“Alcohol sales have dropped since you left.”
“Since I left?” You ask politely, with a benign little head tilt.
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Doesn’t matter,” you continue blandly, once it’s clear he won’t amend his statement, “Your shitty sales aren’t my problem,”
“I can make it your problem,” he growls, low and lethal.
“I highly doubt that,” you respond evenly.
He sucks at his teeth.
“I’ll increase your salary. Twenty-five an hour.”
“Surely that’ll fuck up your profits even more?”
“Thirty.”
“No.”
It’s darkly amusing, how obviously unused to hearing that single syllable he is.
“I thought I proved to you long ago that I’ve little interest in money,” you remind him bitterly. “You may not think much of my clever little words, but surely my actions speak louder?”
There’s a subtle accusation there which you hadn’t initially intended. But now that you’ve spoken it, you stand by it.
Silco merely glowers silently at you.
“So that’s demand, guilt, threat, and bribery you’ve tried so far,” you count each one off on your fingers, “What’s next on your tactic list?”
His expression is dark, and etched with dangerous ire. But you hold your ground, and neither one of you speaks for a very long time.
The club is motionless around you; the entire room rapt by this silent exchange between The Eye of Zaun and a nobody bartender.
Silco’s veneer cracks; no more than a tiny contraction of the muscles either side of his nose and mouth. It might look contemptuous to anyone else, but you’re close enough to witness the quiet desperation that flashes across his eyes, almost too quick to spot.
But not quick enough that it doesn’t wrench painfully at your heart.
His question is rigid, clipped, and reluctant; asked so quietly that you only just hear it.
“What do I need to do?”
You would have thought the answer was obvious.
But perhaps you should know better than to expect any kind of apology from Silco. Especially out here in the open, with a hundred prying eyes upon you both.
Maybe he simply doesn’t know how to say sorry. Maybe he’s not capable of that level of vulnerability after all that’s happened. Maybe a true apology is something that can be worked towards, in time. With the right encouragement. With the reestablishment of trust. Maybe all these things can be achieved if you return to the Drop.
So many maybes, none of which will do any good right now.
You focus on what you do know.
The fact that he sought you out of his own volition says a lot. It may be the bare minimum for some, but for Silco, you know full well what it will have taken for him to initiate first contact. There’s no way he would have even considered doing so unless he felt at least somewhat remorseful for his behaviour.
Maybe that’s enough for the time being. Or maybe you’re just searching for a reason to justify your pathetic desperation to return.
There you go again with the maybes.
What does he need to do? What do you need to not feel like an amenable little lap dog if you accept his offer?
You push his ruined drink to the side and rest your elbows forward onto the counter. You gaze up at him, and he looks down his nose at you. Always so proud. So striking. Secure in his position at the very top of the Underworld.
Your fingers smooth over golden clasps and thick, luxurious fabric. A dark, suspicious eyebrow rises in time with the sensual journey your hand takes up the centre of his chest—
Silco’s palms slam down onto the counter to stop himself face planting the wood with how sharply you wrap his silken tie around your fist and yank; forcefully bringing him down to your level.
The club erupts with movement. Chairs are scraped and knocked over, people back hurriedly away from the bar, leaving an empty radius around the two of you, and a bottle neck forms at the door as most attempt to leave. Those who are too stupid or nosy for their own good gather on the opposite side of the club to watch from afar.
Oh how you’ve missed these eyes.
You’ve a perfect view of them, with how your noses almost touch. His irises burst with beautiful, vivid colours, made impossibly bright and vibrant by the utter, indignant fury that lights them from within.
You dive beneath the oceanic waves of the green. You search through the roaring flames of the orange. And you find what you’re looking for. The monster inside him stares back at you; teeth bared and hackles raised. But firmly at heel.
It’s all the proof you need that he regrets letting it loose the last time.
Which brings you onto your next caveat.
Your lips curl into a small, arrogant smirk.
“You could try asking nicely?”
The entire world holds its breath.
Cream silk stretches taut between you in a deadlock tug-of-war; both of you rigid, straining, and refusing to surrender.
Silco looks absolutely livid; face twisted tight, and gaze positively scorching.
But you wait. You’ll wait all damn night if you must.
His lips barely move. And he speaks so quietly that even from this distance you almost miss the foreign word that passes over his tongue.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
You wouldn’t think it possible for his jaw to tighten any further. But it does.
His nostrils flare with each incensed breath, and it’s with monumental effort that he finally manages to grit out.
“Please, come back.”
You flick your eyes coolly between his, and gradually loosen your hold on his tie so that he doesn’t go flying backwards. In fact, you’re so generous that you even straighten it for him, and tuck the end back into his vest, despite how virulently the ungrateful bastard glares as you do so.
He begins to straighten, but your hand shoots out once more to capture his jaw, and his razor gaze whets even sharper.
You can feel his teeth grinding furiously together beneath your fingers and thumb.
You lean forwards, nose grazing along his cheekbone until your lips brush the shell of his ear.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, Silco, Sweetie.”
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 16 – In which Silco's shirt makes another appearance
Be gone into the world Chapter 15! The bane of my existence for the past two weeks! Shoo! Get outta here!
I hope this was a lot more enjoyable to read than it was to write. Not only is this the longest chapter so far, but it's definitely been the biggest challenge to put into words.
Big big love to Iseutz & Sweatandwoe for being major springboards for this chapter. Ily both *forehead kith* <3
Now that this section is out of the way, I can confirm that DWM will be 18 Chapters long. Which means we're into the final three now, Ratlings. *weep*
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: What Could Have Been - Sting
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I hope you know we had everything
When you broke me and left these pieces
I want you to hurt like you hurt me today
I want you to lose like I lose when I play
What could have been
The world waits poised upon the cusp of summer, days growing warmer as they lengthen.
That’s the first main difference this time around.
The second is that there’s no poor sod being tossed into the muck without his thumb.
But aside from these two details, the similarities are striking.
You stand across from The Last Drop, feeling paltry beneath the symbolic weight of the neon eye mounted high above, harbouring a stomach-full of trepidation, and not quite knowing what you’ll find beyond the glass and iron doorway ahead.
Silco had left almost the second your fingers released his jaw, pausing only long enough to glare at you with enough acrimony to blight the entirety of Piltover.
You’d been fired on the spot, naturally.
Less than a minute after the door had stopped swinging from Silco’s violent exit, your manager had stormed over and told you in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out. You’d done so gladly, with the ghost of a reckless smile touching your lips, and the quiet buzz of adrenaline gathering at the base of your skull and tingling in the tips of your fingers.
For the first time in months, you’d felt somewhat alive .
The echo of that rush still lingers within your extremities now; sitting alongside your trepidation as an opposing force. Just as you did all those many moons ago, you summon your Zaunite-born bravado, lift your chin, and take your first step forwards.
The moment the sole of your boot treads over the threshold of The Last Drop, a great portion of the horrible leaden weight you’ve been struggling beneath finally vanishes. Lifting with the grace of a flock of birds taking simultaneous flight. And you breathe a sigh of relief at the sudden, welcome unburdening of it.
You can’t know for certain, having never experienced such a sensation before, but you imagine this must be what it feels like to return home .
The door behind the bar swings open, and a shock of green hair passes through, giant inked arms laden with a wooden crate full of clean glasses. Jasper pauses when he spots you, and though his face softens marginally it’s still creased enough to suggest mixed feelings about your return.
“Part of me didn’t believe the news when I heard,” he says, setting the crate down on the counter.
Your mouth quirks, and you dip into a small, flourishing curtsy, “Yet here I am.”
“Here y’are indeed.”
The hard edge in his voice has your smile faltering. Perhaps his feelings aren’t so mixed after all.
But you’re granted no time to linger on the fact when a victorious war-cry rings through the club. A lilac blur launches across the dance floor; white teeth, pink trousers and blue hair whizzing straight for you. Jinx takes a running leap, and you stagger under the sudden weight of the fourteen year old who wraps both arms and legs around you like a polecat. But you squeeze back tightly enough to feel her ribs shift, and join in with the giddy enthusiasm of her greeting with an excited squeal and hug-dance of your own.
“Finally!” Her feet touch down and she pulls back enough to scowl at you; face creasing with faux severity, “As your employer I forbid you from ever leaving the premises again. I shall have your belongings couriered over forthwith.”
You snort, “Nice try, but you didn’t hire me this time. So technically you aren’t my boss anymore.”
She snaps her fingers, “Ah monkeys tits.”
Your smile grows in time with the widening of Jinx’s grin, but its progress is halted and reversed when she asks, “So does this mean you and dad have made up?”
You wince at the discordant clatter of glass from the bar, but at least it spares you from having to answer.
“You alright over there?” You ask Jasper pointedly, watching with a raised brow as he unloads the clean drink-ware from the crate more aggressively than necessary, but earning only a dismissive grunt in response.
“Ignore him,” Jinx chimes, tugging at your wrist to drag you along with her to the bar where she clambers onto her favoured stool, “Jaspy’s been extra grumpy lately ‘cause he’s been understaffed for so long.”
You shoot him a sidelong smirk, “How come Jaspy didn’t hire anyone to fill my spot?”
“Wasn’t up to me,” he mutters bitterly. You might take such a snide comment to heart if he hadn’t been diligently feeding you home cooked meals once a week for the past three months. As it stands, his pettiness only confirms your suspicion that you have an unpleasant conversation on the horizon.
“Dad wouldn’t let him at first, then after that it was just a boring security thing.”
“Jinx,” Jasper warns quietly.
“Security thing?”
“Mhm,” she answers absently as she reaches over the counter, pink tongue poking out between her teeth as she blindly feels around beneath the bar, before locating what she seeks with a triumphant “ A-ha!” Her hand retracts holding the maraschino cherry jar, and she pops the lid off and dips her fingers straight in, “There were two assassination attempts in like a week and a half or something like that. So no new hires until Sevika figures out who—”
“Jinx.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically at Jasper, popping three cherries in her mouth at once and licking syrup from her fingers between chews, “No one’s around but us, crabby-pants.”
“Don’t matter. Zip it.”
Their squabbling goes mostly unheard beneath the sudden gush of blood in your ears, and your stomach lurches in a sickening echo of the panic you’d felt upon hearing that first gunshot in the blacked out club, “Multiple attempts?” You round on Jinx, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looks taken aback by your outburst. Her eyebrows shoot up and she pauses her chewing; cheek ballooning like a chipmunk, “I dunno. I— I guess I didn’t think it mattered since they weren’t successful—”
“Is he alright?”
She blinks as though uncomprehending of the question, and you push off the bar in the direction of the stairs so fast that you almost lose your balance.
“Silco’s fine,” Jasper’s tone is sharp enough to pin your feet like an invisible force, bringing you to a halt after barely three steps, “You saw him yesterday didn’t yer? Still in one piece.”
Your pulse slows, and your muscles thaw enough for you to nod at his logic, feeling suddenly stupid at your own overreaction. But your gaze still slides up towards the balcony—
“Oi,” an impatient rap of knuckles against brass draws your attention back, and he’s giving you a particular scowl that’s so wonderfully familiar, “Stop pissin’ around and get downstairs. Kegs need swappin’.”
There’s no helping the grin which splits your face clean in two.
You slip into your old routine as easily as fingers to a tailored glove.
Within the first few hours alone you’re greeted enthusiastically by several regulars, and it feels… nice . You feel wanted. Appreciated . Like this mad, morally and legally dubious little nightclub truly is where you belong, and your place within its walls isn’t mandated by anyone other than yourself.
You secured your place here. You. It’s an odd realisation, to think that after so many years of flitting about the Undercity you’ve finally managed to plant roots.
It feels so good to be back that you hardly spare a thought for the proximity of Silco’s office.
At least until you feel the gravity of his attention upon you.
Still, you resolutely ignore him until you’ve finished serving the customers waiting at the bar. Only then do you look up to meet his gaze.
For all intents and purposes, Silco looks bored out of his mind. Index finger tapping an absent rhythm against the railings to match the beat of the music, looking down the length of his nose with that supercilious, half-lidded arrogance he’s so adept at.
But you know it’s a front. You saw what he was unable to hide yesterday night; the desperation sheltering behind the anger.
A cynical part of you wonders if he’s only here now to check up on how you interact with the customers. But that theory is disproved the next night when he doesn’t show up at the balcony at all. Or the night after that. Or after that.
Seems he only wanted to ensure you’d returned, as per your word.
Something about that softens a little of the hardness you’ve been harbouring. It makes you begin to regret how you handled things at The Dead End.
Despite your banter, you’ve always been careful to maintain a professional boundary with Silco in the public eye. You know it’s vital for him to maintain a certain image. Credibility is everything in Zaun, and for him to remain in his de facto position of rule, his intimidation factor needs to remain intact.
Being manhandled into submission in the middle of a crowded club by a nobody bartender, then allowing said bartender to walk away not only alive, but entirely unscathed? Yeah… you may not have properly considered the potential ramifications of putting him in that situation. No matter how good it had felt to do so. No matter how much he deserved to be brought to heel for a change. The work he does to aggrandise the Undercity is more important than your personal life, and you should have known better.
You can only hope that Silco’s reputation remains iron-clad enough that those who weren’t present to witness the event themselves will dismiss it as an impossible rumour. Other than that… all that’s left is to admit that he’s now owed an apology just as much as you are. You intend to set the precedent. ‘Lead by example’ and all that.
Which is why, come the end of your shift on Friday night, there’s a knot of nerves in your stomach, and a cigar in your pocket. Not nearly as expensive as the previous you’d bought him, thanks to a few months of lacklustre pay, but as nice as you can afford right now.
You hope the gesture will be a good starting point to launch into a civilised conversation.
But your plan begins to crumble like dry sand slipping through your fingers when Jasper reenters the bar with Silco’s bourbon and walks straight past, deliberately avoiding looking at you.
You dart after him to intercept, jogging up the first few stairs to the balcony and blocking his path. He’s unable to fully avoid looking at you now that you’ve brought yourself level with his height, not that he doesn’t try – staring over your shoulder and sucking his teeth irritably.
“Uh, isn’t that my job?” You ask pointedly, indicating the bottle.
“Not anymore it ain’t,” he answers bluntly.
You step into his path when he attempts to pass, and in an instant the energy between you becomes fraught with tension. He finally meets your gaze; hardened hazel eyes staring wilfully into your own, and you prepare yourself for the lecture you’ve been expecting for days.
As usual, Jasper gets straight to the point.
“Listen to me good an' proper. I told you once and I’ll tell you again – you’re fuckin’ lucky to be alive. Don’t push it.”
“And how many times do I have to tell you – Silco won't hurt me.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Didn’t seem so sure o' that when you were high-tailin’ it outta his office.”
Your muscles seize with indignance, but your brain is unable to formulate any kind of viable response to what is, in essence, an entirely fair observation. Still, you seethe quietly, and the only consolation is that Jasper exhibits no triumph, only a grim sort of anger.
“Honestly kiddo, I dunno what the hell you were thinkin’ comin' back.”
“You don’t want me here?”
“I want you safe. ”
“So you couldn’t give two shits that I’ve been completely miserable?”
You regret your words as soon as they leave you, and your guilt doubles down when Jasper winces, and murmurs, “That’s not what I said.”
“I know, it’s just—” you sigh, and your fingers rise to fiddle anxiously with the bannister, “I want to work things out with him.”
“You can’t be serious?” Meaty fingers comb back through his hair, further dishevelling the already messy mullet, “You got your old job back. You’re unharmed. Can’t yer just let sleepin’ dogs lie?”
“No,” you say with an incredulous head shake, annoyance taking charge once more.
“You’re an attractive girl,” his voice is almost pleading, whiskey sloshing within the confines of the bottle as he gesticulates, “Quick as a whip. Buckets of charm. You could have your pick of anyone to fool around with—”
“We aren’t just fooling around, Jasper, and you know that,” you snap, “I'm well aware you don’t approve of mine and Silco’s relationship, but you don’t get to diminish what we have just to make yourself feel more comfortable.”
His stubbled jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. You’re left feeling somewhat winded by your own outburst. It’s almost a relief to admit it aloud; that whatever this… thing is between you and Silco, it far surpasses a that of stupid, mindless fling.
Jasper’s voice is quiet and rough, his gaze pinned on you from beneath the shadow of his lowered brows, “You can’t fix him.”
“I don’t want to fix him,” you respond wearily, rubbing the inner corners of your eyes, “There’s nothing to fix. Not to me at least. He needs a bit of house-training, sure. But I’m not looking to change him.”
“After what he did—”
“Oh I’m still pissed about that. I haven’t forgiven him, and there’s no way in hell we can move forwards until he apologises. But the point is that I want to move forwards. I want to put the work in—”
“ Kid —”
“Don’t patronise me Jasper,” your voice rises with your sudden spike of desperation, and you gesture wildly over towards the stairwell, “If I don’t take up his bourbon then he’s gonna take it the wrong way—”
“I ain't sending you up there.”
“We’ve already got so much shit to figure out. Keeping me from him is just going to make it worse—”
“I ain’t keepin’ you—"
“He’ll be expecting me—”
“No, he won’t,” Jasper bites harshly enough that your jaw snaps shut with a clack of teeth. He empties his lungs, and as he does his expression softens. Pity, you realise with a sickening jolt.
“He's instructed you ain't to take his whiskey up no more.”
A horrible, viscous numbness spreads through your limbs and coats your innards. Making the sudden, unwanted buzzing behind your nose even more prevalent. Your jaw works a few seconds, before you drop your gaze and croak, “I see.”
The worst part is that you aren’t even surprised.
Of course this was going to happen. You should have seen it coming a mile off.
Jasper’s hand alights on your shoulder and squeezes as he steps past you.
“Gimme ten minutes. I’ll walk you home.”
You nod down towards your boots, but the second he disappears up the stairwell you collect your belongings and leave.
Your own arm wraps around your middle, providing a shelf for your opposite elbow to rest upon.
Smoke twists idly from the cigarette between your fingers, dissipating into the night air. Your thumb metronomes back and forth; switching between tapping an absent rhythm off the filter with the pad, and anxiously tracing the shape of your lower lip with your nail. Intermittently removing the appendage altogether in order to take a drag.
You blankly contemplate the wall opposite where you lean beside the side entrance to the Drop. The music is a muffled thump at your back, bleeding through brick and metal to vibrate against your shoulders, as dull and repetitive as the churn of your mind, and the general hubbub of the Lanes overlays atop it all just beyond the mouth of the alley.
Your attention is drawn when the click of two pairs of footsteps detach from the crowd and pause just inside the entrance to the passage. They haven’t spotted you yet, which is just as well, because you’re pretty sure your face is giving away the flurry of nerves which suddenly strum at the insides of your ribs.
Sevika you’ve seen around the club since your return, and have chatted very briefly a couple of times. But Silco you haven’t seen since your first shift back over two weeks ago now, when he’d appeared at the balcony railings.
They speak for several moments, heads bowed low together, before Sevika nods and turns back out onto the Strip. Leaving Silco alone.
His demeanour already speaks of annoyance, but his features winch even tighter when he spots you loitering against the wall. He hesitates only a split second, no doubt deliberating turning for the front entrance instead, but the line of his mouth sets with his resolve, and he strides directly for the door to your side.
Pointedly not looking at you.
A flurry of orange embers shoot from the tip of your cigarette as it hits the ground, abandoned, and you grab the door before it closes, forcing your way through behind him. Long-legged bastard is already halfway down the corridor towards the club.
“Silco,” you snap sharply.
He doesn’t pause, shoulders swaggering with his usual hubristic gait despite the speed of his steps. You run to catch up, calling his name again as you reach out. Your fingers graze the sleeve of his coat, but he shifts his arm, snatching it away.
You lurch forwards, and your fingers gain purchase around his wrist, “Silco—”
Between one blink and the next your back hits the wall; the grasp on his wrist easily broken and reversed so that it’s yours now pinned against the concrete beside your head. Your body trapped beneath the hard press of his.
There’s fire in his eyes, and his breath fans hot and ragged across your lips, face hovering barely a handspan away from yours. There’s far too much raging across his features for you to keep track of.
Against all logic, all self-respecting principles, your mind and body dismiss everything that’s happened the past few months. You forget to be angry. You forget how much you’re hurting. It’s as though you reset to the last moment in time in which he had you pinned up against this very wall, in almost this exact spot.
Every fibre of your being sings in response to him. The warmth and shape of his slender body. The spice and smoke smell of him. The unmistakable thrum of his mesmeric energy, altering the very fabric of the atmosphere wherever he goes.
Everything which makes up your physical form is drawn forwards. Cells, atoms, vessels, capillaries, blood, bone, and tissue – it all seems to press urgently up beneath your skin in a visceral need to be closer to him.
And he too seems to forget, because the breaths which were ragged with fury begin to transform into something more desperate. The bruising grip he has on your wrist no longer driven by anger, but need.
You’re both caught within this magnetic force. Although Silco seems intent on battling it; trembling the barest amount, even as his face inches closer, brow twisted as though in pain.
