Chapter Text
"Do you want a basket for that?"
Owlish, this time, two pairs of gleaming eyes whirl-around to meet you. Both brighter than the one from years, upon years ago... or maybe your memory is just getting old. You, certainly, have not grown any younger in the passing years, but you hope those memories from your childhood you hold dear, don't turn gray and murky just yet.
Memories are all that's left.
"If you ask nicely, I might even be tempted to give you something fresh," You bargained, biting the inside of your cheek to hide a grin, while the pink-haired girl scowled. Honestly, it was like the child could sniff-out humor.
"Askin' nice doesn't get you anywhere, lady," Violet said, crammed-mouth full of buttered biscuits. Savory, not sweet for her, you remembered fondly. "Usually, all asking leads you to, is owing somebody."
"And we already spent our allowance,'' chirped Violet's sister. Powder, hilariously, seemed to be utterly transfixed by the powdered-sugar coated honey-buns you had fixed up in the front-display, but didn't dare to touch them, and only took mournful nibbles of the biscuit her sister split with her. You imagined it had something to do with her report on her monthly coin-allowance. "Claggor and Mylo wouldn't split theirs for us to get a bite. Jerks."
"Well, would you have split yours ?"
"No."
Well, points for honesty.
And such a virtue deserved an extra sort of reward, something of the sweets-variety, so you made sure when you grabbed the basket, tuck in a few extra, fresher honey-buns into the collection... before handing one to Powder, who immediately ditched the biscuit to begin gobbling up the stickier treat.
"You're supposed to share these, you know," Eyeing Violet with your words, the pink-haired girl grinned with all her teeth as she snatched the basket from you. One could swear, blood or not, she was well on her way to inheriting the wolfish grin of the Hound of the Underground.
"Never heard of it. 'Til next time, lady!"
Powder at least had the manners to wave, even as her elder sister snatched her hand, all but bolting them both out of the place while you shook your head, weary, but fond. Sumpers through and through... no matter how many times you assured them, none of your words seemed to fully erase the seed of distrust that had been planted from infancy inside them, and only growing more with every passing-day in the Underground...
"They're good kids," Vander assured you, later, blunt nails tapping out a hollow beat on his glass. This didn't happen often - this meeting. Neither you had the time, the chance... the spirit for it, really.
It was a silent agreement that these meetings, between a Promenade baker and the de facto leader of the Lanes, was nothing more than continuing a habit. Not that... you hated him. Or didn't miss him. But his presence, no matter how large it was, wasn't quite enough to fill the emptiness the room held between you. A void that couldn’t be filled, a yawning gap between you that, no matter how hard either of you tried, deep down, you both knew it was destined to stay empty.
"I know," You said simply, pushing the last of the tray of cookies into the coolbox, in preparation for tomorrow. "Better than you lot were, anyway. They at least wait , and take what's offered - not whatever strikes their fancy. Remember that time you tried to take a whole cake?"
"It looked good ."
"A wedding cake , Vander?"
Gray eyes nearly turned silver with his laugh, one that you joined after a moment of a pointed, unamused brow raised in his direction.
It settled back into silence... not quickly, but the memories could only last so long. It’s almost scary how quickly the Lanesman goes from the Sumper from your childhood, to an old, old man.
Janna, you both aren’t that old, but Vander looks like he has lifetimes piled onto him.
“‘M sorry. Keepin’ an eye on them to keep ‘em from trouble, would take an army , and I got only got me... ‘zo every thursday.”
"You know it's no trouble, they're always welcome here," You assure him with a shake of your head, tilting your head around his form to gaze out the door with a fond smile. You never imagined kids would be in your cards... nor in Vanders. But the moment he came in, two pairs of bright blue eyes peeking around him up at you - with two little boys quick to follow, mere months later - you had felt a burst of warmth inside you.
Oh, they could claim they were 'grown' now, and Zaunite-independence had nestled deep inside their bones to fuel such independent spirits. That didn't stop the warmth that bloomed inside you at their occasional-visits, the thought tempting to imagine the occasional being permanent. A treacherous temptation, one that dangerously toed the line between the odd-sort of aunt you had become to them... and something you never got the chance to be.
Quick to brush away dreams, of chances, wants, dreams, of a family that could never be, you instead reach over, managing a smile as you rested your hand over Vander’s - yours was practically miniature in size, but when you squeezed it gently, your friend glanced up to you, “Vander, it’s fine . They’re welcome... I'm happy to have the kids here, you know that.”
You smile, and Vander’s eyes grow sad. Despite the soft grin, he sees beyond it, and you can’t even find the time to smile wider to dissuade him before he’s murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
“I told you, I don’t-”
“I’m sorry ,” He says again, in a hoarse whisper, and you both know he’s not talking about the kids anymore. You pull your hand away, swallowing, reaching for his plate instead.
“I... you know I am, right? I’ve never forgiven myself... for you, for him .” Vander’s voice grows so heavy, it’s as if another lifetime, another fallen-life, has fallen onto his shoulders. You attempt to relieve the burden, by telling him you know.
You know, and that doesn’t fix a damn thing.
“All we can do is look forward, Van,” You say, the rushing water in the sink as you clean plates and trays - almost a comfort in the heavy-silence between you. “Look to our future, to our kids. It’s gonna be their turn, soon enough, we ought to make sure they have a bright one.”
“Brighter than we ever got,” He agrees, pauses, then asks hesitantly, like asking any favors of you was crass at best, unthinkably cruel at worst, “Would you be able to help with that?”
“ Babysitting? ”
“Nah, just... you remember how I was. How we were.”
Understatement of the year, but you nodded, drying off your hands with a nearby towel before crossing your arms, eyes curious. Vander took a moment, drumming his fingers loudly on the counter, “Just... keep an eye out on ‘em. There’s been talk .”
He didn’t look surprised when you stiffened, your face growing pale. The last time there had been talk , Enforcer patrols started to ramp up again. Last time, talk had led many independent voices to grow quieter, disillusioned with yet another cycle of raids, patrols, arrests, and even worse things. Talk hadn’t made leadership any easier, as seen by decisions, choices from Vander that seemed to change, flipping on the daily, hourly ...
The last time, talk had led Vander, and those still willing to fight, onto the Bridge. There was no talking after, when all that walked-off that bridge was Vander, and two little girls.
Vander knows, and remembers in perfect clarity - that’s why grief, guilt and understanding pass in his gaze, in rapid succession to his quick assurance, “I just - somethin’ happens to be, anything at all... make sure the kids are okay, ‘right? I shouldn’t ask but... I’d give me some peace of mind.”
The feeling is mutual, and despite the uncertainty, there's a determination inside that's already made the decision for you.
"Of course." A pause, and Vander looks at you, still weary, like he knows exactly what you're going to ask, and isn't sure how he can tell you. "It's... you aren't-?"
"No. 'M not the one talking, sweetheart," His hand travels - not to your own, but to another point of comfort. Comfort, and by the way his hand hovers over the wrapped-band around a decades' old scar, maybe a curse as well. "It's just talk . It'll quiet."
That's the hope, but you learn not to lean on such a concept too much. Once upon a time, you hoped for a lot of things, a brighter future most of all. Now, you know better.
And you know better than to allow yourself to be blind with what's happening around you - you did that once, with what was happening right in front of you, and you lost him because of it. Pushing aside the guilt, the pain and the mourning from such memories, you instead raise your chin up, keep to work as usual, but this time, you promise yourself to pay attention.
People talk at your counters. Bitter discussions of rising rent, trade Topside imports, regulations... it's talk, but as you smile and chuckle, sneak treats to particularly effective puppy-eyed kids and swap pleasantries with worn-down adults, you carefully pluck out bits and pieces of the different conversation, until a picture starts to form, and you start getting suspicions that talk , is slowly but surely becoming much, much more than that.
And when it does, you start to take better notice of the details around you - specifically, of the person on surveillance across from your shop.
You feel like a fool for not taking note of them earlier - subtly is not a top-priority, but considering how quickly you had been able to sniff out the presence of a snipe in your kitchen as a mere child, it’s almost embarrassing how, as an adult, it takes you too long to realize there’s another kind of street-kid standing-guard just outside your shop window.