Your eyelids become heavy, breaths mingling in the sliver of space which separates your lips from his. Those stubborn, dark hairs which always seem intent on escaping his careful styling fall forward to brush your brow, and that alone is enough to make you shiver against him.
And this time when you speak his name it’s almost inaudible, carried upon a sigh, and containing an unspoken plea.
Talk to me.
But it goes unanswered. Silco’s features twist abruptly – right eye squeezing shut and chipped teeth a flash of bone-white to accompany a streak of anger which you can tell is directed at himself. You almost sink to the ground with how abruptly he disappears, leaving you reeling from the loss of his touch. The loss of him.
It takes the slam of the door to break you from your stupor. For you to remember all the shit he’s pulled and for your own anger to hit like a flash flood.
You push off the wall and burst through into the club, immediately spotting the telltale shape of his collar already heading up the balcony stairs. You dash after him, but Silco has the luxury of a crowd that’s willing and eager to part, while you’re left to elbow your way through the mass of bodies which block your way.
The hem of his coat disappears up the stairwell and the entrance is immediately blocked by a large body who watches your approach placidly, arms folded across his barrel chest.
You come to a breathless stop in front of Vill, “I just need to talk to him.”
The bearded man shakes his head, “No can do. I’m under orders.”
“Not to let anyone pass? Or just me?”
His silence is telling. As is the hint of pity in his gaze. You’re sick and tired of being seen as pitiable. But you’re even more sick and tired of Silco’s ridiculous behaviour, and if Vill already thinks it of you, when what else have you got to lose?
“Please, Vill,” you clutch your fists to your chest and turn imploring eyes on him, “Can’t you look the other way, just this once? You know me. I’m hardly going to hurt him, am I? Please.”
His mouth ticks downwards, “Sorry,” he says simply.
A depthless chasm yawns open inside of you, and for a few horrible seconds you do nothing but free fall.
You turn and begin to walk slowly away. But each step rallies your fury until you’re rife with it, and by the time you reach the dance-floor you’re all but charging towards the exit, your boots slapping the ground with enough force to reverberate up your shins.
Yet another hulking figure blocks your way, and your skin crawls with hot resentment at the interference.
“Where d’ya think you’re goin’?”
“Home,” you spit above the music, stepping around Jasper.
He moves into your path again and you swear you see red.
“No, you ain’t,” Jasper growls, his anger immediately rising to butt heads with yours. He thrusts a belligerent finger over your shoulder, “Get back behind that bar.”
“No.”
“I’m not askin' yer kid, I’m tellin' you—”
Blue fire scorches through your veins in a destructive rush ; purging you of any common sense.
“And I’m telling you, no,” you look him dead in the eye, “I quit. ”
Jasper’s jaw juts, and his nostrils flare, “No, you fuckin' don’t.”
“Yeah, actually, I do .”
“No,” he grabs you roughly by the tops of your arms when you try to pass again, and drags you to face him, shaking you slightly as he hisses, “If you quit, Silco wins.”
Your entire skull aches with how hard your teeth grind. You shake your head, prising your jaw apart enough to snarl, “He can’t beat me in a game I’m no longer playing.”
You take advantage of Jasper’s surprise to yank yourself free from his grip.
And this time he doesn’t stop you when you storm past, slam your palms against the door, and disappear into the night.
The only thing your apartment has going for it is the view from your window.
The ramshackle building may be located deep down in the Sumps, but your top-floor residence offers an impressive view out over the sunken-most level of the Undercity. Various buildings and elevated walkways interrupt the vista, keeping it from being truly expansive, but you’re still afforded glimpses of vibrant market stalls and flashing business fronts between the glass and iron gaps.
The panorama serves as a reminder that life always finds a way of thriving, even in the deepest, darkest, forgotten most cracks of the world.
Which is why you often find yourself tucked into the alcoved window-sill; just wide enough to accommodate your hips so that you can sit with your knees pulled towards your chest and your side pressed against the cool, grimy glass, contemplating life with a cigarette between your teeth.
But tonight you’re not so much contemplating as you are moping.
And it isn’t cigarette smoke that’s drifting out through the ajar window to join the putrid city air, but rather cigar smoke; the one you’d purchased as a stupid, futile reconciliation gift. It’s a poor, poor imitation of the one Silco had shared with you – the taste of which had been as rich and complex as the fevered kisses and sensual touches which had followed.
The one clutched between your fingers now tastes stale and one-dimensional.
A chilly breeze snakes in, slithering against your skin and raising goosebumps in its wake. You could put on a sweater. But the point of this exercise is self-indulgent wallowing. So you remain stubbornly wearing only Silco’s shirt. And if that wasn’t pathetic enough, you also have an uncapped bottle of bourbon clutched to your chest, picked up on your fury-fuelled journey home and already a few swallows lighter, as well as Silco's picture propped up in your lap.
And in the spirit of your backwards hedonism, you haven’t bothered to stop the pad of your index finger from stroking across the glossed surface of the polaroid. Tracing the tense outline of his body. Touching each disgruntled feature upon his face one at a time. Brushing the ebony strands of hair that aren’t yet styled back.
You have no idea if this is what Max meant when he told you to ‘feel your feelings’, but at this point you’re desperate enough to try anything to rid yourself of the chronic, bone-deep ache which plagues you.
Even if it means finally forcing yourself to examine the knotted mess of emotional crap you’ve kept diligently shoved to the back of your mind. You realise perhaps Max was right. Delaying this may not have been the best idea. Because everything seems to have augmented while you were busy ignoring it, and now you’re faced with the task of unpicking over three months worth of grief and resentment; threatening to suffocate you with how it attempts to claw its way out all at once.
You can barely breathe through the way it clogs your lungs and sticks in your throat.
Though your eyes remain as resolutely dry as ever, you don’t know that you’ve ever felt so utterly desolate as you do right now.
You miss him. You miss him so much.
You miss your friend.
And the worst part is that you know he’s suffering too. Needlessly. You’re left feeling as though you’re bearing the weight of both his misery and yours and it’s unfair.
All of this is unfair.
Your head thunks back against the alcove wall, and your cheek drops towards your shoulder, looking out to the world beyond your apartment.
You don’t live too far from the Strip. So you can just about make out the watery mirage of neon colours which stain the air in the distance. It’s easy to pick out the particular green tinge which belongs to The Last Drop.
You draw a mouthful of smoke, and exhale. The grey cloud momentarily blocks out the green, but inevitably the sickly glow bleeds through again.
You raise the bottle to your mouth, but are absent enough to half miss it; slopping whiskey down your chin and the front of your shirt. You growl your annoyance as you swallow what you did manage to catch, and scrub the rest from your chin and neck with your sleeve.
You used to be full of energy. You used to possess an insatiable zeal for life that many found borderline annoying. Now you’re nothing more than a dull, pathetic blob, slowly collapsing in on yourself like some formless wax structure that’s finally succumbed to the heat. Yearning for some asshole as though he’s the be-all and end-all of your existence.
If anyone else behaved the way he has you’d be shot of them in an instant, and glad for it.
But there lies the problem.
Silco isn’t just anyone else. He’s Silco. And you aren’t sure you can give him up, even if you wanted to.
You have no idea what comes next.
You’re jobless. Your reputation is in tatters. And the little voice inside you that so often offers guidance has become suspiciously silent. It’s at this point you suppose any sensible person might seek counsel from someone they trust, but your options are thin on the ground.
Jinx would be biased, and too young to truly understand the elements at play. Jasper too would be unfairly biased. Sevika would just tell you to suck it up, which isn’t actually any help from a practical standpoint. Max would be soothing, but would ultimately speak in emotional riddles which aren’t what you need right now.
No, you need someone with life experience. Who knows what it’s like to hit rock bottom, and be faced with the onerous climb back up again. You need someone who knows you well enough to instinctively understand what it is you need to hear.
You huff a humourless laugh into your empty apartment. The person you need life advice from right now is a middle-aged Kingpin who’s the root of your damn troubles in the first place.
Still, you close your eyes and try to conjure what he’d have to say on the matter. It’s surprisingly easy. Silco’s voice unfurls in your mind; velvet and sonorous.
“It is easy to spend an entire lifetime wallowing in the pain of the past. But inevitably time marches on, and no matter the shadows we may attempt to hide within, the future always finds us. It is best to meet it head on, and to utilise the sharpened edges of yesterday to shape tomorrow into what you desire it to be.”
Imaginary Silco is right. It used to be second nature to plough onwards, but somewhere along the way you’ve forgotten how. Perhaps it was when the present became where you wished most to linger.
So what is it that you desire of tomorrow? Too much. Too many future wishes which battle for attention and may not even be possible in the first place. You pick the simplest and broadest.
Peace.
You need peace from the desperate, confusing crush of emotions which coalesce inside you; stacking like leaden weights and dragging you down further and further into dangerous depths with each passing day.
Enough. Enough, now.
The first step towards shedding this oppressive load is to voice everything you’ve been denied the opportunity to express.
The tip of your cigar splits with how furiously you stub it out on the window sill, leaving behind a charred smudge that’ll no doubt come out of your security deposit. One more swallow of whiskey for luck, before you discard the bottle beside your ruined cigar. Furious determination has you striding straight from your apartment and back down into the Lanes.
It’s time for you to say your piece. And like fuck is anyone going to stop you.
You aren’t risking the front entrance.
Using your staff key, you slip in through the side door to the club and head straight downstairs. You’re too riled up to remember to knock, but she owes you a free pass in this arena anyway.
Jinx is sprawled casually across her bed, and blinks owlishly up at you over the top of her journal when you burst in.
“I need you to get me past Vill,” you say without preamble.
Her gaze darts to the oversized shirt you’re wearing, and back to your no doubt resolute expression.
Her mouth curls upwards, “Hope you aren’t scared of heights.”
The Last Drop is labyrinthine inside; tall and compact, with various extensions which have clearly been bolted on over the years.
While Silco’s guarded stairwell is the only direct route to his office, there are other ways to reach the upper levels of the club. Jinx brings you to a different flight of stairs hidden out back, which lead directly up into an open attic space at the very top of the building.
Dust motes swirl lazily in the dank air, and the rotting floorboards creak under foot. Old broken furniture and various other detritus fill the room, half covered beneath musty sheeting. You follow Jinx as she weaves a path over to the far corner, and points down to a jagged hole in the floor, mostly blocked from sight behind a filthy chest of drawers and an upturned, three-legged table.
“Follow the trail until you get to the gap in the wall. It’s a tight squeeze, but you should be fine. Then hey presto, you’re in. The drop looks a lot farther than it is, so don’t think too hard about it. But also make sure to bend your knees so you don’t break your legs, ‘kay?”
You huff a laugh, suddenly thankful for that last swig of booze you’d taken before you left. It’s certainly giving you the courage you need.
“Trail?”
“You’ll see.”
You squat and swing your legs over the edge, peering down into the gloom for a moment before looking back up at Jinx.
“So how often do you spy on your dad?”
“It’s not spying if he knows I’m there.”
“He always knows?”
Her mouth twitches in a benign little smile, and your gaze narrows.
“Oh relax. I don’t bother eavesdropping when you’re in there… on the whole.”
“On the whole?”
“Promise you’ll find me afterwards? Tell me how it went?”
You sigh through your nose and arch an unamused eyebrow at her, but thrust out your pinkie finger all the same. She latches onto it with a grin.
“Thanks chickie,” you say earnestly, before shifting your backside forwards and dropping down.
You find yourself in some kind of enclosed crawl space, full of pipes and wires, and even more filthy and dank than the attic above. It’s dark, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the fluorescent scribbles which lead the way forwards. Trail indeed.
You follow the colourful markings on your hands and knees, trying not to think too hard about the origins of the grime which quickly stain your skin and trousers, or the way the walls seem to press ever tighter around you. It isn’t long before your path is blocked by wooden-slatting, but there’s a small gap in the boards just as Jinx promised.
You suck in a breath, compacting yourself as small as possible to squeeze through. Splintered edges catch at your hair and clothing, but you make it to the other side—
Your head spins, and your body lurches forward on instinct; knuckles shining through skin as you grip the beam beneath you, suddenly finding yourself high up in the rafters above Silco’s office.
A lot of the furniture and decor is new, you note vaguely. But really your attention is drawn directly to the man himself; sat at his desk, scribbling onto some kind of map hard enough that you’re surprised the paper doesn’t rip.
You can only see the top of his head from this angle, brow propped against fingertips as he works. A half finished cigar smoulders in his ashtray next to his elbow, alongside a mostly empty tumbler.
The rafters intersect at varying levels, and you can see the route Jinx usually takes down by the continuation of colours, and by the various strung explosives which you only hope aren’t live.
You inhale deeply and silently, and begin to carefully shimmy your way along the beam. You make it to the first intersection, and hold on tight as you swing your legs over, only letting go when your boots touch the metal below.
“Not now, Jinx. I’m busy,” comes a weary voice from underneath you. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and your stomach flips with the dizzy thrill of being caught. You no longer bother to remain silent, even though he hasn’t yet figured out the true identity of his guest.
You crawl along to the next crossing, right over his desk, and once again deposit yourself onto the beam underneath; the lowest level you can get to before all that’s left is to make the final drop.
A sigh floats up from below.
You look down in time to watch Silco discard his pen in irritation and turn his gaze upwards.
Your eyes meet.
“You’re a coward.”
You spit the accusation virulently down at him before he can speak. But he only stares up at you, completely stupefied.
You’ve no idea how long you have until he gathers his wits, and there’s no way you’re having this conversation from up here. Wouldn’t do for you to call him such a name and then hide in the rafters.
Pure, stubborn resolve has you hugging the beam and swinging your legs over the side. You grip the edge of the iron support and lower yourself as much as you’re able, before steeling your nerves and letting go.
For a surreal moment, you’re weightless. The ends of your hair float around your face as you fall, and then your boots connect with the ground. Splinters of pain shoot up your legs, but you remember to bend your knees; landing in a haphazard crouch directly in front of his desk.
You straighten, ignoring the sharp throb of your shins in favour of planting your feet adamantly and fixing Silco with a determined glare.
“It wasn’t fake. None of it was fake, and I think you know that. Which means you’re nothing more than a coward.”
You expect a flash of anger. But his expression becomes flat. Dull. Cold.
His chair creaks ominously as he stands, and your chest rises and falls furiously in time with each carefully measured step he takes around the edge of his desk. You turn to him as he approaches and comes to a stop a few feet away from you, folding his hands behind his back.
His gaze dips briefly to the shirt you’re wearing, and the scar on his lip shifts.
“A bold statement,” he says innocuously, as though you’ve actually made nothing more than a banal observation, “Do you have any intention of corroborating it?”
An incredulous hiss of air leaves you, “Running away from me earlier tonight isn’t corroboration enough? Or the fact you have your guard-dog keeping me out?” Your breathing hitches against your will, and your voice hikes in volume and pitch, no longer able to contain the pain of your time spent apart, “Or that it took you three months to get over yourself enough to come and find me? Three months, Silco. And still you haven’t even attempted to apologise for what you did.”
Your anguish fills the room; thick and fast enough to drown the both of you. It might, if it weren’t for the void of Silco’s indifference sucking everything into its cruel vacuum.
You thrust a horrendously unsteady finger towards his motionless face, “I think you’re scared. I think you’re scared of how you feel about me, and I think you’re scared that it’s something you can’t control. I think you’re scared that you were desperate enough to beg me to come back. Am I about right?”
He doesn’t answer. Not that you expected him to. But his uncrackable stoicism sends all the emotions already raging beneath your skin spiralling into overdrive.
It’s now that you begin to regret the whiskey. Not that you’re even remotely drunk. But even sober you have a tendency to word-vomit when impassioned, and the warm buzz of alcohol in your system now only speeds along the process.
“So what was the point? What was the point of going through all that to get me back here if you’re just going to shut me out again? You’re behaving like a child. It’s embarrassing.”
Silco’s mouth thins the barest amount. It’s something, but it’s not nearly enough. Here stands a man who holds the world in his palm, yet only throws meagre scraps to you as and when it suits him. Well you’re through with accepting what little he’s willing to offer.
“Did you ever stop to consider that this is scary for me too?” Your palms meet your chest with a resounding smack, “I don’t allow myself to get close to very many people, Silco. Especially not romantically. I’ve never been in a committed relationship before either. Did you know that?”
Perplexion creases his brow for a fleeting second, but you offer no explanation for how you came to know this information about his past. He doesn’t deserve one.
“It’s because I’ve never met anyone I felt strongly enough about to consider it. I think it’s glaringly obvious that I have some commitment issues, okay? Seeing as I can’t hold down a fucking job longer than a few months. But you?” Your voice softens marginally, more of a defeated, momentary loss of steam than anything else, “I was ready to try. I wanted to try, if that’s what you wanted too.”
It’s a big thing for you to admit, and his lack of reaction sends your fury through the roof. Enough that your hands start to shake, and you’re forced to begin pacing back and forth in an attempt to expel the excess energy from your body. In an attempt to refrain from throttling him.
“Cause see, that’s the other thing. I have no idea what you want from me. You know, for someone who loves the sound of his own voice you can be real shit at communication sometimes. All our problems could be solved if you were just honest with me about your feelings."
A small voice in your head points out your hypocrisy, but you swat it away. At least you’re trying now. Better late than never. Seems Silco’s still stuck on never. You barrel on. Words spill straight from your mouth without the resistance of any kind of mental filter, and Silco becomes the maddeningly apathetic axis around which you manically storm.
“But that’s the other issue isn’t it. How can you be honest with me if you refuse to even be honest with yourself? Well I hate to break it to you sweetie, but pretending not to care about me doesn’t make it true.”
A blinding flash of hurt streaks through you. Causing your feet to pause briefly in their aimless journey as you spin towards him, voice rising almost shrilly.
“I mean for Gods’ sake, Silco! You won’t even face me while you fuck me. The hell is up with that?! You won’t even take your clothes off! You trusted me enough to stab a needle in your eye, but not enough to let me see you naked? Do you know how ridiculous that is?!”
He remains wholly static, other than the even rise and fall of his chest and the sharp track of his eyes, watching your every movement.
“Is it because you’re self-conscious? Ha! No,” you shake your head and resume your pacing, “No, I don’t think it is. I think you know full well how attractive I find you. And if you don’t, then you should. No, I think it’s because you know that if you undress for me and you hold me and are forced to look into my eyes then there’ll be nothing for you to hide behind. There’ll be no choice but to be emotionally vulnerable and that terrifies you.”
You dig trembling fingers back through your hair, nails scraping your scalp to ground yourself.
“No. No, it’s much easier for you to play with me on your own terms. To sit up here in your Ivory Tower and call upon me whenever it pleases Your-fucking-Majesty. Well that isn’t how this works Silco. I’m not a toy, I’m a person and you’re hurting me.”
His expression remains tight but unemotional, and it requires all the rapidly fraying willpower you possess not to beat your fists against his chest. Not to grab his waistcoat and shake a reaction from him. You stride back towards him and stop toe to toe, snarling up into his frigid face.
“You take and you take and you take, and you refuse to give anything back and it’s not fair.”
Your fingers rise and curl in the air between you, needing to claw at something. You grab onto the collar of your shirt. His shirt. Still damp from the bourbon you’d spilt down yourself whilst wallowing alone in the dark like a pathetic, feeble shadow of your former self.
A ragged, sour noise pushes past your lips, half-way between a demented laugh and a dry sob. You fling your arms wide. “Look at me! Look at what you’ve done to me. I’m a mess and it’s your fault. You’ve ruined me and I fucking hate you for it. I hate you,” it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him. It shreds from your throat in an impassioned scream; the sheer force of it dredging up the deepest layers of your distress and flinging them out into the open for all to see,“I hate how much I still want you. How much I need you. I hate how much I lov—”
You slam your mouth shut and spin frantically away from him, burying your face into your shaking hands and dropping down onto your haunches. Your laboured breaths dampen your palms, and you force away the quiver in your lip, the blurred burn in your eyes.
You straighten. Keeping your back to him as you take a few steps away to focus on calming down, shaking your hands out by your sides as though flicking away droplets of water from your fingertips. You inhale several deep breaths.
And when you feel steady enough, you turn back to face him.
Silco’s chest rises and falls a half-beat quicker than before, and his aquatic eye is no longer quite so arrogantly lidded. But other than that, his maddening, insulting neutrality remains intact.
Several measured steps bring you to him, and you try not to think of the time-altering kiss you’d shared the last time you stood toe-to-toe on this rug. Your pulse throbs in your temples, and your cheeks burn from the emotional exertion of your wrathful tirade. Your hands ball loosely at your side, clenching and unclenching in time with the grind of your jaw.
“I thought better of you, Silco,” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat, then swallow to steady it again, “I thought of you as a man who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted in life. But turns out you’re nothing more than a coward.”
Bitter disappointment laces that final word; the bookend to your piece.