Still, he’s no better. It takes three-days of you eyeing him pointedly, periodically sweeping an already spotless front-entrance, and finally, a purposefully placed plate of cookies on the window-still, and a pointed removal of the bell hanging over the front-entrance.
But the kid isn’t skilled with stealth, and you’d been managing your bakery for years... not to mention you were quicker.
Pale-blue eyes narrowed at you, after they had blown wide at your fast movements around the counter and then they became even slimmer as they glanced between you, and the plate of cookies you held just out of reach.
“ Talk ."
“I'm... not supposed to.”
“But you’re talking now . Which means you can keep talking.”
The boy - little older than Violet, little less - scowls, and glances between you, the door... but eventually, his gaze returns to the plate of food.
It takes a master, skilled at years of resisting temptation and battling against gluttony, to resist a plate of freshly-baked chocolate-chip cookies. But this is a boy smack in the middle of his teenage years, and you’re fairly certain you’ve never seen him take so much as a drink to consume on his now-daily watches of your shop, let alone a lunch.
He doesn’t just talk when the temptation becomes too much for him to even hope to talk control of. The kid all but sings-out, exactly what you want to know, and also exactly what you never asked for.
"These streets? Practically handed to me, not like there was much competition!"
"Uh-huh..."
"Seriously! I'm probably his favorite ... no, his apprentice of sorts. Probably gonna take over some-day, get up-there with the big-leagues for sure. That's why he's been testin' me, you see, he totally thinks I'm the next big-deal this town's gotta watch out for...!"
"Standing guard outside a mid-class bakery - that counts as a test ?"
Bless the kid's heart, he looks more confused than offended at your unconvinced-tone, " Ye-es ?
You have this pestering habit to take pity on the street-urchins in the world, and even the ones with false-bravado and an abundance of arrogance earns your sympathy, and you had him another chocolate-chip between your wiping of the counters, waiting for the timer to go off on the oven. "Alright, I'll bite then - what kind of man gives a test of guard-duty at a little old bakery?" It's said as casually as possible, but the boy still stiffens, crumbs and a smear of milk chocolate at the corner of his mouth - you're too invested in your private investigation of such unusual activity, to chide yourself by spoiling yet another child from the streets. Claggor, Vi, Mylo and Powder were bad enough, not to mention your very, very first, years ago...
"Er... I dunno. Just do what I'm told, there seems to be a rotation for this job,” His convincing does little good, but he manages to avoid your peering gaze as you hum thoughtfully. This sparks a defensive side, as the blonde straightens and lifts his chin challenging, "Hey, I don't have to tell you anything , lady-!"
You interrupt him to pleasantly tell him your name and without skipping a beat, he snarkily gives his own, " Deckard , and like I was saying - and it's a need-to-know basis," He stresses. "I need to know, and m'boss needs to know, but you? You don't need to know anything ."
“Then I suppose you don’t need these snacks,” You say, calm as can be as you take the plate, send a silent prayer for forgiveness, before turning it over the trash-can beside the counter.
Deckard gaps, and looks just a little heartbroken at the loss of a good snack. You keep your expression flat to avoid looking the same at the sacrifice for answers. "No wonder he likes you so much - you're evil , lady."
"Your boss likes me?” Interesting, and something that piqued your already-heightened curiosity in regards to this so-called ‘boss’ of this kid. “Because what I've picked up, he likes discussing other, more dangerous topics than that of a bakery,” Plainly, you toss the words over your shoulder as the timer goes off. Fetching your mitts, you soon pull out the mini-pies, and aroma of spices and apples filling the shop.
One of your favorites, but it didn’t necessarily bring joy - only a sensation of melancholy, even as you set them out to cool on the awaiting rack.
“Like I said,'' The kid continues, ignoring your implications in favor of trying not to be salivating at the sight of the golden-crusted, fresh treats straight out of the oven. “You’re evil , lady. No wonder Silco’s got his eye on ya-”
Never.
Not once , in your years and years of living, and surviving in the most challenging location on the planet, did you ever burn your hands.