You’ve said what you needed to say, and you have absolutely no idea what comes next. You don’t even know what you’re hoping for.
You gaze silently into his devastating eyes, and wait out the deafening silence.
At last, Silco speaks; voice low and flat.
“Therein lies your first mistake.”
You don’t blink. You don’t even breathe . Simply stare as his gaze hardens over. Irises dulling. Fossilizing.
His lips barely move.
“You should never have thought better of me.”
Your heart breaks.
You’ve resisted its demise valiantly for months now. Desperately clutching at the slowly rupturing organ in a vain attempt to hold it all together. But your energy finally drains dry.
And you allow the pieces to fall to the ground around you, a ring of shattered glass, crushed to fine crystal dust beneath your boots as you turn from Silco and walk away.
Your mind is blank. Empty. Unable to comprehend the music which blasts around the club as you pass through. Every step mechanical.
You exit The Last Drop.
You drift through the Lanes.
Something warm slips down your cheek. You brush it away with the sleeve of his shirt.
Another follows.
Your breath shudders on your inhale, and you’re unable to battle the way your face crumples.
It rises from your stomach and up through your chest like a colossal, tidal surge, and you lurch down the nearest alleyway; squatting down in the filth just as the first heartbroken sob forces its way from your throat.
The wall is frigid and abrasive against your back, but the flow of your tears is hot and unending; sliding over cheeks, curling beneath your jaw, and dampening your neck. The sound of your weeping is wretched and pathetic, and echoes much too loudly off bricks and metal around you, but you can no longer bring yourself to care. You rock back and forth, digging the heel of your hand into your sternum as though you might be able to massage away the unbearable pain of your broken heart.
Footsteps click down the passage towards you, the sound spiking your heart rate, and a shadow looms suddenly over where you’re hunched in on yourself.
You inhale sharply as you snap your head up, but exhale again a moment later at the familiar figure.
You sniff raggedly, and scrub at your runny nose and wet cheeks with your sleeve, unable to summon any embarrassment at this point.
Your voice comes out thick and dull, “What're you doing here?”
They don’t answer.
Simply raise their fist.
And a sharp crack to the side of your head sends the world spinning into darkness.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 17 – In which Silco cashes in his IOU
Another chapter which took a loooong time to come together properly. But ohohoho now that it has, I'm rubbing my little author hands together gleefully.
Only two more chapters to go :'(
I recently posted a chunky Silco POV over on my Tumblr, of rat man trashing his office at the end of Chapter 14. If you missed this then the link can be found via the below master list under 'Red - A Silco POV'
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: What Could Have Been - Sting
Chapter Text
I can hear the sound of a heartbeat
Before it goes out
Won’t ever leave my memory
Of bloodshed all around
And I can see a tear on my father’s face
Before it falls out
Oh my enemy
How could I have ever let you down?
You retch violently at the acrid sting which forces its way up your nose; wrenching you back to consciousness.
Your body attempts to lurch forward with the convulsion of your stomach, but the coarse ropes which bind your torso to the chair stop you from doing so. Instead, you remain upright as you choke; each hacking cough rattling your brain horribly around the inside of your skull while your lungs fight to rid themselves of the sour bite of ammonia.
“She’s up. I want everything in place within five minutes. I’m not risking an interruption.”
An unknown female voice. Frank and tuneless.
The world spins and wavers around you. Mind fighting to keep pace with the present. You squeeze your eyes open and closed over and over in an attempt to clear the stubborn blur from your vision. Shifting in your seat, it becomes quickly apparent that in addition to the length of rope which coils around your body like some fibrous boa constrictor, your feet and wrists are also bound together, the latter pulled harshly back behind the chair in a way that strains your shoulder sockets.
Sound travels weirdly here. Boots on concrete, half echoing off corrugated metal, half absorbed out into the night through broken glass windows. A warehouse. Dim, cold, and familiar despite its generic appearance. Humanoid shapes mill around the vast, open space. You can’t get an accurate read on how many for the way their silhouettes merge and split like lipid pools of oil. Ten? Twelve? Your brain is too woozy to keep track. Some merely stand around for clout. Others are setting up free-standing rigs. Hooking stage lights atop them. Unwinding bundles of cables…
A figure approaches your chair and drops to their haunches in front of you.
You don’t know this woman.
Or do you? Her face feels familiar somehow, even as it doubles; overlapping in gauzy layers which swim across your vision.
“Shit,” she chuckles hollowly, with not an ounce of humour as she scrutinises you, “How hard did you hit her?”
Things begin to become a little more focused. Not as quickly as you’d like, but enough for memories to begin slotting into place. Silco’s parting words. The ripping sensation inside your chest. The fountain of tears which have since dried to a salty residue on your lashes, sticking together with each hazy blink. The shadow in the alley…
You lift your head, heavy as it is, and locate the familiar, hulking figure watching you both from several feet away.
Arms crossed, and placid as always.
Your lips are slow and fuzzy, tongue heavy, and the dry rasp of your voice only adds to your spitting vitriol.
“Vill, you son of a bitch.”
Your head snaps to the side. It takes a second after the echoing crack for the white hot sting in your cheek to register. You squeeze your eyes shut a few times to clear the stars from your vision, and roll your jaw to ease the oppressive ache.
“I don’t take kindly to familial disrespect,” the woman says evenly, as though she hasn’t just backhanded you. But a thread of dangerous venom begins to weave its way through her voice as she continues, “Though I suppose it’s unrealistic to expect you to show my cousin any respect, given what you did to my brother.”
Realisation dawns like a parting curtain, and once the picture becomes clear you have no idea how you didn’t make the connection immediately.
The resemblance is uncanny, despite her lack of facial tattoos and her unaltered teeth. The white blonde hair that’s pulled back in a simple ponytail is unmistakable. As are the angular features and impossibly ice blue eyes – piercing you now with ten times the amount of hostility that Garrett ever managed, even at the very end. They’re almost identical.
You peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, and try to swallow away the metallic tang which coats it.
“Twins? That’s cute.”
Your head snaps the other way. Opposite cheek now throbbing too, off-beat to the other. A string of bloody spittle dangles from your lips, and you wipe the mess away as best you can on the shoulder of your shirt.
When you meet her eyes again, you find them a touch too wide. A touch too… unhinged. Something savage and unstable glints in those frosted irises, bouncing off the ice floes in blinding rays and setting your survival instincts thrumming.
“You killed him.”
Though her voice is flat, there’s a riptide of pain raging beneath the surface. You might even feel sympathetic, if she hadn’t just socked you twice.
“You realise I didn’t actually kill Garrett right?”
The pure hatred in her glacial eyes is staggering.
“Just because you didn’t hold the knife, doesn’t mean you didn’t point it in the right direction. Can you even begin to imagine what it’s like? To have the mutilated body of someone you love delivered to you? Half-beaten, half-carved?”
A small, sensible voice in your head reminds you to tread carefully with this woman.
“He should have known exactly what was going to happen the second he decided to go after Silco. Your brother was a gormless, snaggle-toothed moron.”
She doesn’t bother hitting you again. Good job too, considering your tenuous grip on consciousness. Perhaps she can tell. Perhaps she wants you lucid for what’s to come.
“Yeah, he was a moron,” she agrees quietly, before her voice hardens to titanium, “But he was still my brother.”
You recoil from the dazzling light which blazes from one of the rigs; blinding you and dragging deep gouges into the surface of your brain. The electric drone of the giant bulb drills into your pounding head, and doubles down when a second spotlight bursts to life.
You squint through your lashes. The woman’s no longer crouching in front of you. She’s moved away to inspect the lighting equipment; adjusting the positioning so that you can feel the heat of every watt beating onto your face. She instructs Vill in low tones as he begins to set up a tripod five or so yards away, directly ahead of you. Someone else approaches carrying a chunky piece of equipment which is affixed atop the stand—
Frozen dread shoots up your spinal cord, as thin and precise as a thread passing through the eye of a needle.
“A camera?” You fight hard to subdue your rising panic, “Let me guess, you’re gonna ransom me to Silco. Either to give himself up for slaughter, or to hand over his power. It’s a little unoriginal, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t respond, simply accepts a canister of film from another thug and begins to load it onto the camera. She peers into the viewfinder, and you flash a toothy, sarcastic smile straight down the lens.
“Hate to break it to you,” you drawl, “But I’m not in Silco’s good graces at the moment. And even if I was, there’s no way he’d be taken in by this cliché crap.”
She hands over the camera set up to Vill and steps out from behind it, mouth pulling into a thin smile.
“I think you’d be surprised. Vill has been working for Silco since he took control of the Lanes. That’s… what? Four or five years now? Either way – says his behaviour’s changed rather drastically since you appeared on the scene.”
You fight to keep your expression one of boredom, even as the knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens.
“But no,” she says flippantly, "I’m not ransoming you today.”
Someone sets down a rolled leather bag on the floor, and she nudges it with the toe of her boot. It unfurls to display a gleaming arsenal of sharp, evil looking weaponry.
Your heart stops dead in your chest, and your bowels turn to water.
“Silco’s been monopolising the Undercity for far too long,” she continues casually, crouching to inspect the row of knives, “He needs to be taken out, and I seem to be the only one humble enough to accept that can’t happen while he’s on top of his game. That’s where you come in.”
She selects a few blades, each one seemingly shaped for a different variety of torture, and begins to fit them into leather halters on her belt and thighs.
“I came up with the idea during your little breakup. He was distracted enough that we actually managed to get close a couple of times. But still not quite close enough. I need him broken. Way I see it, my two options were you or the kid—”
“Don’t you dare fucking touch her.”
Your composure ruptures alongside the electric streak of pure frenzied panic that zigzags through you like some manic pinball. The chair legs scrape against the floor with your frantic outburst, ropes biting at the raw skin of your wrists as you struggle fruitlessly. The woman straightens, looking halfway amused.
“Calm down. You’re the one tied to the chair, aren’t you? His brat’s too slippery to catch anyway. You proved a lot easier. We’ve been waiting for the right opportunity, and you so kindly provided the perfect one for us tonight. Vill says he overheard you giving dear Silco quite the telling off earlier. I hate to admit that a small part of me admires you for it. It certainly makes this a lot easier. If his past behaviour is anything to go by then I’ve got a solid three month head-start before he comes searching for you. But still, I’d rather get going, just in case.”
She checks the camera once more, ensuring your outburst hasn’t affected the position of the shot.
“It works out better that it’s you and not the girl. This way I kill two birds with one stone. Reduce the Eye of Zaun to a heartbroken mess, and avenge my brother in the very place he was murdered.”
“Still doesn't explain the camera.”
She lifts her gaze from the viewfinder and meets yours. You wouldn’t think it possible for her eyes to become any more frigid than they already are, if you weren’t seeing it for yourself. Her fingers stiffen atop the camera, as though imagining curling them around your throat.
“When Garrett was delivered to me in pieces, I had only my imagination to fill in the gaps. Really, I’m offering Silco a kindness. As well as your pretty corpse, I’ll be giving him the opportunity to see for himself exactly how you suffered whilst he was moping around his office with his tail between his legs.”
She flips a switch, and the film canisters begin to turn with an ominous rattle that raises every vellus hair upon your body. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple, sliding over skin which fluctuates rapidly between too hot and too cold. Your joints ache from the continuous strain of being tied in such a cruel position, and your tendons twinge further as you begin to tremble.
You wonder what it says about you, that you’re more terrified of the pain that’s undoubtedly to come than the prospect of dying. But you won’t let them see that fear. If your time is limited, then you’ll use every second of it to make them wish they’d killed you sooner.
This woman may claim to be humble, but she’s still miles off the humility needed for dealing the Eye of Mother-Fucking-Zaun. These people may think your murder will break him. And perhaps it will.
But first – oh – first it’s gonna piss him off.
You have no doubt that everybody in this warehouse will be dead within hours of Silco discovering what’s happened. You’re certainly not underestimating his ability to track each one down like a hound on a blood-scent – but still, you’ll help out however you can, while you still can.
“So I guess this is your way of handing in your resignation, huh Vill?” You say as cockily as you’re able to through the tremor in your voice, “You traitorous piece of shit. I should’ve spat in your brandy when I had the chance.”
He blinks taciturnly at you from his position beside the camera, entirely unaffected. You switch your attention to the silver woman who strolls casually towards you.
“Do I at least get a name? Is it as stupid as your weasel-mouthed brother’s?”
“Luisa.”
Janna, you weren’t actually expecting an answer, only hoping to point out the connection between her and Garrett. Either she’s dumber than she looks, or infinitely more arrogant than she claims.
“Nice to meet you Luisa. Guess how many fingers I’m holding up.”
She exhales humourlessly through her nose, and you track her progress as she circles the chair.
“You really are a gobby bitch. Perhaps I’ll cut out your tongue first to spare myself the headache.”
She stops at your shoulder, and her fist in your hair is sudden and rough; strands snapping, and neck muscles pinching as she drags your attention forwards again.
“But before I do, is there anything you’d like to say to your dear Silco?”
You stare down the lens of the camera. The dark void of it seems to swell like the maw of some insatiable beast, swallowing everything in its path until you too feel as though you’re pitching forward into the endless abyss that awaits.
The room is deathly still. The weight of a dozen pairs of eyes bear down upon you, and the only sound is the soft, rotational whirr of the film canisters.
It all becomes very real, very suddenly. You’re going to die.
You’re going to die.
You inhale. Hold. And release.
You accept that you’re going to die.
And with that acceptance, an odd sort of calm settles over you. It’s peaceful for the most part. The only disturbance in the waters comes in the form of regret. Despite all you’d screamed in Silco’s office, you’re left with the bitter realisation that there’s still so much more left to say.
Softer words. Phrases which contain multitudes within so few letters. Sentiments best spoken when whispered in ears or against skin.
And how cruel life is, that no sooner have you found the courage to admit it, you’ve run out of time to voice it.
Because you will not give these people the satisfaction of a sentimental confession. You refuse to be a cliché in their game. So you place your trust in Silco one last time, and hope that on some level he already knows what you truly wish to tell him.
You swallow, and speak as steadily and sincerely as you’re able.
“Silco. There’s something I’ve wanted to confess to you for quite some time now,” you blow out a shaky breath, “About a month before I left the Drop, Jasper found some gum I’d stuck under the bar and I told him it was you because I didn’t want to get in trouble—”
The fingers in your hair tighten, tearing more strands from your scalp, and you hiss in pained surprise as the point of a knife digs suddenly beneath your jaw, poised to slice straight up into your tongue root.
“I hope you realise that you just wasted your last ever words on a stupid joke.”
“Bite me.”
“That’s a little more interesting at least.”
You suck in a quick, high breath through grit teeth, squeezing your eyes shut as your skin splits under the push of the knife—
A metallic thunk has the blade pausing only a couple of millimetres into your flesh.
Other than the full-body shaking that you can’t control, you hold deathly still in an attempt not to impale yourself further. You crack open your eyes, and peer down the length of your face towards the canister which rolls to a stop on the floor halfway between your boots and the camera mount.
The device begins to beep.
Immediately, everyone in the room hurries backwards, and the knife disappears as Luisa does the same. Leaving you alone in the centre of the warehouse with a smoking grenade that vibrates violently against floor—
There’s a pop. A hiss. Before a thick, gloopy substance begins to ooze out from between the joins in the metal casing, pooling uselessly on the floor.
“Awwh nuts.”
All eyes turn upwards.
A blue haired girl crouches high above within the metal trusses, contemplating the puddle of muck far below with a pinched frown.
“Really thought I’d nailed it this time… Oh well,” she shrugs, demeanour becoming abruptly more cheerful as she reaches for her belt and pulls free a small hand-held device. She whips up a telescopic antenna at the top of her remote with a flourish and grins down at everyone, “At least I remembered to bring the good stuff, huh? Otherwise this would’ve been waaay more embarrassing.”
Jinx flips a switch, and the world explodes.
Your hair whips across your face as the western wall blasts inwards; a deafening maelstrom of shattered glass, warped metal, and chunks of rubble, taking out at least three henchmen who were standing too close.
It’s a miracle your chair remains upright as you skid several feet along the floor from the force of the explosion. Your mind goes blank with shock, and all sounds are muted beneath the high pitched ringing in your ears.
Everything is still for several, fraught moments, until Luisa stumbles past, filthy, bleeding from a cut on her temple, and looking absolutely livid. She plants her feet in an aggressive stance several yards away, facing off against the newly torn opening in the wall.
Choking clouds of smoke and dust obscure the other side from view. But as the seconds pass, a dark shape begins to materialise through the pale haze, accompanied by the insidious, measured click of a pair of boots.
The silhouette becomes more distinct with each swaggering step closer. Tall, self-assured, and lithe despite the imposing curvature of an oversized coat collar. A pinprick of ruby hellfire cuts through the fog, signalling the arrival of the man who emerges fully from the mist a few moments later.
Gold tipped boots step easily over the crumpled, lifeless body of a thug who'd been standing too close to the explosion.
Silco doesn’t even bother to look down.
His gaze remains dead ahead, fixed upon the woman who’d been poised to slice you apart a mere minute ago, and though his expression is no more menacing than you’ve seen of him before, his eyes contain the promise of merciless violence.
Dramatic bastard, you think to yourself, even as your breath expels from your lungs in one relieved rush. And again, and again, until your wheezing transforms into a mildly hysterical fit of laughter that echoes around the crumbling warehouse.
But no one is looking at you. All eyes are on Silco, and his slide towards Vill; half crouched amongst the capsized lighting rigs. It’s the first time you’ve witnessed an actual expression on the henchman's face, and it’s clear he knows how fucked he is.
Silco’s mouth ticks downwards with a small, throaty noise of displeasure, as though having encountered something mildly revolting in the street. And then he sighs; a short, sharp huff that speaks of inconvenience.
For once, Silco doesn’t bother with smooth, derisive words. Only flicks both wrists down at his sides in a precise movement that has twin knives appearing in each palm, and faster than you’re able to comprehend – no more than a blur of black and gold – his arm winds, and releases.
A single blade flies through the air, a split second flash of spinning silver that’s followed by the whump of metal embedding in flesh.
Vill blinks in surprise, hands rising to hover uselessly over the hilt that protrudes from his trachea. He opens his mouth to draw breath, but all that comes out is a wet rattle, and a dribble of crimson which spills over his lips and into his beard.
Luisa’s war-cry of unbridled fury tears the spellbound atmosphere to shreds, and the warehouse erupts with movement.
Several more familiar figures appear through the gloom at Silco’s back; rushing to meet the opposing henchmen who converge forwards en masse. Dustin, and Ran among others you recognise from the Drop. Sevika; mechanical arm whirring, lighting up from within as veins of shimmer-infused Chem circulate through the prosthetic limb.
An enemy thug lunges for Silco, knife held high, but the Eye of Zaun remains completely unfazed. Doesn’t even bother to look, doesn’t even flinch when the man crumples to the floor before he can even reach him. Dead. You follow the line of fire from the bullet hole in the man’s back all the way to the roof trusses, along the smoking gun barrel, up Jinx’s extended arm, to blue eyes that are hard as granite and razor focused.
The confusing clamour of Undercity violence closes in on all sides. Scrappy, dirty. The grating clangour of metal, the dull smack of flesh, grunts of pain, the crack of bodies meeting at full speed. All of it is nothing but blurred action in your periphery as you focus on struggling against your bindings, and on watching the silent standoff between both leaders – two static pillars who hold steady amidst the chaos.
Silco’s wrath is lethally honed and expertly controlled; concentrated within the cruel, static lines of his face, and that infamous, cutting gaze. While Luisa’s is displayed overtly through her coarse, vicious snarl, and those horrible frostbite eyes.
That is, until her features begin to slowly iron out, and you recognise the resignation that comes with the acceptance of fate.
What worries you, what chills the back of your neck and sets the voice in your gut murmuring with indistinct warnings, is the way her mouth begins to pull slowly upwards at the corners.
Silco’s jaw tightens the barest amount, and his good eye narrows a fraction of an inch.
Luisa’s gaze flicks briefly in your direction, and although Silco hasn’t looked once at you since arriving, he must know what’s drawn her attention, because his skin pales.
They move at the same time.
Boots kicking up clouds of plaster dust as they both sprint towards you. Silco’s coat flies out behind him, lips pulled back over teeth and arms pumping furiously—
But Luisa was so much closer to begin with.
She half tumbles into your lap with how fast she rushes you; landing a punch to your stomach that’s so hard it knocks all the air from your lungs. And you’re offered a chance to witness, almost nose to nose, the raving, gleeful malice on her face, the second before it’s wiped clean by the slackening of her mouth, and the widening of her moon-pale eyes.
You peer over her shoulder, at the knife that’s embedded with perfect precision in her spine, and then towards the man who threw it; standing a several feet away, arm still extended, expression feral, and chest heaving with each laboured breath.
Luisa slumps; crumpling to the ground beside the chair in a lifeless heap. You don’t spare her a second glance. Why would you? When Silco’s right there. When Silco came for you.
You smile.
“Took you long enough.”
Is what you mean to say.
What actually passes your lips is little more than a wheezed exhale.
Your brow pinches. You try again, with no more luck than the first time.
Silco’s arm lowers absently back to his side, his gaze travels down to the front of your shirt. His breath catches sharply; once, twice, three times, with the stricken widening of that green eye.
You follow his line of sight.
To the leather hilt that’s sticking out of your stomach.
Your vocal cords finally meet in a small, surprised, “Oh.”
You haul your gaze back up. Vision suddenly fuzzy at the edges; casting him in a horrified vignette. He takes one dazed step forwards, then another. And then he’s running for you.
Silco falls to his knees at your feet.
He captures your face in his hands as your chin dips towards your sternum; suddenly woozy, suddenly such a struggle to do something as simple as keep your own head steady. He gives you a firm shake as his lips form the shape of your name. But it’s no more than a distant call beneath the rushing in your ears.
His eyes dart frantically over you, features twisting in uncharacteristic panic; until resolve begins to creep in, hardening him from mouth to brow like hoarfrost stretching up a windowpane.
Your head droops forwards as he draws a knife from his boot and begins to slice with single-minded determination through the ropes which bind you. The sawing motion jostles your body more and more with each new section he cuts through, and that’s when the pain starts.
It begins slowly at first. A spark on dry tinder which catches to flame. But the nature of fire is that it proliferates; grows greater, faster, hotter. And by the time the ground at your feet is littered with shorn rope, it’s a devastating inferno; sweeping through every cell and nerve until you’re ablaze with merciless agony. And no matter how the fire rages, your body remains hatefully intact, never granting you the reprieve of crumbling to cinders.
No. You just keep burning.
Your screams rise to a crescendo as your wrists are freed, shoulders springing automatically forwards. But Silco sweeps around the chair and catches you before you crumple inwards atop the knife.
Gods. Gods there’s a knife inside you—
This is how your father died too—
Silco attempts to lift you, managing only a scant inch before the pain intensifies past the point of conceivability, and rips forth a string of desperate, shrill pleas that have him lowering you back into the chair. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he waits a second, only until your wails diminish in intensity, and then he tries again.
Your voice cracks and cuts out entirely from the sheer force of your scream.
Silco’s mask of control slips as he crouches in front of you once more; face crumpling momentarily at whatever he’s seeing upon yours.
“What— Shit.”
Sevika appears at Silco’s back, and you watch through the blur of your tears as the blood drains from her face.
“I– I have to get her to Singed,” Silco rasps, twisting to look up at his Right-Hand. An unspoken understanding passes between them, followed by a beat of silence. He gives a small shake of his head, and he pleads, quietly, “I can’t do it.”
Sevika’s lips press together with the single dip of her chin, and then her shadow looms over you.
“Don’t hate me, Princess.”
You’ve no time to question her words, before her human fist cracks against the side of your head with enough precision and power to send you into instant, blissful unconsciousness for the second time tonight.
Lights, overhead.
Moving past. Drifting like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Not stars, that would be silly. There are no stars down here.
Street lanterns, perhaps.
One light moves along with you though. Hanging above like a full moon. Deepest burnt orange. Your favourite colour.
You’re suspended. In more ways than one. Between wakefulness and sleep. Between dream and reality. Between pain and numbness. Between two wiry arms; one beneath your knees, and the other beneath your back.
You’re warm. Your stomach is cold. But you’re warm. You think.
Yes. You’re warm. Because Silco’s got you.
He’s gaunt. Mouth drawn thin, lips as pale as the grey dashes at his temples. Eyes dead ahead, focusing on his path. Moving swiftly, though not as fast as you think he might like to, judging from his tight, pained expression.
Right. Because there’s a knife in your stomach.
Huh.
Your eyes roll downwards.
So weird.
You can kinda feel it. The memory of an agony so great that the echoes of it still reverberate through your body. But also… not. As though the part of your brain which registers sensation has short-circuited. Shut down entirely to protect you from having to endure the pain of your insides being sundered.
There’s a knife in your stomach.
Yet your mind decides instead to latch onto the fact that your shirt is ruined. Silco’s shirt. It’s all torn up now. The colourful paint stains have been darkened by blood, and this upsets you more than anything else.
Silco’s fingers tighten their hold as you let out a tiny, sulky whine.
The fabric sticks to your stomach, soaked through. Such a mess. It’s getting all over Silco too.
Your lips part, and you manage to croak.
“Your coat…”
His gaze dips to you and then back up again, “Don’t you worry about my coat, darling,” he hushes gently, a stark contrast to the furious click of his boots.
Everything is too heavy to move, but you manage to twitch a single finger just enough to hook it inside one of his buttonholes.
“Wouldn’t want your fancy clothes to get in a mess,” you breathe, repeating the exact words you’d spoken in his office so many months ago now.
Silco hisses out a pained chuckle, “Seems even a knife in the gut won’t stop you from being a mouthy brat.”
“Only with you.”
His throat bobs, and he speeds up, despite how it shifts the blade.
You wince as the memory of that unbearable pain becomes a little stronger, and you seek comfort from its mounting grip in other ways. You drop your cheek, nestling deeper into the breast of his coat. You ignore the tang of blood, and instead pick out the lingering smell of cigars and cologne that’s woven into the very fibres of the fabric. You sigh happily.
“Missed you.”
“Shh,” he berates, halfway between gentle and annoyed, “You need to save your strength.”
“Where’re we going?”
“To the doctor. Now shut up.”
“So rude.”
Another pained huff, cut short.
But you do as he says, and settle for simply gazing up at him.
His eyes flick down to you every so often. He appears to regret it each time, and never once returns the small, doting smile that rests upon your lips.
You gaze at him.
Until the lights overhead fade, and darkness swarms in from the edges of your vision once more.
Pain.
Frigid metal stings your back through your clothes, and you inhale a shuddering gasp as you surface abruptly back to consciousness, coaxed by the abdominal pain you’d been granted some dreamlike reprieve from – returning to you like a ten tonne weight.
Your choking cries echo off damp cavern walls high above, crevices dotted through with bizarre glowing plant-life, illuminating ghostly stalactites which reach towards you like knobbled fingers.
Two pairs of hands work together to stretch your limbs out one by one, securing them down with thick leather straps. Ankles. Wrists. One across your thighs and another across your chest. A final around your forehead, buckle cutting into your temple as you writhe.
Two voices bicker – one you know well, the other you’ve never heard. Oddly accented, with a serpentine cadence.
“You should have come quicker.”
Silco’s response. Sharp, angered, “I came as fast as I could without further tearing her insides apart.”
A begrudging “hm” of acknowledgement.
Your eyes roll deliriously inside your skull. Everything spins and you don’t know what’s real. You’re surrounded by nightmares. A reptilian beast in a giant tank. Whirring, pumping equipment. Vials and tubes and jars of unknown specimens and substances which make your skin crawl—
Fabric rips, and cold, damp air hits your newly bared stomach, intensifying the already uncontrollable shivers which grip you.
Clammy fingers prod experimentally at your navel. You drag your gaze frantically down the length of your body, hissing and whimpering through bared teeth as a bandaged, skeletal man examines the knife. He touches the hilt—
Your scream multiples into a thousand agonised wails as it ricochets off the cavern walls, before dwindling into despondent weeps as the blinding flash of agony begins to ebb. You become aware of a different set of hands, gripping your arm and shoulder with such force that you might believe he could feel your pain as his own.
The doctor – Singed, Silco had called him in the warehouse – speaks; low and displeased.
“The blade is serrated.”
Silco’s face screws up for a fleeting second as his head bows, dark, messy hairs sliding forwards, before he snarls, “Can you fix it?”
“I can only try,” the doctor responds evenly, moving out of sight. The clink of glass and metal drift over as he continues, “We cannot waste anymore time. The shimmer needs to be administered directly into her blood stream the second the blade is out. The serration will make the removal… extremely unpleasant.”
“Can’t you sedate her?” Silco rasps, begs.
A negative grunt, “The heart beats faster when the mind is conscious. It will help circulate the shimmer and offer a much greater chance of survival.”
Your reeling brain finally registers the reality of what they’re saying when the doctor comes back into view carrying a hefty brass injector gun, already loaded with a vial of purple liquid which glows with an ethereal, unnatural light—
Your mind spins into a frenzy. Conjuring images of poor, disfigured souls residing in the darkest corners of the Sumps. Of the hungry, desperate eyes that linger in the corners of The Last Drop—
You battle the restraints which hold you to the table. Thrashing wildly, bucking your hips and shaking your head as you babble out crazed refusals and mindless pleas; interspersed with cries of self-inflicted pain from the shifting knife—
A face comes into view directly above yours; dual-coloured eyes as wild as you feel and scarred lips pulled back over sharp, snarling teeth. It isn’t Silco who speaks, but the Eye of Zaun. Nothing but pure command.
“Stop moving.”
You do so. Intrinsically unable to disobey.
“You are in my debt,” he growls viciously, “You owe me. And I’m redeeming my favour.”
There’s nothing gentle in the way he grasps either side of your face; calloused palms rough against your cheeks and fingers curling into your hair in desperation, “You are to accept the treatment, and you are to stay alive. Do you hear me?”
It’s not a reassurance. It’s an instruction.
Stay alive.
A demand that forbids any other alternative.
You try to nod, but his grip is too tight and the leather band across your brow is—
“Answer me!” He bellows, spittle beading at the corners of his mouth and fingers digging hard into your scalp.
“Yes!” You sob, “Yes I p-promise.”
His fury ebbs. His eyes soften along with his grip, and he begins to clumsily sweep his fingers and thumbs through the salted tear tracks which dampen your cheeks and temples. He presses his brow to yours with a gently murmured, “Good girl.”
You resent the leather strip across your forehead that separates his skin from yours, and so settle for tilting your face upwards as much as you’re able; enough to bump the tips of your noses together.
You share breath with Silco for a few moments, before the doctor utters his name; a low warning of the lack of time available. Silco's mouth tightens, and then he’s gone, moving down the table again to take up position opposite Singed.
The bandaged man holds out the injector gun, “I will need both hands to remove the knife.”
Uncharacteristic hesitation keeps Silco from accepting the instrument straightaway, but his resolve hardens a moment later and he grasps the brass handle with purpose. A pale, spidery finger indicates a spot on your navel, an inch to the side of the knife hilt, “Here. The second the blade comes free. Not a moment later.”
Silco lines up the device. The metal cage which houses the long, thick needle is cold and heavy and ominous where it presses into your skin, and your lungs begin to spasm with terrified breaths and squeaks.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Silco soothes, gaze focused unwaveringly upon the poised position of the instrument he wields, “Everything will be okay.”
The doctor’s hand splays on your navel, thumb and fingers either side of the weapon’s entry point to spread the skin, and you whine through your teeth.
He gives you no warning.
Your scream is world shattering.
Nothing. Nothing is comparable to the pain of the knife tearing free in one swift motion. Serrated teeth catching and cleaving your insides—
The hiss and snap of a trigger, a plunging needle—
Your spine bows off the table so violently that the leather restraints creak as your scream turns inwards; a juddering, drawn-out gasp as though drawing first breath after near-drowning.
Your vision clouds with a hundred transmuting shades of pink and purple. Fire and electricity, blizzards and tempests, land-quakes and tornados. Every catastrophic disaster this world has the power to inflict tears through your veins in one calamitous rush.
You contain the whole universe beneath your skin. Every atom inside you tears apart and binds anew and you feel every single one. You’re blazing, and it’s too much to bear. Too horrifically, disgustingly magnificent. And in a night of impossible agony, this is the crowning glory of all pain.
You can taste the cosmos. You can see every sound. You can hear every colour.
You are everything. You are nothing at all.
You’ve never felt so vividly alive. You’ve never felt more sure that you’re dying.
Caught in the riptide of the Universe. Untethered from anything worldly. Tossed about like a broken doll between Gods and Monsters, Science and Magic, Logic and Madness – and screaming all the while.
But a familiar voice cuts through the vivid darkness. Through the one-note song of your suffering. He calls for you. Over and over.
Your name upon his lips is a lifeline. A rope thrown into dark waters.
And you hold onto his voice.
Keep it within your white-knuckled grip.
Until everything just—
Stops.
You resurface.
The journey to consciousness as slow and arduous as wading through neck-deep mud.
Everything hurts. Every inch of you, inside and out, aches. Entire body throbbing dully to the even-paced rhythm of your heartbeat.
Your heartbeat.
That must mean you’re still alive. So that’s something, at least. You’ve held up your end of the bargain.
You relish the darkness behind your shuttered eyelids, and take a moment to simply listen.
The world feels quiet in a way that transcends sound. You can still hear the distant bustle of the Undercity, but there’s an almost peaceful hush which blankets your immediate vicinity. You recognise the feel of your own mattress beneath you, can count the cheap box springs which press into your spine. Each rise and fall of your chest is accompanied by the unpleasant tug of your shredded shirt sticking to your skin. Caked with dried blood and sweat, if the lingering smell is anything to go by. The inside of your skull feels like a cotton field ready for harvest, and the dry fibres overflow into your mouth too.
You feel like shit.
You focus upon the one sensation that isn’t so horrible. Or rather, a collection of smaller sensations, all centring around your elevated right hand; arm bent upwards at the elbow.
The way it’s cradled within another’s; thumb hooked over yours and fingers curled around your wrist in a position more associated with armwrestling than bedside comfort. Warm breath fans across your knuckles every few seconds, and the tight, static line of scarred lips rest against your tendons.
You prise apart the gummy stick of your lashes, and open your eyes.
Silco.
Hunched in a chair at your bedside; spine curved right over to allow your upper arm to remain resting upon the bed, with his own elbows resting atop his knees. He’s sat at an angle, meaning only the motionless musculature of his scarred profile is visible to you as he stares intently at the far wall, with his mouth pressed against the back of your hand. He looks haggard. His hair is a hopeless mess, and his skin is wan and seems more deeply lined than usual. Only a little of his makeup remains intact, the rest washed away by sweat or rubbed clean by anxious hands.
You’ve never seen his scar so fully before. It crests from cheek to hairline like a lick of flame. The skin is grey, but the shade varies like the imperfect blend of an artist’s palette; dashes of deep charcoal, smudges of dove and pewter, you can even pick out the purplish hue of mauve. If you didn’t know the story behind its creation, if you didn’t know how it burdens him… you’d think it beautiful.
He’s shucked his coat, displaying the darkened patches on the front of his gold-trimmed vest. Blood. Your blood.
Your larynx drags painfully with your swallow, and you tighten your fingers around his.
The only sign he’s aware of your wakefulness is a deep inhale, shuddering a little on its journey to his lungs and lifting his shoulder blades above the height of his previous breaths, before they drop, a touch looser than before.
But he remains staring into the middle distance.
You wet your lips, easing the pull of chapped skin as you make to speak.
“Five hours or so,” Silco murmurs against your hand, answering the question before you’ve even asked it.
Not long in the grand scheme of things. But you feel groggy enough that he could have said you’d been out of it for five days and you would believe him.
“The shimmer took care of everything,” he continues, voice dull, lowering your joined hands to his lap and covering them over with his other palm; encasing your fingers within the warm, calloused cocoon of his, “But you'll need a day or two of rest to fully recuperate your strength.”
Your hair rustles against the pillow with your nod.
Several long moments pass in which neither one of you speaks, and in which he continues to stare resolutely at the far wall.
“How do you feel?”
“Gross,” your answer scrapes against the sandpaper walls of your throat
“Hm,” another handful of awkward beats, punctuated by the furtive flick of an orange iris darting towards you and away again just as quickly, “I considered changing you… But it didn’t feel appropriate to do so.”
You click your tongue, since he’s not looking to witness an eye roll, “I wouldn’t have minded. It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”
“Mm.”
Silence.
“Silco.”
“Hm.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Avoiding me.”
“I’m hardly avoiding you. I’m at your bedside. Holding your han—”
“You won’t look at me.”
There’s no viable response to that, of course. Even he knows it's the truth. But he does, after a few fraught moments, finally manage to drag his gaze away from the wall to meet yours.
His green eye is weary and bloodshot, the right side of his face tight with exhaustion and stress. Your joined hands begin to bounce with the agitated tapping of his boot heel against the floor.
“Talk to me,” you croak, giving his hand a little tug and dropping your cheek to the pillow, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What I’m thinking?”
“Mhm.”
His eyes sharpen through the fog of exhaustion, and his voice hones into something less subdued, “I'm thinking that you almost died tonight.”
“Pfft,” you scoff weakly, “Takes more than a glorified steak-knife to kill me.”
The agitated bounce of his knee becomes more insistent, and he squeezes your hand tightly enough for the bones to shift uncomfortably beneath his fingers as he growls, “I am so very glad that you’re able to find humour in what happened tonight. Because, unfortunately, I am failing to see the funny side.”
“Awh,” you chuckle huskily, mouth pulling into the smallest of smirks, “Don’t feel bad sweetie. Comedic timing is just something you’re born with—”
You’re cut off by the sound of your name; sharp, guttural, and a little desperate. He so rarely uses it, that it’s enough to instantly batter through the defensive shield of your dark humour.
The curl of your lip falters, and Silco empties his lungs in a drawn out sigh, gaze dropping down towards his blood spattered boots. Anger abandons the trenches of his face, leaving behind pure fatigue, and the grip of his hands softens once again.
“What happened?” You ask quietly.
He smooths his palm in a single, absent circle over the back of your hand, before readjusting his grip and beginning his quiet explanation, “I've suspected the presence of a mole among my ranks for some time now – since the situation with Garrett. The blackout all but confirmed it. Only someone with an inside knowledge of the club would be able to locate the fuse box, or at least pass on that information—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You interrupt softly, unable to hide your hurt. You’d voiced your concerns both times and he’d dismissed them, “Didn’t you trust me? I– I know you don’t anymore but—”
“I did,” his eyes rise briefly to meet yours, “I do - trust you,” he amends quietly, before dropping his gaze again, “I didn’t want to concern you with such matters… I didn’t want you to worry.”
You draw breath to argue, but the desire to do so fades before you can speak. What’s done is done. There’s no rewriting the past. And any upset this revelation has caused is soothed by the fact that you haven’t lost his trust.
“I made the connection once I noticed Vill missing from his post.”
“When did you notice?”
Silco shakes his head slightly, one shoulder rising in a small shrug, “Ten minutes or so after you left my office.”
Your mouth curls slowly upwards, and you squeeze his hand to draw his attention.
“You followed me?”
Your coy lilt doesn’t work so well with a ravaged throat, but Silco still responds with a tiresome look as though to say ‘What do you think?’
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing shyly for a moment before asking, “What were you gonna do when you caught me?”
He doesn’t answer for a time. Long enough for you to realise you’ve been holding your breath. His attention returns to the ground with a small shake of his head, “I truly don’t know.”
Your smile falters, and vanishes.
Disappointment wrings your stomach and curls oily fingers over your insides. You gaze at the three-hand bundle in his lap, and begin absently fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket with your left to fill the heavy silence.
“And then after?” You breathe, “How did you find me?”
The very corner of his mouth quirks ruefully, “I followed my gut.”
You huff a weak laugh.
There are so many more questions to ask. Informational gaps about Vill and Luisa which need filling. But now isn’t the time. You’re too tired, and so is Silco. And you’re finding that you don’t much care about anything beyond the fact that he’s here with you, and that he finally seems somewhat willing to talk.
“Is this why you kept me at arms length?” You ask tentatively, “In case something like this happened?”
Silco meets your gaze, and stares at you for the longest time; chin rolling a little as he gnaws the inside of his lip. Before he bows his head, twisting his ear towards the knot of cream silk at his throat and looking down to the ground beyond his left shoulder.
“I wish I could say that were the case.”
I thought better of you Silco. I thought of you as a man who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted in life. But turns out you’re nothing more than a coward.
You can almost see the memory of those harsh words replay in the ebony and ivory of his eyes, accompanying the shame he’s so clearly feeling.
“Silco?”
“Hm?”
“Look at me.”
He does so, after a beat or two.
You swallow, “I want to apologise. For how I handled things back at that bar. For embarrassing you like that in front of all those people.”
He shakes his head slightly, chin and gaze dropping down to examine your joined hands in his lap. His tongue works over his teeth inside his mouth for a time, before he carefully murmurs, “It is entirely possible that I… may have deserved it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you whisper, battling the small, amused smile which attempts to force its way onto your lips at his mildly reluctant admission, “I shouldn’t have disrespected you. I’m sorry, Silco.”
His lips purse slightly, and he nods once in acknowledgement.
The palm which covers your joined hands rises, and he begins to trail his fingertips over your knuckles, to trace the tendons through your skin, to inspect every vein that weaves alongside them. It reminds you of the way you’d once played with his hand – sat upon a red leather sofa, drunk on too many cocktails, drunker still on the nearness of him.