Such a feat was quite remarkable - your mentor, wherever they had ended up after abandoning you in the growing unrest of the early Rebellion, had once considered it a worthy-enough skill to take on an apprentice in their own craft.
You imagined, wherever the bitter old baker was, they were rolling at the thought of you clenching tight around a burning-hot tray and instantly dropping to your knees with a yell at the fiery-hot pain that cut through the cold that had spread through your body.
“Oh shit , are you okay-?!”
“I...”
Closing your eyes, you inhaled, long and slow... exhaling the same way, trying to ignore the piercing throbbing in your flesh, and behind your skull.
Silco .
Was it foolish to hope?
Foolish, and perhaps desperate to hope that it wasn’t just a coincidence?
That one attempting to rekindle the fires of a revolution, that the one talking in the shadows, wasn’t some random punk stirring up age-old trouble, but-
Standing, you hold your burnt hand with eyes that are both laser-focused, and staring at a distance no one else could see, your heart pounding in time with the throbs of pain in your damaged-hand and the whirls your mind is making.
“... here.”
“I - wait, are you...?” The kid has more on his mind than your well-being, particularly as you’re quick to grab a to-go basket with your free hand, and, mitt firmly placed on, you transfer the cooling pies into the container for its journey. You force those same hands to stay steady as you tuck the cover over the fresh-baked goods, even while one is shaking - no. They both are, terribly so, but you succeed eventually, and slide the basket over to the teen.
“Here,” You say again, voice quiet, but firm. “Deliver that, take one for yourself while you’re at it.”
Deckard bristles, insulted and indignant with a whine in his voice, “I’m not your errand-boy , lady-!”
“It’s for Silco, too.” When was the last time you said his name, aloud? His story was not a tale to share with Vander’s kids, not to mention neither the Hound nor Benzo enjoyed reminiscing on the fallen. His name feels painfully, disgracefully unused on your lips... but, giving in to that speck of hope inside, you allow yourself to feel a hint of warmth at the idea of speaking his name again. At... the impossible, the painful thought, of not just hearing him, or speaking of him, but maybe, just maybe seeing the man you loved once-again.
It’s an impossible dream. One that hurts, warms, and angers you all at once - to the point of completely overshadowing the burns on your hand as you curl your fingers into a fist, voice firm as you give the order once more to Deckard.
“Go give this to Silco. He’ll know where to find more.”
He knows where to find me .
You just hope he comes.
That night, you’re finishing up everything early - dishes and utensils clean, the morning pastries and bread already prepped. Even the larger projects, like the cookie order for some birthday in the richer-section of the Alcoves, or the decorated wedding cake for two, are all prepared to be ready at a moment's notice.
You like to think you're prepared.
You aren't, but you like to think that you are - physically calm, hands clasped in a not-too tight grip, and your face smooth, almost impassive.
No one would ever be able to tell how you're mere seconds from tipping over the edge, or your heart is pounding so loudly that you're stunned the entirety of the Undercity isn't bracing for an earthquake. You keep that calm expression as you sit, and wait. Watching the door and watching as day-lights of the Undercity take on their more hazy shades to signal the coming of the evening, and the streets outside grow vacant with the day-crowd, and the people who live for the night claim the streets in the shadows.
You sit, and you watch, as evening turns into the proper night, and soon enough, even the night-owls begin to leave the streets. Body aching, and sore from sitting, it's almost a relief when the streets become, for the first time in hours, completely, and wholly empty.
He doesn't leave you waiting much-longer after that.
You raise your head - holding back a wince as your shoulder-muscles ache from the first movement in at least an hour - as a gloved subtly taps at the 'CLOSED' sign.
He had to know it was unlocked. He had to know you were waiting.
Thankfully, Silco didn’t leave you waiting much longer.
You didn’t move, didn’t blink much, really. Only taking him in - older, not the boy you first met, not the teen you had journeyed the Undercity with. Not even the revolutionary, or the Son of Zaun you had once known, and had remembered him as.
You don’t know this man. You don’t know him, but you still struggle not to burst into tears the moment you lay eyes on him. Tears of joy, tears of pain... of loss, and of a sudden, hot burst of anger that flares to life at his first words to you, the very first thing he says after years and years of being separated from your side:
“You shouldn’t have fed him.”
Silco looks around, studying your shop like it was the most fascinating thing in the world as you sit there, not daring to blink, hardly allowing yourself the chance to breathe . “The boy needs to learn restraint. In both keeping his mouth shut, and to not take food from strangers... a boy he may be, but Janna knows he needs to learn.”
“I don’t know,” You say, astonished at how steady your voice is as you stand from your stool, walking around the counter with your hand wrapping around a rolling-pin you had brought for this occasion. “Last time I fed a kid on the streets, it turned out pretty fine.”
Silco doesn’t look away from your eyes - before, your shop might have been fascinating, but Silco looks at you like you’re something beautiful, and otherworldly. Something to be worshiped instead of standing stiffly, too-far-away from, something he’s been waiting eons for... Silco looks at you with absolute, unfiltered, unable-to-be-contained love .
And you almost, almost regret seeing it fade, when his eyes pop-out wide and he barely manages to avoid the first swipe of your rolling-pin.
You’re screaming , now. Something horrible - saying some horrible things, to be honest - as you attempt to land blow upon blow on this idiot, this bastard , this stupid, stupid cowardly man...
But Gods-know you aren’t a fighter, and Silco manages to side-step, duck and weave around every attempted smack, leaving you to strike uselessly at air.
Uselessly, from the way you have no battle prowess to speak off, and the fact your vision has become very, very blurry. At the realization, your arm droops, boneless as you heave-in breath after breath, stepping back as your free-hand comes up to wipe beneath your eyes and pressing your palm to it when that doesn’t clear the wetness under your eyes. The tears flow freely, without permission and without any sign of stopping, not even as you struggle not to sob.
It becomes even more difficult not to, when the rolling-pin is safely tugged free from your hand, and after a second’s pause of hesitation, long arms wrap around you. They’re tight like chains, unyielding after so, so long, but you’ve never felt lighter all your life - you’ve never felt so free, except right now, in the arms of a man you loved, thought dead, maybe hated just a bit for allowing you to think that...
But ultimately, you love him. There’s a thousand ingredients to make up exactly how you feel about Silco in this exact moment, but the most prominent is the deep, fierce and unrelenting love you feel for this absolute bastard that left you ...
Said-bastard winces, and you don’t even feel guilty for saying that aloud.
“I had to,” He murmurs into your hair, not quite pleading, but there’s a pressing search for understanding. “Zaun... it needed my focus, my attention. I would’ve returned for you - I always planned on returning to you.”
"You returned too late."
"You don't mean that."
It sounds like Silco tries to convince himself of that as well, and the small, tight grudge inside you weakens immediately as you slump closer to him. "No, I don't," You whisper into his chest, blinking rapidly but still leaving wet-marks on the front of his ebony-vest, lined in gold. “...But you took a long, long time.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t... not even a goodbye . You didn’t even talk to me, before you stormed out.”
His arms, impossibly, go even tighter around you. The words sound like they have to be dragged out of him by hooks, but he manages to get the long-overdue words out, “I’m so sorry.”
“You should...” Trailing off, you just shake your head, pressing your face against his chest. Hard with leanly built muscles, warm and if you strain your hearing, there’s a rhythmic beat of his heart. Eyes slip close, and you focus on that beautiful melody of his heartbeat, not daring to mute it by speaking too loudly, “ You should be .”
He was. Again... this man was not one you recognized, not entirely. The Silco you knew, the Silco you had loved and lost, would’ve greeted you with a smile, a smirk if he had done something mischievous, or had just returned from another impressive feat while working on the revolution for Zaun’s independence. That Silco wouldn’t hesitate to apologize for letting you think him dead...
Gods. The man even feels different.
Lean muscles remain, but they feel wiry, bred from a crueler survival than even that of the Lanes. There’s a certain desperation in the way he holds you, one that you never recalled him showing before... he grips you with fingers twitching in the physical-struggle not to curl into claws, claws that are used to clawing their way from the depths.