Silco’s chest hitches as though about to speak. But his lips press together, and he exhales wordlessly.
You laugh softly beneath your breath. Gods he’s bad at this.
“Try again,” you prompt gently.
He sucks the inside of his cheek, and dual-coloured eyes tick upwards to meet yours.
“You had a lot to say, back in my office.”
“I did,” you agree.
But there’s an unspoken question in his careful statement, and he seems intent on waiting out an answer.
The blankets atop you sink as you empty your lungs.
“No, Silco,” you whisper, shaking your head the barest amount, “I don’t hate you. Far from it, in fact.”
His relief is short-lived; swept away a split second later by a pained grimace. He raises your hand, still encased within his, and presses your knuckles against his knotted forehead, elbows taking up position upon his knees once more.
Again, he speaks your name; quiet, reverent, and broken. And there's so much anguish contained within the single word that your heart breaks for him all over again.
“I am a man capable of many things. But I am not capable of becoming what you deserve.”
“What is it that you think I deserve?”
He doesn’t respond, only gives you one of his looks from beneath the shadow of your joined hands, as though the answer should be obvious.
“Oh, so now he’s humble?” You tease softly; quirking one, tired eyebrow.
“I am too old and too stubborn to change my ways.”
“I don’t want you to change. I just want you to stop being an asshole.”
He exhales sharply; a huff of laughter that affords you a fleeting glance of chipped teeth. He moves his head side to side, massaging your knuckles a little deeper into the furrows on his brow, “When it comes to me, sweetheart, most would consider that somewhat of an oxymoron.”
“Perhaps,” you smirk, “But you know what I mean.”
His humour fades, and his body seems to sink inwards in time with his quiet, desolate sigh. You’ve never seen him look so small. So defeated.
“Silco. Sweetie,” you breathe the pet name tenderly, without an ounce of the sarcasm or cheek that normally accompanies it, “I’m not interested in what you think I deserve. I’m only interested in what I want.”
His breath fans down your forearm as he asks, “And what is it you want?”
Now it’s your turn to look at him as though the answer should be obvious. His throat bobs above the knot of his tie, and he averts his gaze.
You’re so very tired. Your mind feels as heavy and lethargic as your limbs, and you stifle your desire to yawn; afraid that if you give into the urge Silco will insist that you sleep before you can say what you wish to say. So you power on a little longer, your voice soft and sincere, but diminishing a little more in volume with each sentence that passes as you battle the weight of your exhaustion.
“I have never expected, nor wanted you to be anything that you’re not. I know you, Silco. I know exactly who you are, and what I’m getting every time I walk into your office,” you huff a small laugh and cock an eyebrow, “At this point I barely expect pleases and thank yous from you, I’m hardly holding out for candles and roses. This isn’t some dumbass Piltie romance novel. What we have is more than that. It’s real. It’s special.”
Silco’s green eye flutters closed with his exhale. He removes your knuckles from his brow to pillow his unmarred cheek against the back of your hand instead. The fingers that aren’t already cradling yours wrap around your wrist, gentle but firm, as though scared you might attempt to pull away.
Dark lashes part once more to reveal green waters to you. You bask in the gentle lap of their waves, and are kept warm by the hearth-fire flicker of his left eye.
Your voice is barely above a whisper anymore, “Do you remember what I told you by the river? Before I gave you the cigarette?”
He nods, and your mouth quirks, “Prove it.”
His lips twist in a small, amused echo of your own. His voice is as low as yours, but contains a reverential gravitas, as though speaking sacred scripture in a house of worship.
“That you like me just the way I am.”
You smile up at him, and nod, “Still stands, you know. Wouldn’t change a thing,”
You straighten your index finger; uncurling it from around his hand to softly brush the creased lines at the corner of his ocean eye.
“I adore you.”
You speak it upon a devout breath, and repeat it even softer; little more than simply mouthing the words, “I adore you.”
Silco’s eyes shine, illuminated in sudden, blinding colour by the rush of a hundred different emotions. Each one raw and unfettered. It’s impossible not to marvel at the sheer depth and strength of all that he’s feeling in this moment. Impossible not to experience his joy and pain and turmoil and relief and confusion and happiness and sorrow as though it were your own. Just like the shimmer that had saved your life tonight, bearing witness to all that’s contained within his gaze unmakes you, and reforges you anew.
His eye flutters closed once more, orange iris rolling blissfully downwards as he leans into your touch. His fingers tighten around your wrist and hand as you continue to brush his skin with tender strokes.
And for a moment, he looks peaceful.
Which makes what you have to say next so much harder.
You swallow, and will away the agonising clench of your heart that begs you to hold your tongue.
“But…”
Silco's brow knots in preemptive pain, mouth twisting and pressing into a tight line. You re-wrap your fingers around his hand once more and squeeze in silent request. He forces himself to open his eye and meet your gaze.
“We cannot move forward until you figure out what you want. And until you figure out how to be honest about it. With me and yourself. I know your past is complicated. That you’ve been hurt in unspeakable ways by the very people you should have been able to trust unconditionally. I know that there are certain things which are… hard, or even impossible for you to give to another person. And I understand that, and I would never pressure you into something you weren’t ready for… But I have to protect myself too. I can’t keep putting my heart on the line like this.”
You take a second to fight against the constriction of your throat. A hard-won battle when he’s looking at you as though his world is falling apart around him.
“I want you in my life, Silco,” you insist, voice thick and nose buzzing, “Whatever that may look like, as long as it’s amicable I— I can live with it. And I will reciprocate whatever part of yourself you are willing to give… but no more than that.”
You inhale deeply through your nose, and blow out a wobbly breath. Squeezing his hand once more and giving him a small, encouraging smile.
“So. Take some time to figure out exactly what it is you want from me. And more importantly, whether or not you’re willing to offer the same in return. And when you’re ready… you know where to find me.”
An age passes in which he simply gazes into your eyes, and as he does, his expression gradually returns to something more neutral, more familiar, even if his pain lingers like a haze around the edges. He takes a breath so deep it inflates his frame a little, before lowering your joined hands back into his lap on the exhale, and dropping his gaze down with them.
“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs, “The more you rest, the faster you’ll heal.”
You gnaw your lip, “Will you be here when I wake up?”
“It’s unlikely.”
You nod. At least he’s honest.
“Then I’ll stay awake a little while longer.”
He doesn’t argue. Only gives you a mildly stern look that’s completely negated by the way he twines your fingers a little more securely with his.
Silco’s gaze finds its way back to the far wall, and the world seems to reset to the moment you’d first regained consciousness. Except this time the heavy silence which blankets the room is more stifling than peaceful.
Your lungs struggle to draw breath under the weight of it. And in the oppressive quiet, your mind begins to churn.
You struggle with the enormity of everything that has happened in the past… you don’t even know how long it’s been. Day? Half day? Certainly a scarily short amount of time for you to have quit your job, had your heart broken, been betrayed, kidnapped, and very nearly murdered.
You almost died tonight.
Your breath catches quietly inside your throat, and you press your lips tightly together as they begin to quiver.
You climbed through the ceiling for a man who then shot your heart down the moment it was laid bare before him and then you were kidnapped by a friend and almost tortured—
Your vision swims. You blink, sending a tear rolling over your lashes to trail warmly over your temple, and curl into the shell of your ear.
He followed you. He came for you and saved your life and remained at your bedside and still he cannot bring himself to tell you how he feels—
Your diaphragm contracts with a small, pathetic hiccup as more tears begin to well and spill over your lashes. The noise draws Silco’s attention, and you cannot bear the aching, sympathetic tilt of his brow, or the way his lips part softly in surprise.
You feel so ashamed and you don’t even know why.
Your chest spasms in your desperate attempt to hold back your sobs, resulting in embarrassing, wretched little noises. Your face crumples, and you turn it away from him, slinging your free arm over your wobbling lip and tear-drowned eyes; a pitiful attempt to hide yourself. But there’s no way to hide the way your body shakes with each hitching breath, or the increasingly miserable noises which force their way out. You can feel the weight of Silco’s gaze, and you wrench your hand free of his and use it to further cover your face.
The first true sob pushes from you, caught and muffled within your palm, tears absorbed by the filthy sleeve of your shirt.
Two more sobs pass, breath catching so loudly that you almost miss the soft wooden creak of the chair.
And then the blankets are flipped back, and large, strong hands slide beneath your back and knees, lifting just enough to shift you over. The mattress dips beside you, and the blankets return to their original position. But the warmth they provide does not come close to that of the arms which gently encourage you to turn, nor the slender body they gather you against.
And how could you ever resist?
You clutch at Silco desperately; one hand clawing at his chest and the other tangling in the leather straps which cross the back of his waistcoat. You press yourself as close as you possibly can against the length of his body, seeking to eradicate even the smallest of gaps that separate you, even going so far as to tangle one of your legs between his.
He allows it all. Encourages it. Hooking his calf around the back of yours and tightening the wrap of his arms. One hand splays warm and secure at the centre of your spine, and the other cradles your head; fingers weaving themselves carefully through your hair.
You bury your face in Silco’s neck, and allow yourself to cry.
“It’s okay,” his deep murmur rumbles straight from his chest into yours, and his arm snakes further around you, hand sliding from your spine to grip your waist in the gap between your body and the mattress, “I’ve got you.”
He holds you.
For as long as it takes for your tears to run dry. Until your breaths slow and fall in time with his; navels and chests pressing together with every synchronised inhale. Until you’re lulled by the tiny idle circles his fingertips draw against your scalp. Until your mind discards the lingering stink of explosives and blood and sweat, and all you can smell is rich tobacco and expensive cologne.
Until you feel calm. And safe. And cared for.
Silco holds you. Until you fall asleep in his arms.
Notes:
Coming up: Chapter 18 - In which our story comes to a close <3
Wowee. That was a mad chapter to write, and I too need a few days of bedrest to recover.
I'm not a doctor, so it's entirely possible that the medical bits and bobs may not be realistic. But I hope you can suspend your disbelief for the sake of high-stakes drama. I'm also aware that this chapter is cheesy as hell. And to that I say crack out the wine.
I cannot believe we only have one chapter left to go. I'm already starting to get sentimental and emotional. Prepare yourself for a lengthy author's note at the end of the next one <3
**EDIT - If you want to cry harder then listen to Space - Madi Sipes & The Painted Blue while reading the end of this chapter. Imagine it’s playing from a radio in the background**
As always, be sure to check out the Drink With Me Masterlist below for a full list of bonus content, including extra mini-chapters/drabbles, Silco POVs, and some of the most glorious fan art you ever did see:
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Goodbye - Ramsey
Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s a girl in town, and word’s gone around she’s just fine
So I don’t worry my head, ‘cause I know her heart is tied to mine
The life that we live, and the love that I give to her
Each day it grows more and more, I’m sure it shows
Our love is a bubbling fountain
That flows into a sea
Deeper than any ocean
For eternity
Silco wasn’t lying.
You awake alone, with nothing for company but an indent in the pillow beside you, and sheets that are long cold beneath your enquiring touch.
Your heart wrenches at his absence, and that ache is simultaneously exacerbated and eased when you shuffle over and bury your face where he’d lain his head; inhaling the fragrant waxy residue of his hair pomade amidst the cloying bitter stink of explosives and violence.
The pillow muffles your pathetic, morose whimper.
You remain facedown as you take stock of yourself. You’re feeling a lot better. The full-body aches have now dulled to a droning background soreness; more irksome than debilitating. It’s miraculous, really, considering all that you’ve been through, considering how you’d danced along Death's border. You wonder if the speed of your recuperation is due to any Shimmer lingering in your system, or whether it’s courtesy of a solid, dreamless sleep - the best you’ve had in so very long - a combination of sheer exhaustion from your emotional outpouring, and the unparalleled comfort of being gathered safely within Silco’s arms.
You wonder if you’ll ever experience such a moment with him again. If he’ll find the courage to offer such an intimacy without being prompted by your tears.
You suppose it all depends on what decision he comes to in the time with which you’ve granted him to think.
You stretch, eliciting a satisfying sequence of pops along your vertebrae, ribcage swinging with the depth of your inhale. But your following exhale is sorrowful. Luckily your pillow absorbs it dutifully, just as it has all your previous lamentations.
Pillows are good like that.
Elbows press into the mattress as you prop yourself up, head swimming only a little. There’s a fresh glass of water set out upon the nightstand beside two painkiller capsules, along with a scrap of paper sporting no more than a sentence and a half.
Two, every four hours for the next few days. Rest . – S
The initial is unnecessary; Silco’s handwriting is familiar to you, and distinctive enough it its own right regardless. Beautiful and cursive. But you’ve seen firsthand the way in which it loses its carefully curated flow with the author’s rising stress or displeasure; becoming sharper and increasingly illegible until it resembles a true Sump-Snipe scrawl.
You flip the note over. Nothing on the back.
You swallow your disappointment along with the pills, both bitter, and wash away the chalky residue with eager gulps of the stale, Undercity water; only realising how desperately parched you are as the tepid liquid caresses your grated throat.
You set the empty glass back down upon the nightstand.
“Thought I heard you stirring.”
You peer over your shoulder towards the friendly voice lingering in your bedroom doorway. Max’s smile is warm, and you return it as you shift to sit up cross legged beneath the covers. He joins you, perching himself on the edge of the bed and resting a hand upon one of your blanketed knees.
“How are you feeling Honey?”
“Better.”
The single word croaks reptilian-like from you, and you both chuckle softly at the irony.
You clear your throat, still a little hoarse as you ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know me,” he lilts with a breezy, single-shouldered shrug, “I get my kicks from breaking and entering into peoples homes willy-nilly.”
Ask a stupid question, receive a stupid answer; the humorous glint in his gaze seems to say.
“I’m fine,” you insist, self-consciously tucking the blankets a little tighter around your waist, “Just a bit achey.”
“You were kidnapped, beaten, and stabbed,” Max counters, arching a single perfect brow. You open your mouth to argue but he cuts in first, “Face it Sweets, people care about you. I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept the fact that you’ll have company for the next few days.”
Your lips press into a thin line as you sigh, side-eyeing Max’s quietly victorious smirk and hugging your blankets against you beneath folded arms to battle the way your throat tightens. Still unused to being on the receiving end of genuine concern and affection. Still unused to being a part of a caring family – found though it may be.
The idea of wasting Max’s time bothers you, but selfishly you’re thankful for the company. The quiet would leave far too much empty space for your mind to wander towards matters now out of your control. Your gaze drops to your lap, and you fiddle with the edge of the blanket, “When did Silco leave?”
“I don’t know Honey,” he answers, soft and sincere, “I think Jinx took over from him a while back. I only came by an hour or so ago.”
You dip your chin in understanding and meet his umber gaze through your lashes. The sympathetic tilt of his head makes your throat hurt even worse. Golden rings catch the light as he raises his fingers to tuck a loose strand of greasy hair back behind your ear.
“Jinx went out on a takeout run a little while ago. Why don’t you go take a shower, I’ll change your sheets, and by the time you’re done I’m sure she’ll be back with copious amounts of diabolically unhealthy food.”
Your mouth quirks with a small humourless huff, “You trying to tell me I stink?”
Max smiles softly, thumb sweeping affectionately as he gives your arm a gentle, comforting squeeze.
“Yes.”
Pipes rattle in greeting as you switch on the faucet – the tired noise an odd, familiar comfort, and the patter of water against enamel strangely soothing as you’re faced with the cringe-inducing task of peeling off your grime encrusted clothing.
You leave the shirt for last. It’s destroyed enough that you could easily pull it off over your head, but you opt for engaging in the ritualistic undoing of the remaining buttons, one-by-one, and sliding the dark fabric from your shoulders.
You hold the material up and inspect it with a grimace. All the hems are puckered and frayed, and the material is covered with stiff brown stains that reek of iron. The entire lower half is shredded, but it’s easy for you to spot the difference between the messy laceration where the knife entered and the purposeful rips the doctor made.
You could launder it. You’re certain the Undercity is rife with advice on how to remove blood from clothing. You could ask Max to stitch up the tears.
But what would be the purpose? So you can cling to some morbid token of the night you almost died? To continue torturing yourself with sentimental memories, and empty hopes for a future that you’re coming to realise may simply not be meant for you?
The silken shirt billows gracefully as it floats down to land atop the pile of ruined clothing.
You step beneath the faucet. Tepid rivulets run over your skin and drag the muck with it, until the liquid which swirls around the drain is soiled to a deep rust. You wrinkle your nose at the foul coloured water.
Fingers trail delicately over your stomach. Watching as the flaking blood dampens and slides away like old paint, uncovering the canvas of your skin and revealing a scar; brand new, despite looking for all the world as though it’s the result of an injury from years past.
A thick, straight line to the left of your belly-button; no longer than two or three inches. An embossing of tissue to serve as a permanent reminder not only of how you nearly died, but of exactly how you survived. What saved you. Because unlike ordinary scars – whose colours run in shades of pinks and browns and silvers – yours is tinted soft lilac, darkening to amethyst at the puckered edges. You suppose it was inevitable. Shimmer always leaves its mark upon the user.
An enquiring press of fingers draws forth only an echo of pain. You aren’t sure how to feel about it. Maybe it’s something you can figure out with time, when your emotions aren’t already tangled up in other matters. For now… you take comfort in the fact that you’ve at least always enjoyed the colour purple.
You scrub at your skin until every inch is glistening raw and stinging beneath the water’s touch. Lathering and rising your hair three times before rationally admitting that the lingering traces of smoke and blood are being conjured by your mind. You force your hand to reach back and switch off the faucet, and find yourself stuck.
Not ready to face whatever’s next, when you’ve barely had a moment alone to process what’s just passed.
Wet skin squeaks against cold tile as you give in to your paralysis, and sink down upon the shower floor with your arms wrapped around drawn knees. You stare at your towel; hanging up not so far away on the back of the door.
Not so far away at all.
All you have to do is stand up and get it. Four steps maximum.
Stand up. Get the towel. Dry yourself. And then get on with the rest of your life.
Simple really.
Stand. Towel. Dry. Life.
Your finger taps your arm, keeping unconscious time with the slow, steady drip of the faucet. And you try to understand how your mind can feel so bloated with thoughts at the same time as being deathly, eerily silent. You remain frozen long enough that the need for the towel begins to become obsolete. Your skin is half dry and clammy by the time a gentle rap of knuckles interrupts your trance.
“You okay in there Honey?”
“Yeah, just thinkin’.”
An amused exhale, “Well, when you’re done philosophising, Jinx is back, and she’s brought enough noodles to feed Noxus.”
Your smile is small, pressed against the skin of your knee, “I’ll be there in a minute,” you promise softly.
One step at a time.
You manage to finish towelling yourself, and to run a brush through your wet hair so it doesn’t air-dry into an impossible tangle. You manage to dress yourself in comfortable, lounge-worthy clothing. And then it becomes easier, because it’s not just on you to keep going – there are hands to help guide you onwards.
A hasty reminder from Max keeps Jinx’s greeting from being as painful as it might have been. But it isn’t given quickly enough for all her momentum to dispel, and she doesn't seem to be able to help herself from gradually tightening her arms until your muscles complain. But you don’t mind. She’s worth the ache. And you reciprocate all you get.
You murmur your heart-felt thanks in her ear over and over for the vital part she had played in saving your life, and you’re again left wondering about her past when she seems equally uneasy by the praise as she is desperately, quietly thrilled by it.
She obliges your request for information, answering every question you pose as the three of you squash cosily onto your well-worn sofa with a myriad of takeout containers being passed between hands.
Despite Garrett’s territory being small and largely lacking in power and resources, Jinx explains that Silco and Sevika had still been quietly preparing for some kind of pushback after the death of its presiding Baron. And yet none had seemed to come. Instead, the territory had gone suspiciously silent. No-one had officially stepped up to take over Garrett’s position, and the following Chem-Baron meetings had lacked even a temporary representative. All this, paired with the fact that inside information appeared to be finding its way into the hands of would-be assassins had made for a tense few months of extra precautions and dead-end investigations.
Jinx recounts that when you didn’t come to meet her as promised after she helped you sneak into the rafters, she came looking for you and ran into Silco as he was leaving his office. That the moment he noticed Vill was missing too he seemed to piece everything together, and a few quick, heavy-handed interrogations of the clubbers drinking near the stairwell confirmed that you had left, and the henchman had followed.
Jinx excitedly tells you how Silco had immediately shut down The Last Drop, and had called in all his staff. How he had people scouring the entire Undercity for you; every level and every territory. How he’d even sent a mail capsule to Marcus with an urgent request to watch the bridge, on the off-chance your kidnappers attempted to smuggle you out of Silco’s domain. But how his gut-instinct had led him to bring his best team with him directly to the warehouse.
You’re left reeling from the deluge of information, and yet you still request more. Where is Silco now? Was anyone harmed in the raid?
She answers no – that other than a few commonplace injuries which come from such a night’s work in the Undercity, everyone is fine. That Silco and Sevika are working right this second to secure Garrett and Luisa’s territory – namely in the form of tracking down every remaining family member for slaughter. Apparently, after the actions of the silver twins and of Vill, the Eye of Zaun has no more mercy left to extend towards this particular gene pool.
According to Jinx, once everything is under Silco’s control, his plan is to trade off power over the territory to Smeech (whose own domain already borders it, making assimilation straightforward), in return for prime access to the Yordle Baron’s extensive cybernetic resources.
Your brain is as glutted as your stomach by the time Jinx finishes, leaving you content to recline between her and Max and simply listen to them talk about nothing in particular. It’s nice. It’s needed. A bit of normalcy after a period of chaos.
Even more normalcy arrives soon after in the form of a bulky figure whose arms are laden with bags of groceries. Hazel eyes widen and then narrow when you open the front door.
“You’re supposed to be restin’,” Jasper snaps.
“I’m not infirm,” you complain, standing aside to let him pass.
“And you were supposed to be watchin’ her,” he shoots towards Max as he thumps the bags onto your kitchen counters.
Max throws up indignant hands, spluttering with affronted laughter, “What do you think we’ve been doing? Practising our gymnastics?”
“You made her answer the door.”
“I didn’t make her do anything! You knocked – she got up!”
“And you’re no help either.”
“I brought food,” Jinx supplies around a mouthful of noodles.
Jasper’s nasal sigh is long-suffering, and his attention switches back to you, thrusting a finger in the direction of your room to punctuate his brusque demand, “Bed. Now.”
“What’re you doing?” You hiss dramatically from the corner of your mouth, darting wide eyes between Jasper and a smirking Max as the former herds you in the direction of your bedroom, “Your boyfriend is right there.”
“Don’t get smart,” Jasper grumbles, giving you a gentle but pointed prod between your shoulder blades to nudge you over the threshold.
You clamber into bed as he disappears into the bathroom with your empty glass, and you’re left to gnaw your cheek and listen to the sound of the tap running. He materialises again a few moments later.
“Hey, Jasp?”
He grunts.
“Remember that time I quit?”
He passes you the refilled glass and thrusts two more painkillers into your palm, watching with folded arms as you knock back the pills with a large gulp of water.
“Must’a slipped my mind,” he mumbles eventually.
Your lips twitch into a small smile, “Thanks Jasper,” you whisper.
Another offhand grunt as he turns away, “Get some sleep.”
But he lingers in the doorway a moment, making sure you’re settled beneath the covers before flipping the light switch and closing the door softly behind him.
You wonder how many people can claim to have had multiple first days at any one place of employ. Particularly an establishment with such a reputation as The Last Drop.
They’ve all begun similarly – standing across from the club with your attention fixated on a particular architectural element.
Your first-first day had occurred within the damp depths of autumn. Neon bulbs up and down the Strip fogged with chill. Coat huddled around you to battle the cold and to hide your terrified tremors as you’d stared at the three words emblazoned upon the roundel, as if doing so might change what they read.
Your second-first day had coincided with the very tail-end of spring. The infamous Undercity Grey much paler than in the winter months, thanks to the watery sunlight attempting to bleed down through the layers of smog from high above. But the giant, all-seeing eye you’d been peering apprehensively at had still seemed overpoweringly bright.
Now, on your third-first day, the air is thick with the burgeoning warmth of early summer, and the market stalls throughout the Lanes all display refreshed wares to reflect the change in season. The crowds bustle around where you stand; a lone, still figure in an undulating sea of people, gazing towards a specific window. Circular and ornamental, high up upon the third floor of the building.
No shadows or shapes move beyond the iron rimmed glass. No indication of whether the office is currently occupied.
It’s been one week since you last saw him. Since you’d fallen asleep in his arms. Since you’d woken up and found him gone. And you’ve received no word in that time.
Not that you can be in anyway mad at him about it. You’d told him explicitly to take time away to think about what he wants, and you can only hope he’s doing just that. You can only hope he isn’t simply retreating to old habits. Repress and avoid. Something you yourself have been guilty of in the past.
But just because you can’t be mad, doesn’t mean you don’t still yearn. Left to deal with this final unabating ache now that all your physical pains are gone.
The doormen greet you warmly upon your approach, and you return their sentiments as you push through into the club.
A cluster of people gathered at the bar turn as you enter.
“What’s this?” You chuckle, raising an inquisitive brow.
“A welcome back party!” Jinx’s announcement coincides with a blast of colourful sparks and smoke from a small flare she sets off in her hand.
“It ain’t a party,” Jasper insists, hurriedly knocking her arm so the flare faces away from the small crowd at the bar.
“Party pooper,” she gripes with a crumpled glare.
“I just happened to mention to a few folks that you were comin’ back today,” Jasper explains gruffly, “incase they wanted to come say hi before your shift starts.”
“You set out drinks,” you comment, indicating the line of bottles and glasses on the bar as you approach.
“Saves me havin’ to make ‘em when people inevitably ask—”
“You made cookies?”
His stubbled jaw juts, before a grudging, “I had spare dough—”
“You made cookies,” you coo, pushing out your lower lip and hefting up the platter of baked goods as you turn starry-eyes on Jasper.
“Twenty minutes,” he grumbles, tone doing nothing to negate the pink which touches the tips of his ears, “Then I want you preppin’ to open.”
Your heart swells more and more with each person who approaches to welcome you back. Jinx, Max, a few other bar staff and several of Silco’s inner circle - some of whom had been at the warehouse raid. You’re humbled and baffled by how many have shown up, and it’s all you can do to keep the lump from your throat as you thank each and every one. Since when did you become such a sap? Stupid near death experience, making you want to cry all the time.
You save the tall, formidable figure standing slightly away from the rest of the group for last.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you say wryly as you sidle up to Sevika. “Didn’t think this would be your scene.”
She lifts her glass to her lips with a sardonic smirk, “Figured I’d better show my face. Apologise for punching yours.”
“Apology accepted,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your own drink.
A few beats of heavy silence.
“…It was for your own good,” she mumbles.
“I know.”
“Wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“I had a knife in my gut, to be fair.”
“Who hasn’t had a knife in their gut?”
“Careful now,” you tease, “It’s starting to sound like you feel guilty for clocking me.”
She peers down at you from the corner of her eye, mouth pinching in a half-sneer half-grimace, “It felt like kicking a puppy,” she admits reluctantly.
Your smug smirk is met with an exasperated eye roll.
“Ya know, if you feel that bad about it, I could punch you back? Then we’d be even.”
She scoffs derisively.
“Or you could just let me call you Sev?”
Her lips quirk upwards before she catches herself and turns away to refill her drink with a dismissive sniff. You grin. Gotcha.
Sevika’s retreat leaves you alone at the corner of the bar counter, and affords you a quiet moment of contemplation to take in the scene. You’ve been a part of surprise parties before now. Even arranged a few yourself. But no one has ever thrown one on your behalf. You wonder if anyone here understands how much it means to you. The unexplainable sense of peace it brings to know that you’ve made your mark. That you’ve found your place in the world. To see all the people you care most about gathered together.
Almost all.
Your eyes journey up to the balcony.
Empty. Nothing but unoccupied booths and a dim, unguarded stairwell.
A calming presence arrives at your side, “Sounds like he’s very busy, organising this territory take over,” Max offers gently.
You nod vaguely, “Yeah. Sounds like a lot of work.”
A few moments pass, before you manage to drag your gaze away and meet his with a small, wistful smile. Those rich, umber eyes scan yours; ever perceptive.
His question is so soft that you almost miss it, “You okay Honey?”
You glance over at Jinx. At the sapphire shine in her eyes, large and round atop of a blanket of shifting freckles as she talks animatedly to Sevika, who for once doesn’t look so put out by the conversation. A thick, tattooed arm extends over the counter between them - Jasper picks up Jinx’s small stack of cookies and slides a napkin beneath them, before refilling the girl’s drink while she isn’t looking.
Your lungs tighten as you nod, truthfully. You wind your arm around Max’s waist, and rest your head on his shoulder.
“If not now, then I will be.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time,” you complain around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, legs swinging contentedly beneath the bar you’re sat atop.
The atmosphere holds the heavy, satisfying hush that always descends after a particularly busy night. When a room that had been tightly packed with vivacious people now lays barren and still. You’ve always found this part of the job to be bittersweet. At once relishing the quiet, but mourning the loss of the nighttime wonderland – spell broken by the raising of the house lights.
“S’not a secret that I cook,” Jasper mutters absently, not turning from the till where he’s marking down the night’s takings on a clipboard.
“I knew you cook. But I didn’t know you bake. Baking’s very different,” you reason sagely, gesticulating towards him with the last piece of your cookie before popping it into your mouth, “You should do brownies next week.”
“Next week?”
“Mmhm,” you lick chocolate residue from your fingers, “This is a weekly thing now.”
“Do I get a say?”
“Nope. And don’t forget that I know where you live. If you scrimp on your baking duties I’ll come be a nuisance.”
“Wonder what that’s like,” he grumbles under his breath.
“M’kay, well,” you announce, brushing a few crumbs off your lap as you hop down from the counter, “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Er… home?”
“You ain’t done yet,” Jasper informs you bluntly, eyes glued to his numbers as he drags his pencil down the margin.
You frown, “Yeah I am. Everything’s clean, chairs are up—”
“It’s Friday.”
His expression is carefully neutral as he finally lifts his eyes to you, offering no further words beyond a single jerk of his chin over your shoulder, before returning to his clipboard.
The knot in your brow tightens, and you turn to follow his line of indication.
A girl stands on the far side of the dance floor. Around fourteen years in age, with impossibly long, sapphire hair braided back into two thick ropes. Her hands are clasped out of sight behind her back, and her gemstone eyes shine; alight with the kind of secret the keeper is desperate to share.
She begins to stroll over, the leisurely pace accentuated by the coy scuff of her boots and the fluid sway of her plaits. Her cupid’s bow more pronounced than usual from the effort of containing her poorly concealed excitement.
Jinx arrives at the bar.
You raise a silent brow at her, and it’s enough to make her lose the battle she was hardly fighting to begin with; mouth splitting into a victorious grin despite her surrender. Her hands unfold from behind her, revealing a hidden item which she places on the bar like some holy relic upon an altar.
A bottle of bourbon. An expensive bottle of bourbon. Thick cream label debossed with expert gold calligraphy, amber liquid so rich it could be melted garnets, cap sealed with deepest black wax—
And a single red rose, tied to the neck with brown twine.
The edges of your broken heart flutter, like torn paper stirred by a gentle breeze to tickle featherlight against the inside of your ribcage.
You lean your palms casually onto the counter top and appraise the bottle, drumming an even rhythm with your nails. Your tongue works the inside of your cheek, and you arch your eyebrow even higher at Jinx, but her grin only widens.
As well as securing the rare flower, the twine also threads through a small rectangular tag. Haughtily, you flip the card over between middle and index finger, and read the familiar, cursive handwriting down the length of your nose.
Three words. One simple question.
Drink with me?
You suck your teeth to hide the incriminating smile that threatens to conquer your lips. Warmth touches the centre of your chest like a single drop of fine whiskey, blooming outwards through your veins until you’re tipsy from it.
Jinx doesn’t say a word when your gaze flicks up to meet hers. All her hopes are communicated perfectly within the youthful, clearwater glisten of her eyes.
A tiny huff of amusement accompanies the exasperated shake of your head. And it’s with exaggerated nonchalance that you pinch the waxed seal between your fingers, glass base tilting and dragging against the brass counter top for your first few steps in the direction of the balcony stairs.
But your faux disinterest is rendered null and void by the way you hold the bottle when you do finally deign to lift it – clutching it close like a trophy you’ve rightfully won.
You squeeze Jasper’s arm as you pass, and smile to yourself when you merely receive one of his stern “Be careful Kiddo” looks in return.
You neither hurry nor stall in your journey up to and around the balcony. The stairwell remains unguarded, but Sevika sits within one of the private booths nearby, cigarette hanging from her lips and a drink in flesh-hand. You catch her eye as you pass and she nods, the smallest of smiles curling the corner of her mouth as she tips her glass in acknowledgement.
You ascend into the privacy of the stairwell, and finally take the opportunity to touch your nose to the velvet ruby petals as you walk. Roses are an Undercity rarity, only grown and sold across the river at an eye-watering price. You’ve never had the chance to admire one up close before, nor smell anything beyond the bottled imitations which do nothing to capture the earthen musk of the real thing.
The fluttering behind your rib cage intensifies with each step closer, gradually transmuting from excited anticipation to fully-fledged nerves. You arrive at his door with your heart inside your throat and your stomach suspended mid-flip behind your sternum. A long, shaky exhale has your organs descending at least part-way to their original positions.
You raise your fist to knock, but change your mind midway.
Fingertips skim over cool brass etchings, before warming the handle with your palm as you take hold and twist.
You barely make it two steps over the threshold before you freeze; breath catching in your throat and eyes widening in wonderstruck awe.
Silco waits on the far side of the office, hips perched back against the desk. The gaze that had been cast anxiously down at his boots rises as you enter, and his spine straightens hurriedly – respectfully – better displaying the crisp, tailored lines of his signature outfit, now devoid of unwanted stains. In his hands he fidgets restlessly with the stem of another red rose, and his expression… you might call it humble. There’s certainly a level of vulnerability that you’ve only been afforded accidental glances at before now, and the usually austere planes of his face are softened further by the flickering, golden glow of the countless candles which illuminate the office.
Wax tapers of all shapes and sizes – from tall, thick pillars and three pronged candelabras, down to the smallest of votives and tea lights. Every available surface, nook, and corner plays host to a twinkling array of flaming wicks; transforming the sombre room into a fairytale grotto pulled straight from the pages of a childhood treasury. The lack of green suggests he’s even had the giant mounted eye switched off, leaving only a warm, untainted wash of gold. The few spaces which don’t contain candles instead accommodate vases of roses; each one bursting with dozens of blood red blooms. Scenting the office with a surprisingly gentle sweetness despite the sheer volume of flowers.
You gaze around, open mouthed and speechless. The entire thing is utterly ridiculous, and nothing short of ludicrously cliché. But you think that just might be the entire point, if the wry tilt of Silco’s mouth and the amused, sardonic twinkle in his eye is anything to go by.
At this point I barely expect pleases and thank yous from you, I’m hardly holding out for candles and roses. This isn’t some dumbass Piltie romance novel. What we have is more than that. It’s real. It’s special.
You huff a soft laugh as your wits return, along with the memory of your own words – spoken to him only a week prior. Clever bastard.
You lean demurely back against the door as you close it behind you, adopting your best Topside accent with a flutter of eyelashes, “Are you attempting to woo me, good Sir?”
Silco suppresses a smirk, “And if I am?”
You trail your eyes around the room once more, before gazing coquettishly over at him from beneath lowered lashes and purring, “Then you’re off to a very good start.”
The smirk does find its way onto his lips now; a small, crooked thing that sends your stomach somersaulting over itself, as it always seems wont to do whenever his mouth curls just so.
Silco pushes up off the desk and you follow suit, sauntering lazily towards one another until you meet in the middle of the room. But somewhere within that short journey the humour fades, to be once again replaced by mutual nerves that tickle your throat and pinch at the corners of Silco’s mouth.
He coaxes the bourbon from you, gently chucking the bottle over onto the sofa cushions before taking your hands in both of his. His chin dips, gazing down at your linked fingers, clutched in the space between you like a pair of teenagers with no clue what to do next. Quiet uncertainty paints each sharp feature in turn as the silence stretches on.
“Take your time,” you tease softly.
His eyes flick up to you from beneath his brow, unamused. But you know him well enough to see through the guise, to see how the simple familiarity of your sass eases a little of the tension from him.
His chest expands with a purposeful inhale, and he begins.
“You were right.”
Your mouth curls into a small, angelic smile, and you tilt your head serenely with a humble shrug. Silco rolls his eyes.
“Don’t get cocky,” he mutters with a light, chastising tug on your hands.
“No promises,” you mumble, throwing him a tiny smirk that he tries hard not to reciprocate, only half successfully.
Another deep breath shifts the line of his shoulders before he continues.
“Everything you said that night was true.”
Even though he holds your gaze as he speaks, voice low and steady, his nerves are evident in the way his fingers tighten and loosen their grip in a repetitive, unconscious pulse.
“I have been a coward. I allowed my… fear of losing control to hold authority over me… Ironic, come to think of it.”
You exhale ruefully.
“Not only have I been a coward, I’ve become a hypocrite too. I punish others for daring to make the same mistakes twice, yet my own repetitive failures led me to nearly lose you on multiple occasions, in more ways than one—”
A little too much pain catches in his voice, expression pinching. His gaze cuts away to the side before dropping down to his boots as he bows his head. You can’t help the empathetic tilt of your brow, and you squeeze his hands gently. Several breaths pass before he lifts his chin and meets your eyes again. He clears his throat before continuing.
“You have given me more chances than I've earned the right to. Because you are generous, and because you always choose to hold onto the good amidst the bad. Or, perhaps, it’s simply because you are just as foolish as I am.”
That earns him a smile; small and genuine. His gaze dips to your mouth, and his own shifts up at the corners in response. Mismatched eyes meet yours again, softening as though beholding some kind of miracle. You tip your face upwards as he steps closer into your space, his grip on your fingers loosening to slide one hand to cup the back of your arm, the other raising to graze devout knuckles along your cheek. Your eyelids flutter blissfully as you lean into the touch, and you alight your own palms upon his waist as delicately as a butterfly upon a branch.
“In all my time, I have never met anyone like you,” Silco's fingers unfurl to gently cradle your face, his conviction becoming steadily stronger; the longer you don’t pull away, the longer nothing terrible comes from him finally speaking his truth.
“You…” he shakes his head unconsciously as he searches for the words, “You’re a brat.”
“That’s real nice.”
“Truly, the most infuriating, insolent menace I have ever been cursed to deal with.”
“You’re doing great. Keep it up.”
“And you are everything I adore about the Undercity,” his voice takes on a smokey fervour to match the passion sparking in his eyes, and you’re certain you’re witnessing at least a part of the young revolutionary who rallied so many to fight for a united cause. “You possess the grit and tenacity of a true Trencher. You’re resourceful and sharp. You’re as vibrant and colourful as the entirety of the Lanes and much more beyond it still.”
There’s almost a touch of anger in his tone, of frustration that his own words don’t seem to be serving him how he wishes them to.
“You bring light, and warmth, and laughter to a corner of the world so rarely touched by such things.”
Silco's gaze is so intense that it burns through all the air in your lungs, leaving you peering up at him breathless, and completely, hopelessly defenceless. He releases your arm in favour of capturing your face with both hands, and he looks so deeply into your eyes that you’re certain there isn’t any part of you he isn’t seeing. His words are emphatic, only emphasised further by the gravel in his voice and the fire in his eyes.
“You shine, Darling.”
Thumbs sweep over the apples of your cheeks.
“You’re radiant. You’re perfect.”
Each word flows like molten gold, seeping between the cracks in your heart and sealing the broken pieces back together again. Reinforcing it into something stronger; something beautiful and complex and new.
“And by some… miracle,” the word falls ragged from his mouth, “You seem to think the same of me.”
Your lungs empty in a thick, relieved breath, and you smile through your increasingly blurry vision and tightening throat. You curl your hands over his forearms and nod; a wordless confirmation that you do, indeed, think him perfect, in all his imperfection.
The depth of emotion you’re witnessing pours from him like an overflowing chalice. It’s in his bright, focused gaze. It’s in the subtle tilt and shift of each line and feature. It’s in the ardent way he holds your face, and in the sonorous depth of his voice.
“You have changed everything since your arrival. Not only in my life but in Jinx’s too. You may never truly understand the impact you've had on us both.”
The warmth inside you stalls and begins to chill in response to the distress creeping upon Silco like a tangle of poison oak. Tainting his tone with quiet pain, and casting his features in anguished shade.
"You have shown me things I never thought could be meant for me. Things I didn’t think were possible—” his words are so hoarse they burn your own throat to listen, “And instead of showing gratitude, I have treated you abhorrently,” he places a hand on your chest, palm pressing into your sternum, “You placed your trust in me and I—”
Something vital breaks in his eyes.
“Betrayed it. I betrayed you.”
You stare helplessly up at him, aching just as keenly as he, even as you shake your head and cover his hand with your own, “No, no you haven’t betrayed me—”
“Yes, I have,” his anguish rolls from him in aching waves which twist your innards in sickening knots. Of all the crimes he's committed in his life, it looks as though this may be the first he feels true remorse for, “I have done nothing but hurt you, time and again and I—”
He empties his lungs through his nose, head bowing so low that a few dark hairs slip forward over the deepening furrows in his brow. The hands upon your chest and cheek slip from their positions, taking hold of your hips instead as he lowers himself to his knees at your feet.
Your own hands hover, unsure where to land as he lifts his chin, and gazes up at you in supplication. Eyes filled with banked flames and rain-cloud waters.
“I am so sorry, Sweetheart.”