The depths of what , you’re unsure for now. You think you’ll find a clue on his face, and hesitantly peel your face off his chest to gaze up at him. For a moment, only one eye gazes back at you... it’s a stranger's eye, and a strange eye overall. Freezing under the glint of hellfire surrounding a circle of coal, you gaze up at Silco until his green-eye flutters open, meeting your gaze through a half-lidded, resigned gaze.
His arms grow slowly lax around you, releasing you in theory, but still lingering in-practice.
“Unsightly, but such is the appearance of monsters, no?” The man murmurs as if it were a joke, but it falls flat in the quiet way he speaks it, and he grows even quieter as your hand reaches up.
Rough. The skin beneath his eye, permanently open and forever the colors of hell-itself, is rough in their graying, crackled ridges. You barely graze the skin, and yet you’re still surprised when the man doesn’t so much as twitch as you gently travel the pads of your fingers along the rough scars along his face, but despite your lack of medical knowledge, it doesn’t take a genius to imagine the nerves beneath the ruined skin, are as devoid of life as Silco’s eyes have become.
Resigned, and unreadable besides. Silco gazes at you with the patience of a man waiting for something terrible - and if he’s feeling anything close to how you feel, you imagine the most terrible thing he can imagine at this moment, is you flinching away from him.
He says as much, “I can leave. You won’t need to see me again... perhaps this was a mistake in the first place. But such a message deserved to be responded to in-person.”
“Oh, you didn’t come for a snack?” You hear yourself murmur, and it’s there. A flicker of light, bright and mirthful, and familiar in that seagreen gaze you had known so well, once upon a time.
It’s gone in seconds. But it was there , and it’s more than you could’ve ever wished for.
“I’m serious. I can leave-”
“But you won’t,” Hand flattening fully along the rough scars, you cup the ruined-side of his face gently, then the other with an equally caring, bandaged hand, both of which Silco freezes at. “I won’t let you. Not again, Silco... never again.”
The assuring, firm note in your voice holds him still for a moment along with your hands, but he gives the faintest of shakes, tone equally firm, “I’m not the same man that left you. That man died, I'm the remainder of the man you knew, but no more than that.” The defense is met with only a raised brow from you, and Silco narrows the one he has remaining, the space between his eyes becoming pinched in his faint frustration at your nonchalant attitude. “I mean it. You don’t know me anymore... you don’t know the man I’ve become.”
He’s right, much as you loathe to admit it. You had been quick to regard this man as a stranger, and in some ways, he still seemed so, so strange to you.
What had happened? Why hadn’t he returned to you? Since when did he rely on the skills and structure of streetgangs, rather than the stronger-than-blood ties of his fellow revolutionaries?
What hurt him? Why had he become this way, to the point where your loving touches were met with hesitancy, with the distance of someone who has only imagined such affection for far, far too long?
A battered man stands before you - in your eyes, you had initially labeled him a stranger... and yes, in some ways, you needed to relearn this man for what he had become... and what he could be, now that he had returned to you, and there was no way you were letting him go again.
“It’s okay... I want to learn,” You say, a faint but genuine smile upon your face, and warm as you lean up. Silco grows frozen again at the third-point of touch that you offer, full of affection and love that makes your heart twist at how unused he seems to be from it...
But after a second, and very faintly, Silco melts at the gentle, faint kiss you press to his uneven lips.
“Thankfully... I baked some snacks,” You murmur, the beginnings of a small smile on your lips. “I imagine you’re used to introducing yourself over food. This’ll be... what, your second-time, right?”
There it is, again.
A glint of the man you used to know, the humor faint but there in his eye, and with it, something else shows itself.
There’s a glint of hope, once more, inside you.
“The last introduction over food was... more than a bit unexpected. Made more so by your presence, if you recall. I think I'll prefer it this time, if I’m honest.”
“Because I made your favorites?”
A faint huff of warm breath brushes your face, before his lips are meeting yours in the hesitant, but first of many, many overdue kisses Silco has to offer.
“Because your presence is far, far more welcoming this time.”
On that, you can agree on. Because when Silco, united with you once again, kisses you, it feels like he’s welcoming you back to a place you can call home .