You stare mutely down at him. Heart hammering a brutal rhythm inside your ears and chest.
“For all that you have had to endure at my foolish hands these past several months. For everything I have said and done to hurt you. And I am sorry that it has taken me so long to apologise for my grievous mistakes.”
His throat bobs, and his hands smooth down to curl imploringly around the backs of your thighs.
“I do not deserve your forgiveness. Nor do I have any right to ask it of you. But I am a selfish man, and desperate enough that I would beg for the chance to earn it.”
He breathes your name, beseechingly. Dark brows slanted, endearing, triangular chip of his teeth peeking through the soft, candid part of his lips.
“Please. Give me the chance to do better by you. I will give you anything. Everything—”
Again, that dry catch of pain in his voice. You’re almost tugged off balance when his arms wrap tight around your middle, hugging himself flush against your legs, face burying deep into the soft space beneath the curvature of your ribcage. His muffled words utterly despairing.
“I cannot lose you.”
His wretched desperation tugs at something vital inside you, and snapping you from your stunned silence.
“Y-you haven’t lost me—”
“I need you.”
“Silco—”
“I love you.”
His declaration hits with all the force of a blazing meteor, snatching the air from your lungs in one, audible rush, and leaving your head spinning weightlessly at the summit of your spine. You gape, wide-eyed, down at Silco, watching as his shoulders sag; unburdened at last by the weight of those three, ragged words.
And he hugs you just that bit tighter with his final, quiet plea.
“Please. Let me love you.”
His words hang in the air as he silently clings to you.
And after a few moments, your hands finally find their way to him. Fingers thread through cropped jet hair, cradling his head to your diaphragm, and you circle your other arm around his finely clad shoulders. He’s already pressed himself so closely against you, but it doesn’t stop you from gathering him closer still.
Seconds pass. Maybe even minutes. However long it is, it’s spent in complete silence, neither peaceful nor fraught. Silco’s head shifts with each of your shallow inhales. Your thumb brushes slowly back and forth against his scalp. You gaze dead ahead at the full-moon window, and contemplate the flickering patterns swaying within each abstract pane - like little stars caught inside the glass.
Please. Let me love you.
Such a simple request. Yet it only occurs to you now that it’s exactly what you’ve been asking of him from the very start, in every way but with the words themselves.
Please, Silco. Let me love you.
You carefully prise his hands away, and he reluctantly loosens his hold just enough for you to slide down within the circle of his arms, until you too are upon your knees, face-to-face.
“You were right too,” you murmur, a small, lopsided smile accompanying the equally small shake of your head. “Kneeling doesn’t really suit you.”
His chest depresses with a sharp, humourless huff. But his expression remains suspended painfully between uncertain hope and crushing fear. You dig your fingers into the tense muscles atop his shoulders and hold his gaze steady.
“I forgive you, Silco.”
Sheer relief washes across his face in a fluid wave, and like a marionette freed from its strings he seems to collapse a few inches, rocking back towards his heels, before surging forwards and scooping you into a tight embrace that you instantly reciprocate. You bury your face in the smoke-spiced crook of his neck, and feel the sharp blade of his nose nestle within your hair.
“Thank you,” he rasps.
Maybe one day you’ll tell him the truth. That you’d forgiven him the second you set foot into his office tonight. That he was already mostly forgiven the moment he emerged through the fog at that damn warehouse.
You cling to each other for an age, making up for lost time and relishing in this hard-won peace. Knee-to-knee, bodies flush, arms wound tight amidst a sea of burning candles and soft petals.
You rest your chin on his shoulder, “You didn’t need to do any of this.”
“I know,” his words rumble straight from his chest into yours, “I wanted to. Another apology, for my absence this week.”
You draw back, leaving your hands loosely linked at his nape, “You don’t need to apologise for that… I told you to take time away to think.”
“I didn’t need it,” he murmurs with a small shake of his head, “I wanted to stay and speak with you when you woke…”
“But duty calls.”
“As she so often does,” he confirms ruefully, a sombre weight to his words which doesn’t pass you by. But you’ve always understood and accepted the responsibilities that bind him. The knowledge that he wanted to stay is more than enough.
“And everything is… under control?”
“As of this afternoon," he confirms. "Leaving me with just enough time to purchase every candle in the Undercity.”
You breathe a soft laugh as you gaze around once more, “It’s beautiful… And completely stupid.”
A small chuckle, “Precisely what I was going for.”
“Janna. How long did it take you to light them all?”
“I had help.”
“Jinx?”
He nods with a hum.
“That’s sweet.”
He weighs his head slightly to the side, “She charged me five hexes for every ten candles.”
You chuckle, “Enterprising. Just like her dad.”
“Indeed. This has turned into quite the expensive endeavour,” his hands smooth down your sides. “Tell me, was it at least money well spent?”
You feel the corners of your eyes crinkle with the width of your grin, and you nod, “Consider me thoroughly wooed.”
Silco looks softly pleased. His half-lidded gaze scans slowly over your features, as though trying to memorise the exact way you look in this moment. A weighted hush settles between you. You pull your lower lip between your teeth, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt collar.
“So…”
“So,” he repeats lowly.
You swallow, “…What comes next?”
His eyes switch back and forth between yours for a few quiet moments, before he speaks, softly, through the curl of a small, wry smile, “I admit, I’m a little behind on my Piltovian romance reading… But it appears you have been successfully wooed by my frivolous grand gesture?” His voice inflects upwards with a sarcastic little head tilt. You answer with a saccharine nod and a poorly concealed smirk.
“And I have expressed my feelings for you in a way that cannot be misinterpreted?”
Another nod, with pressed lips attempting to conceal the incriminating transformation of smirk to smile.
“In that case,” he murmurs, mouth mimicking the twist of yours and a single dark brow quirking briefly upwards, “I believe all that’s left is for me to extend a formal proposition of courtship.”
Your heart soars like a rogue firework, painting a trail of blazing sparks as it ricochets in wild, giddy patterns inside you. But you can’t find it in yourself to feel any sort of embarrassment for your teenage reaction. Nothing can eclipse the explosive joy of this moment.
You purse your lips and smooth down the crimson points of his collar, “My my, what an interesting and flattering proposal, kind Sir. Naturally I shall need a few days to consider your most generous offer, as well as those made by my numerous other suitors—”
You squeak in surprise when possessive hands latch suddenly to your waist and tug, pulling you flush against him with bare centimetres left between your lips and the sensual, self-satisfied smirk on his.
“Be mine.” It’s no request. The husky demand rolls down your spine like a stream of warm water, and has your heart fumbling its rhythm.
“I was always yours, dumbass,” you breathe emphatically.
You watch, as the dual-eyes so notoriously known for being callous and hard, soften and melt. Their mismatched hues swirl into watercolour mixes - gentle, eddying whirlpools around each pupil. Tempered further by the candlelight reflecting in that infamous obsidian sclera like ethereal woodland wisps.
Silco's breath fans softly over the skin of your upper lip. The familiar smell of him enfolds you safely, completely, and those few dishevelled hairs brush your brow. Dark lashes drape over aquamarine as he leans to close the distance—
You stop him with a finger upon his lips.
Silco blinks slowly, and you raise an expectant eyebrow.
“And?” you prompt.
Understanding dawns after a beat or two, and his silent amusement fans warm over your knuckles. He covers your hand with his own, removing the finger from his mouth and pressing a kiss into the centre of your palm, before flattening it purposefully upon his chest, right over the steady two-note beat of his heart. His thumb brushes tenderly over the backs of your fingers, whilst the splayed hand on your lower back pulls you deeper against him. He touches his brow to yours.
“And,” he says, smoothly, in a quieter rendition of the arrogant, insufferably superior tone you’ve come to so adore, “I suppose that would, in turn, make me yours, hm?”
You grin, wide and slow, noses grazing with how you tilt your face towards him like a flower basking in midday sunlight.
“Damn right it does,” you whisper triumphantly into the final sliver of space separating you. And your smile only fades to accommodate the slow, sweet capture of your lips between his.
This kiss contains none of the urgent passion of the first - shared all those many months ago through the dreamlike haze of a shared cigar - yet the effect is much the same. You’re illuminated in blinding technicolour from within. Your joy could light the Lanes. It could power the Undercity. It could send airships to foreign lands. Tear down worlds and build them anew. It could put the Arcane arts to shame.
Silco draws back a quarter of an inch to gaze at you from beneath a lowered lid. Like he’s ensuring you’re still here. That you’re real, and not some cruel illusion his mind has conjured to torture him with. His palms rise to cradle either side of your face, warming your skin, and your eyes flutter closed once more as his lips brush slow, lingering moth-wing kisses to the corner of your mouth, skimming to the curving bow that crowns it, lightly pressing to the pillowed plush beneath. Softly tasing the shape of you. Taking time to refamiliarise himself after so long spent needlessly apart.
And the pang of yearning that squeezes your stomach at that thought must be profound enough for him to feel too. Because as one you seek satiation.
Lips fuse in a rolling, open-mouthed kiss that’s as slow as it is indulgent, and you’re accosted once more by that swarm of firelights who beat their filmy wings, untamed, against the inside of your ribs, and in ticklish whispers over goose-bumped skin.
For once, your senses align – a rare planetary conjunction. Your head, heart, and gut are all in agreement. All that you are speaks to him. To Silco.
You press yourself impossibly close with a blissful sigh, arms winding around the tops of his shoulders as you melt into the kiss like honey in warm tea. Your shirt bunches above the forearm that snakes around your back, encircling you fully enough for long fingers to curl around the far grooves of your ribcage. Hard-earned callouses rasp against your skin as his other hand glides down from cheek to neck – palm blanketing your pulse, the length of his thumb extending beneath the line of your jaw to tilt your face more fully into the deepening kiss.
The questing brush of his tongue has you exhaling in soft want, opening fully to his taste. For too long your dreams have been haunted by smoky memories, so diluted that the real thing almost overwhelms you. Your fingers thread through the cropped hairs at the back of Silco’s head, curling, tugging as the press of your mouths becomes gradually greedier.
You catch his lower lip between your teeth. He hums in deep chested approval; more vibration than sound. You arch into the rumble, and his tongue snakes ardently beneath yours to draw a coaxing line up the hypersensitive frenulum with the tip – the single movement burning your cheeks, seeping through veins, pooling down low, and pulling a needy, involuntary whimper from you that proves to be Silco’s catalyst.
Both arms wrap tight around your waist, and you squeak in surprise against his mouth as he stands in one powerful movement, bringing you with him. Your boots struggle for purchase beneath you as you both stumble in the direction of his bedroom; two pairs of legs tangling together and two sets of lips meeting over and over in increasingly messy kisses.
Your back flattens against the door, and you fumble blindly for the handle behind you as Silco crushes against your front, claiming your mouth hard, his hands rove greedily to your ribs, thumbs dragging against the sides of your breasts.
You manage to locate the metal and twist, and you both tumble through, momentum carrying you towards the bed as Silco’s mouth drags down your jugular. Your head tips right back to grant him all the access he could possibly desire, and in doing so your eyes flutter briefly open to the sight of yet more candles. More roses. At least an equal amount to those already in his office.
Your mouth falls indignantly open.
You plant your heels, halting your stumbling journey as you dig thumb and fingers into Silco’s jaw and bend backwards over the bar of his arms to scowl at him. His expression one of lust-glazed surprise, bruised lips made even more plush with how you squish his cheeks.
“You’re a presumptuous bastard, d’you know that?”
He doesn’t even have the courtesy to look a little chastised. A glint of sharp mischief cuts through his fogged gaze, and his squashed lips curl into a semblance of a blade-edge smirk.
“Utterly shameless,” you scold, dragging his mouth back to yours and kissing him hard as punishment, “Wicked man,” you admonish against his lips, fingers leaving his face and instead hooking into the knot of his tie, loosening it with sharp tugs, “Fiend.”
“Call me whatever you wish, Darling,” he purrs between kisses, insufferably smug, “I see nothing wrong with hoping for the best and preparing accordingly.”
“Villain,” you breathe, whipping the silken material from beneath his collar and discarding it.
He surges forward to capture you in a kiss that’s deep and thorough, and your eyes flutter closed as you give yourself over entirely.
Your head spins faster with each burning touch of his lips, but your fingers still manage to navigate their way to the top of his waistcoat, and you grumble against his mouth as you yank at the first impossible clasp. A whisper of amusement leaves Silco as his hands rise to cover yours, halting your struggle and breaking the kiss.
The fire that had been raging mere seconds ago banks to a low, hot smoulder beneath the weight of the moment. A small, fearful part of you half expects him to insist the clothes remain. If not that, then at least to take over from your fumbling attempt.
He does neither.
Silco aligns his fingers with yours, and guides you. Silently, patiently instructing how to undo each fastening, the complicated leather buckles at his waist, before dropping his arms to allow you to push the surprisingly heavy vest from his shoulders to join the abandoned neck tie on the floor.
Your fingers rise to his throat, trembling almost imperceptibly from nerves, or anticipation, or perhaps a combination of both under the intensity of the two-tone gaze which never leaves yours. You begin to unbutton his shirt. Working your way steadily down that central placket, untucking the hem to finish the job and leaving a thin slice of skin visible through the part in the material, so stark against the rich burgundy.
Desire hooks heavily behind your navel as you dip your fingers between the narrow opening in the shirt. Silco’s shaky inhale matches yours as you run your palms upwards, widening the fabric part and luxuriating in the feel of his skin beneath your touch – finally. Finally.
You palm the corded strength of his arms as you slowly bunch the shirt all the way down to the cuffs and admire the view. Lean muscle, cut close to the bone. The candlelight casting toned dips and grooves in deeper shadow, further emphasising his long, elegant physique. A trail of dark hair runs down from beneath his belly button, with a matching patch adorning his sternum. Dashes of pink and silver litter his torso, a mixture of straight and crooked, risen and flat. But all of it—
“Gorgeous,” you breathe, “You’re gorgeous.”
The shirt falls free from his wrists and billows to the floor. Silco’s throat bobs.
A shiver ripples through him as your fingertips skim their way over skin and sinew; exploring, marvelling. Tracing muscular divots and silken scar tissue. Brushing the perfectly tapered waist that twitches beneath your touch with a low, ticklish grunt from above, much to your quiet amusement.
Your fingers come to a lingering rest upon the very tops of those inked roses, just peeking over the waistband of his trousers. You peer up at him, taking note of the nerves which loiter at the very fringes of his gaze.
“How long has it been since you’ve let someone see you in this way?” You ask quietly; sincerely and without judgement.
He shakes his head slightly side to side, tongue swiping over the chip in his teeth behind his closed lips in an anxious tell, “Not since the river.”
Your heart twinges with sadness for him. That it’s been so long since he’s felt safe enough to let his guard down with another person. You can’t imagine how exhausting it must have been.
“We don’t have to do this,” you assure him, “if it’s too much all at once then we can wa—”
He shakes his head again with a deep, throaty grumble, and steps right into your space. Kissing away the concerned knot between your brows as his hands slip up beneath the hem of your top and smooth either side of your spine, the fabric bunching above his forearms.
“Didn’t I say I’d give you everything?” He reminds you, low and sincere, lips dragging hot kisses from your temple to jaw as deft fingers work to unhook the clasp at your back, “I am a man of my word.”
Your shirt and bra have barely hit the floor before he’s gathered you against him and Oh— your throat constricts and your eyes sting all of a sudden at the glorious, overwhelming feel of his bare skin pressed against yours. You could weep. You almost do. A small, dry sob passing your lips before he swallows the sound with the press of his own.
You clutch desperately, nails raking his back, drunk on each divine sensation. The velvet heat of his mouth moving over yours, deep and consuming. The swell of your chest pressed to his ribs, peaked nipples dragging sensitive against his skin with every breath. The tickle of soft hair at your navel. The simple rush of being so close to him.
Silco’s mouth drags down beneath your jaw, down, down between the valley of your breasts and lower still as he drops to a crouch. Your fingers tangle in his hair, digging into his scalp as he devours your ribs, your stomach, any and every part of you his mouth can reach whilst blindly tugging off your boots and flinging them away. Only coming up for air when his fingers find the fastenings of your trousers. You watch the hunger which darkens his eyes abate a little as he examines the purple hued scar on your stomach. Then his lips return to you, infinitely more gentle as they trace over the amethyst mark, brushing kisses to your newly marred skin.
You decide with finality that you are a fan of the scar.
Knuckles graze the sides of your legs as he drags the last of your clothing down and helps you to step free, and you use your grip in his hair to encourage him to straighten faster when he seems intent on tasting his way back up your naked body again.
You hook your fingers over his waistband and tug his hips insistently against you, mouth watering at the hard strain which digs into your belly. His teeth nip at your clavicle as you tear at his trouser buttons, the open fabric bunching beneath your upturned wrists in your eagerness to slide flattened hands down the delectable cut of abdominal muscle which runs towards hip flexors. Delving lower still, beneath underwear to run palms to the tops of his thighs, his breath rushing out over your skin as you skim either side of his groin, then growling in rough approval as you snake hands around to grip that gorgeous little ass and pull him even closer.
You grab a fistful of material and drop onto your haunches, tugging greedily at the tight clothing.
“Boots, Sweetheart,” he reminds you breathlessly when you get into an impatient tangle around his knees.
You tear at the buckles at his calves and pull his damn boots off, perhaps a little unsympathetic when you almost trip him up with how gracelessly you yank his trousers and underwear over his feet – entirely too distracted with drinking in the sight of tightly muscled legs, pale skin beneath a coating of fine, jet hair.
Gods he really is a thing of beauty, towering high above you in sharp, long lines. A piece of art. One you are determined to learn every facet of.
Your lips are eager but soft as they press along a slice of raised scar tissue high on the side of one thigh, “How did you get this?” You ask between kisses.
“Knife attack,” you feel the heat of his eyes on you, fingers brushing your hair back from your face and muscles twitching beneath your mouth, “Didn’t dodge quickly enough. Ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers in my ineptitude.”
“And these?” You move up to drag your lips over a small cluster of silver dashes which skim the side of his waist.
“HnPipe bomb shrapnel,” he answers, once again revealing the ticklishness which you plan to exploit at a later date when you aren't so preoccupied, “A pain to remove, but worth it for the five enforcers that were taken out.”
He exhales a shuddering breath as you run your tongue up the central groove of his abdomen on your way to a puckered gash on the curve of his ribcage.
“And this one?”
“Darling,” a whisper of laughter within the gravel of his voice as he gently captures your chin, turning your attention upwards, “I have many scars. And I will tell you about each one in time. I promise.”
So precious. That promise of time.
You give in to the careful tug at your jaw, lust-dark eyes and assertive fingers doing an equal job of drawing you to stand once more, of luring you into his waiting embrace. Nails biting into skin, the thick heat of him caught between your stomachs sending your desire sky-high, every breath coming in shallow and hot like your lungs aren’t lungs at all but clusters of smouldering coals. Desperate to experience the taste of his mouth again as he leans forwards—
And pauses as his gaze catches on something over your shoulder; pupils darting in a quick double take, before staring openly. You twist your head and peer behind you.
A full length mirror stands on the opposite side of the room, slightly oxidised around at the edges but gold framed and stylish as all his furniture is. The bare length of your back is reflected in soft, flattering candlelight, half covering Silco’s naked form. Both of you breathing heavily, sporting mussed hair and bruised lips. It makes a pretty picture.
You grin, leaning further into him and resting your temple against his jaw, “We look good together.”
But he doesn’t respond, attention captured solely by—
Ah.
“When did you get this done?” Silco asks, husky and quiet, hand smoothing down to your backside to trail fingers over your newest tattoo. Two unfurled roses, haloed with a laurel of leaves. Infinitely more tasteful than the design it covers.
“The day after we first slept together,” you whisper, “Figured it was going to get annoying if you kept laughing at the pig… It was supposed to be a surprise.”
He traces it reverently, “It matches mine,” he breathes, quiet awe in the vague comment.
Your mouth quirks up, “Yeah, well…” your shoulder lifts in a small, sardonic shrug, “People do stupid things when they’re in love.”
His eyes snap to yours in the mirror, lips parting the barest amount, brow loosening to a raw tilt…
You turn to face the real thing, dual-eyes blindingly bright and crystal sharp as he gazes down at you like he’s completely rapt—
Because you realise now that you never officially returned his sentiments.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” you huff in soft laughter, smoothing a hand upon his chest “I love you too, by the way.”
Once again you’re faced with that acute vulnerability; shutters flung wide open for you to pick out each emotion, each want and desire and need. But for the first time you find no confusion. No past pains haunting his present. For the first time, you can see that he’s finally allowing himself to believe you.
“Say it again,” Silco’s lips barely move around the gravelled request, and he sways forward as though falling into your orbit, caught within your gravity.
Brows touch, your nose pressed into his scarred cheek, parted mouths brushing – sharing breath without kissing. So close that all you can see is swarming orange in a pool of black. You heed him, speaking the words against his lips.
“I love you, Silco.”
And he does kiss you now; as fathomless and rolling as the deepest leagues of the ocean, inhaling as though you’re one of his finest cigars and he’s intent not to waste a single smokey note.
You press as close as you can, kissing him back with equal passion, desperate to imprint the feel of him upon your skin.
His arms encircle your waist and your toes leave the ground. You wrap your legs around his hips, and shower his cheeks and jaw and lips with kisses as he strides those last few steps towards the foot of the bed, and kneels upon the blankets.
He lays you down on your back with heartbreaking reverence, a forearm braced beside your head as he gazes at you from above. The energy between you gains a little weight. A little of that vulnerability which accompanies fear of the unknown. But it’s hard to be too scared, with Silco’s body atop yours like this. With the tender, warm hand that rises to your jaw.
“Indulge me, just once more?” He mutters, thumb tracing the parted seam of your mouth. Dragging down the plush of your lower lip until the pad comes to rest on your chin slightly damp.
“I love you,” you breathe whole-heartedly, hand cradling the back of his head and the other sliding to curl around the coiled strength of his bicep, “And I’ll indulge you as often as you wish it.”
He lets out a low, rumbling hum, and dips beneath your jaw, dragging his lips down your throat, “That is a very dangerous wish to bestow.”
You press up into the mouth that sucks wet, blooming marks around the curve of your breast, “What’s life without a little danger?”
“How can you be certain I won’t abuse such a power?” Eyes of green and orange flick up to meet yours as he laps the flat of his tongue over one sensitive nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
“Oh, I’m c-counting on you abusing it,” breath hitching in a small gasp.
Another deep hum of contemplation as he releases your devoured peak with a pop, before grazing over to repeat his attentions on the neglected breast.
“I’m not sure if I should be offended that you would think me so dastardly.”
Your hips buck slightly as he pinches your pebbled nipple playfully within the chip of his teeth, peering innocently up at you.
“Says he – with a face like butter wouldn’t melt.”
His lips curl into a smirk, even as they close around your peak to lavish away the hurt with the wet warmth of his mouth, hands greedily clutching your waist, long fingers curling beneath the arch of your spine.
He detaches himself, “And you’re certain,” he asks, pillowing his cheek against the soft swell of your breast to gaze up at you, “that you won’t come to regret granting this wicked man such a limitless wish?”
There's a careful thread through the question, and he waits patiently for your answer. You recognise it for what it is. The final checkpoint before you delve past the point of no return.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” you answer truthfully.
And then he’s above you again, arms and body caging you in so thoroughly that you wouldn’t be able to escape if you tried. Not that you would ever contemplate such a thing. More than happy, more than willing and eager to burn to cinders beneath the intensity of the flaming gaze that bears down upon you now.
“Good,” he growls, all of his focus fixed upon the depths of your eyes, “Because I love you madly, Sweetheart. And I, too, intend to indulge your every wish and desire just as boundlessly from this moment on.”
Fingertips dig into his shoulders with a small hiccup of desire as he shifts against you, the head of him catching at your entrance.
“Could I get that in writing?”
His mouth quirks, “I didn’t say anything about indulging cheekiness.”
“Pity. I’ve a lot of cheek for you to indulge in.”
You smirk up at him as he sucks his teeth, amusement sparking in his eyes despite his attempt to hide it.
“Intolerable minx,” he murmurs.
Any and all smugness is wiped clean away as he begins to push inside you. Your mouth falls open in a silent whine at the slow, perfect stretch, and you battle the flutter of your lashes to watch the hypnotic fog of pleasure that rolls across Silco’s face.
He hitches your thigh higher on his waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as he carefully rocks himself incrementally deeper until he’s fully seated, hips pressed flush against you.
And with that, the world stills. Fingers and palms glide over skin in soft, soothing strokes, both yours and his. Saying nothing. Saying everything. Laying still. And close. And quiet.
“Kiss me,” you demand softly. And Silco does. A tender brush of lips at first, that he deepens with a delicious grind of his hips.
“Again.”
He obeys. Readily. Pressing his mouth to yours and tilting his pelvis in a single, shallow rock.
“Again.”
Once more he proves that his promise is true; indulging your wish with a smokey lick of tongue as he begins to move in earnest. Long, languid thrusts that feel nothing short of divine.
“Again,” you beg against his lips, “Please, don’t ever stop. Silco.”
He moans into your open mouth, deep and desperate, snaking his arms tightly around you and extending the radius of those desired kisses to cover your cheeks, your closed eyelids, your ears, your jaw, your neck.
Your hands rove over his shoulders and back, feeling the strength of each shifting, rippling muscle beneath his skin as he makes love to you. Rolling your hips into each of his ardent, heavenly strokes. So achingly tender. Even as pleasure mounts and builds between you, and movements become less measured. Breaths becoming more vocal, pushed from mouths upon wordless sounds of bliss and want.
“I missed you,” he rasps, raw and earnest. Large hands sliding all the way up your arms to twine his fingers together with yours above your head. “I missed you everyday you were gone. Everyday before that.”
Green eye squeezes briefly shut with a short, rough moan that harmonises with your high, breathy one when he hits something deep that makes you tremble and clench, “I–hng have missed you every day since the f-first time you stayed for a drink.”
All you can offer is a desperate whisper of his name, your hands tightening their hold on his, as you tilt the crown of your head back deep into the pillow and expose the stretch of your throat to him. He latches on like a beast. Teeth sinking deep around your racing pulse to lick and suck his mark into your skin.
You wrap your other leg around his back, bucking up to meet each passionate thrust. You have no idea where you end and Silco begins. Bodies woven together so thoroughly you might as well be a single person. Mouths tasting skin. Fingers curling in ecstasy. Soft sheets twisting beneath you. Hips meeting again and again in a quickening rhythm that still manages to remain profound and indulgent.
He grinds against something so deep and perfect inside you that you can’t stop the desperate sob that spills from your lips like a fountain. He pulls back to gaze down at you, and his hips slow until he’s simply seated to the hilt inside you, unmoving, staring.
“A-are you alright?” You pant softly, raising a hand to his cheek.
He nods absently, blown-pupils scanning over your face.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
He asks it so sincerely. No game of flattery behind the question. He wants to know.
Your stomach flutters, and you smile, “You could stand to mention it more often.”
His own lips curl just the barest amount, and he touches his nose to yours, “You’re beautiful.”
You’ve barely half a second to bask in the glow of his compliment before the world twists and rolls around you, gasping sharply in surprise as his arms tighten their hold and you find your positions flipped; sitting atop him with your knees either side of his waist. An unlikely mixture of both devilishness and apprehension upon his face, mere inches below yours.
It takes the brush of his mouth and the feel of his hands at your hips to break your stupor. You roll your pelvis, and are rewarded with a guttural whine and twisted brow, the sight and sound so intoxicating that you rock again, and again. The angle of him inside you like this so mind-numbingly exquisite that you lose yourself entirely.
You brace your hands on his chest and straighten, relishing the way he looks underneath you. The way he watches you move above him like a man totally bewitched; pitch-dark eyes dragging over your face, your breasts, down to where your bodies join.
And you’re captivated too, by the sheen of sweat which coats his skin, glistening in the candlelight, his ribs expanding with each softly gasping breath, and toned abdominals rippling as he rolls his hips upwards to deepen each of your thrusts.
Your thighs shake, a satisfying muscular burn from the slow, sensual ride. Raising yourself up, circling your hips to nudge the head of his cock in a tunnelling spiral inside your heat as you sink back down again, the teasing movement dragging a rare, strained curse from Silco’s lips.
Nails drag pink lines into his skin as you arch in complete bliss, rolling your hips, chest pressing forward to deepen the angle, head tipping right back with a rhapsodic moan.
“Look at you,” Silco breathes rapturously, “You’re beautiful. Beautiful,” you meet his gaze from beneath weighty lashes, pulling your lower lip between your teeth as he bares his in a proprietary growl, “Mine. My beautiful, perfect girl.”
The grit in his voice shoots straight through you, his eyes flashing as your core clenches tight around him.
Dishevelled hair falls around your face as you lower your body to bring your lips to his pectoral, teeth latching hungrily as you suckle the sweet salt of his skin, his chest rumbling in approval beneath the curl of your tongue. Your mouth departs with a wet pop, and you tap your finger on the new, red mark, “How’d you get this one?”
The corner of his mouth hooks upwards, “I was bitten by a bloodthirsty Poro.”
“Are you calling me a Poro?”
He grabs your ass hard and thrusts sharply upwards, causing you to lose your balance and fall forwards onto his chest with a high-pitched bark of surprised pleasure.
“You certainly make a lot of the same noises,” he croons.
You laugh huskily in his ear, grazing your teeth around the shell and nipping playfully at the lobe, “If you aren’t careful, Sweetie, you’ll get bitten again.”
“What a shame that would be.”
He stutters over the last vowel, drawing it out as you grind your hips down and lock your mouth onto his neck. Sucking two more marks upon his throat, blooming deep purple, lest he forget who he belongs to.
Yours. All yours—
He sits up in one fluid motion, his hands hooking behind your knees and wrapping your legs around his pelvis. Drawing you closer with the bend of his own knees. Arms winding around each other in an infinite loop.
And it’s perfect. It’s perfect. Hips rolling together in faultless tandem, the position offering little more than a deeply buried grind and an intimate, carnal proximity. But oh it’s nirvana.
Lips drag over sweat slicked skin, the sharp blade of Silco’s nose drawing patterns upon your neck as he whispers your name, soft praises, precious, loving words of worship which gather in the hollow of your throat like a keepsake locket.
Your fingers card through his hair, scratching scalp as you keen your own praises, your own, slurred devotion. His lips drag over yours, teeth clacking as you pant shared breaths into each other’s open mouths. Smokey grunts and ragged whines. Racing hearts separated only by the bare skin of your heaving chests. This push and pull between you, give and take like rushing tides. Coastal waves lapping up and down hot sand, salt-foam fingers reaching eagerly for shore, a little further with each stretch—
Silco permeates every one of your senses. He’s all you can see, smell, taste, hear, feel. Only him, and the shivering tensity that squeezes like a coiled spring in the very depths of your core. A beating war-drum of pleasure that marches closer and closer. Louder. Insistent. Imminent—
His hands at your waist, scorching, lifting and pulling your hips into each sunken thrust. Grinding your aching bud against his pelvis—
“I– I– fuck. L-love. Shh– Need,” you gasp, panting high and fast, “Silc-oh. Silc-oh—”
He watches you spiral towards your ruin; chanting his name like a mantra as your nails bite purple moons into his skin. Midnight gaze swallowing you whole, his expression ravenous, enthralled.
And it’s the ragged, lust-drunk look on his face that breaks you.
You burst. Blinding ecstasy splinters through you like fine porcelain set upon an open flame, and you cry out in a song of pure pleasure. Each explosive swell pulling a new, sobbing verse from your throat as you ride out the relentless assault of your paradisiacal orgasm – seemingly intent never to release you from its euphoric, cresting peak.
But it seems you’re equally as destined to ruin him. It must be the quivering heat of you coming undone around him, because within moments Silco follows you straight over the precipice. Arms crushing you impossibly close as his face twists into the most gorgeous expression of pleasure you’ve ever seen. Completely, beautifully wrecked. A broken moan pouring from scarred lips and onto yours as he spills himself deep inside you.
Throbbing hips grind together as you both tumble through the unceasing riptide of your shared rapture. Locked brow-to-brow as you bear witness to the full scope of each other’s pleasure.
After what feels like an impossible eternity, and yet still far too soon, the joint orgasmic rush begins to wane. Gradually lowering you back to reality, until you find yourselves quietly cradled in each other’s arms. Lungs heaving like bellows, and hands soothing over soaked skin in slow, roaming patterns reserved for soothing.
It’s a new experience; to find the peaceful hush of the afterglow just as satisfying as the climax itself. Though it doesn’t surprise you, that Silco should be the one to redefine such a thing.
Madness – to think that the man currently holding you with excruciating tenderness is the same who’s so feared for his merciless violence. That the broad hands which sweep gently in comfort over your back are the hands famous for tenaciously, ruthlessly clawing their way to any and every bloodied victory he has claim over.
That the uncaring, untrusting Eye of Zaun – this beautiful, callous monster – should allow you to hold his heart in its entirety.
You exhale in soft, muted laughter, palm stroking over the soft, shorn hairs to cup the back of his head as you draw away, just a little, in order to look at him.
You gaze into his eyes and are reminded, as you so often are, of the ocean.
Crystal green waters, stretching far as you can see. And a blazing orange sun, setting over those waves. Sinking below the surf, and casting the shimmering turquoise swells in burning citrine hues.
And with all the sudden clarity of a single, tolling bell – it strikes you. It all becomes abundantly clear.
The horizon you’ve forever been seeking.
It was in his eyes, all along.
“What are you thinking?” Silco asks softly, hand rising to push sweat damp hair back from your face.
The smile which touches your lips is quiet, and secret.
“That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
And after all, the rain will fall on us too
But I’ll keep moving on
Proud and strong
With you
It isn’t truly daylight that filters in through the circular, corner window. Such a thing doesn’t exist down here in the lowest depths of the Undercity.
Rather, it’s simply that the perpetual gloom lessens somewhat. A brighter, watery quality that indicates which celestial body currently reigns in the sky miles above.
It’s enough to rouse you, given your preference for the darker, less civil hours, and given the unfamiliarity of the bed in which you lay.
Excessively large, with soft, luxurious sheets; silken and cool against your naked body. You’ve never slept on a mattress that wasn’t cheap enough to feel the box-springs through before, and you marvel at how this one possesses the perfect balance between squish and support.
You could get used to this.
The languid awakening. The plush mattress. The soft sheets. The warm body entwined with yours.
No need to open your eyes to know that Silco is still asleep. The even rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek is indication enough. For all your complimenting his mattress, it’s actually him you’ve been half resting atop most of the night. He lays on his back, with the length of your body overlapping the left side of his. Legs slotted together beneath the rumpled blankets, and breasts an oddly comfortable squash against his ribs. The sharp blade of his shoulder is cupped within your palm at the end of the loving wind of your arm around his middle, whereas his is flung carelessly over your back. But at least the other is placed more deliberately; bent upwards to accommodate the fingers which are woven loosely in your hair.
Yeah, you could get used to this.
You nestle deeper, quietly inhaling the sleep-musk warmth of his skin, and even in slumber Silco automatically draws you closer. Shifting, tightening his arms around you, and ruffling your hair with a contented huff as he settles again.
Your lips quirk. You learned many things last night. And one of the many things you learned, to your unparalleled delight, is that the mighty, fearsome Eye of Zaun is a cuddler.
You doze blissfully to the gentle percussive thump of his heart beneath your head. Half-way back to falling asleep…
When Silco begins to snore.
Not badly. Nothing too loud or obnoxious. Just a dry catch in his throat with each inhale. Enough to have you biting back a smirk as you remember how he’d once accused you of the very crime he’s currently committing.
You’re careful not to wake Silco as you ease yourself to lie further on top of him, your chest pressed to his stomach, and your hips fitting into the gap between his legs. Taking note of the pleasurable ache between your own thighs as you shift, and casting a proud eye over the smattering of red and purple marks which mar his neck and torso. You fold your arms over his chest and rest your chin atop them, gazing sleepily up at him.
His hair resembles that of a bird’s nest. A gorgeous, hopeless mess of wavy dark locks shot through with silver. If he’s devastatingly handsome when awake, then he's devastatingly beautiful when asleep. The long, sculpted face so much smoother. So peaceful. Grey, scarred skin peeks out from behind a dark, protective eyepatch. The same one he’d threatened to strangle you with last night when you’d refused to quit making pirate jokes.
You grin at the memory, and grin wider still when his lips part, and the chip in his teeth adds a low whistle to his snoring.
You think of all the love stories in which the protagonist claims to be content to watch their lover sleep for an eternity. And while you understand the sentiment (because truly, he’s fascinating to watch), you’d really rather he wake up and entertain you.
Perhaps your impatience is palpable. Because his breathing loses the deep drag of sleep, and shallows with his slow rise to consciousness. Dark lashes flutter, before prising apart – a single green eye peering groggily down at you.
“You snore.”
A slow blink, followed by the curl of a drowsy smirk.
“Not only is that a lie,” Silco drawls, voice even deeper and smokier from sleep, “it is also no way to greet someone so early in the morning.”
You shimmy yourself up his body, pushing up on his chest to gaze down at his cocky little expression.
“It’s not a lie,” you explain patiently, fingers catching carefully beneath his eyepatch and slipping it from his face, “Because I never lie to you.”
You discard the protective adornment on his nightstand and brush your fingertips over the unconcealed sweep of grey skin that extends to his hairline. He hums low and delicious as your nails scratch lightly through the cropped strands at his temple – another thing you learnt about him last night. The Eye of Zaun is part feline when it comes to his penchant for head scritches.
He hums again, a rumble of rumination as his eyes scan slowly over your face.
“Can harsh truths not at least wait until after a suitable morning greeting?”
Your eyebrow arches upwards as you lower your mouth to a teasing hover over his. Voice a sensual husk, “And what would constitute a suitable morning greeting?”
His eyes sharpen to a dangerous glint, leaving you to wonder how much of his supposed sleepiness is genuine. Your surprised shriek turns into a giggle as he grabs your waist and rolls on top of you, twisting the blankets into hopeless tangle around your waists.
“You could try a polite ‘Good morning’?” He suggests with a predatory little head tilt.
You bite your lower lip, curling your hands indulgently up the biceps which cage you in.
“Good morning, Silco, Sweetie,” you purr.
His lips curl just so, and he lowers himself, warm, long body slotting flawlessly against yours.
“Good morning, Love,” he murmurs softly.
Life is full of perfect moments, though it may not seem like it at times. Perhaps it’s your annoyingly persistent optimism talking, but you’ve always believed that what makes a moment special, or memorable, or yes, even perfect, is a person’s own decision to classify it as such. A moment need not be faultless to be considered perfect. To bring joy.
It just so happens that this moment is faultless. As Silco dips his mouth to yours, and kisses you sweetly, deeply, as though he has all the time in the world to do so. And it leads you to consider all the small moments which led to this perfect one. You wonder how you might record this journey you’ve taken.
There are many ways, you suppose.
Twelve steps down a wood-lined corridor that had once seemed so dark and foreboding.
A hundred cubes of ice. Chilling the contents of two crystal tumblers. Replenished by dozens of bottles of bourbon.
An unknown number of conversations spread out over nine months, thirty-eight Fridays, and three changing seasons.
Countless flirtations. Pensive daydreams. Lingering looks. Stolen moments. Silent desires, hopes, wishes.
Several declarations, both intentional and inadvertent. A few irksome assassination attempts. A handful of mistakes. But many more smiles.
A thousand roses and a million candles.
Two lonely souls, who found each other deep within the lowest Fissure of the world.
Or perhaps, simplest of all.
The one, single drink that started everything.
Notes:
Dearest Darlings.
We made it.
Did you seriously think I wasn't going to give these two a happy ending? REALLY? Please. I'm a sucker for happily ever afters. I may dish out the angst, but only because it makes the last chapter cheesiness much more worth it <3
There is so much I could say. But ultimately, I just want you all to know how grateful I am. The support for this story has been mind-blowing, and has made the last six months so rewarding. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Every comment, every interaction, every piece of art or creative content that has been made for this story is something I will treasure forever.
Big big huge shout-out to all the amazing, incredible friends (particularly the thots over at PP) that I've made whilst writing DWM who have been cheering me on and lending me their support and beta-reading brain power when I got stuck. You all know who you are, and I'm forever in your debt <3 I wanna smooch you all. Thank you.
But I do wanna give an extra-special holla to my dearest Sweatandwoe. Who has had to put up with me messaging legit every two seconds for opinions, advice, and general nonsense. Thank you. You the real MVP baby <3 <3 <3
I will be continuing to write for these characters and this universe. So please subscribe to me as an author to stay notified. Some of you may have already noticed that there's a part two listed in this series titled 'One More Round'. This is where I will be posting all this bonus content for DWM, including AUs, post-canon one-shots and drabbles etc. I also have plans to write a full Silco POV, so keep an eye out for that.
Now that the main story is wrapped up, I will also be accepting Astro requests! So if you have any prompts for these two love-birds then don't be shy. Come drop them in my ask box over on Tumblr.
If you've enjoyed this fic then please, please leave a comment down below or send me a private message. This was a true labour of love that has taken an obscene amount of hours to write, and I adore hearing any and all feedback. Even if it's just a keyboard smash. <3
As always, be sure to check out the Drink With Me Masterlist below for a full list of bonus content, including extra mini-chapters/drabbles, Silco POVs, and some of the most glorious fan art you ever did see:
Come say hi on Tumblr - my inbox & asks are always open! InkAndDagger
Chapter Lyrics: Our Love - Curtis Harding & Jazmine Sullivan
Inky, over and out <3
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