Chapter Text
If Silas called in sick the next day, it was only for him to know.
The city had been quiet for the following week, no sightings of villains, petty robberies a few blocks away, nothing out of the usual. Until absence became worrying and people started to question: “where is Architect?” and “what is he planning next?”.
Part of him knew the reason for his disappearance. Kind of. There were few living connections with… him, and most weren't exactly friendly to just go talking all about his methods. Sure, maybe some would slip, give in to a hefty price the Conspiracy were so famous for, but they wouldn't say shit unless death was on the line.
Silas wouldn't open his mouth even if that was the case. He was familiar with death, had seen what it does to the body, to the environment, and eventually, to the people unfortunate enough to witness it.
Maybe the fear of being back there led to this train of thought. It wouldn't mean certain death, but it would mean to be close quarters with it. He couldn't risk that again, couldn't risk his — albeit fickle — privacy.
“So much for a simple life,” he sighed against Joseph's coat. “I can't believe I'm involved in this bullshit again”
He received a tired meow in response. Joseph was getting weak, threading a dangerous line between sickness or his old age. Silas had promised to take care of him when Jophiel moved to Yggdrasil, to keep her updated about anything troublesome happening with the cat. He withheld the latter for the first year, when her absence only felt like a prolonged trip overseas, and when he saw a picture of her with a wedding band, he knew she wouldn’t come back.
“If she were here…” she would have told me to scold younger me. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
Joseph curled further into the pillow, burying his face into the crook of his neck. The soft purring almost lulled him into sleep, almost. The wind was harsher, he could hear the faint pop of fireworks far in the distance that soon enough would be louder.
New Years. A back to back week of absolute suffering that he somehow managed to get out of. The store would be packed by now, families driving out to remote areas for a peaceful celebration, to get wasted like there was no tomorrow. Theoretically, he could do that, he could buy himself a pack of beer and climb up his apartment building, but that would mean unnecessary questions. And, well, Silas was tired of people up in his business.
“Seems like it's just me and you,” he reached up to scratch behind Joseph's ear “I hope it stays like this for a little longer.”
The first firework in Tricolor startled Joseph enough to have him standing on the pillows, ears flicked back in alert. A chain of light continued outside, the explosions rattling his brain at how loud they felt from his apartment. He didn’t live far from the town centre, where civilians had gathered to celebrate the only way they could: lighting fireworks and darting back into their homes.
He could hear teenagers laughing outside his door, steps thundering down their hall as the adrenaline made everything fun rather than dangerous. At some point, one of them stumbled, a shrill boyish shout began right outside his door. They laughed again — presumably at their friend —, only to fall quiet for an agonizing five seconds.
Six knocks at his door. Very light, but the urgency in them was clear; rapid and desperate. Silas debated ignoring them, but as a voice outside begged for help, he pushed himself off of the bed with a groan.
Just his luck, always getting himself in weird situations by his own volition.
The trek to the door was blurry, rubbing his knuckle over drooping eyelids in hope to soothe his drowsiness. Silas tripped over his own feet too many times to count in the seventeen steps between his bed and the apartment door. From his position in the small living room, he could see the shadow of legs spilling from under his door, voices frantically whisper-shouting to each other. The closer he got, he managed to understand snippets of the conversation:
“I told him not to-” someone else interrupted with a muffled screech. “And now look at that!”
The teens were so involved in their argument that they didn't notice the rattling of the doorhandle, or the soft creaking and jingle of chains as he opened it as much as he could. At first, he only saw a blur of sandy blonde hair and an arrangement of pink hairclips at first, and then she turned to him.
“Thank god-” the girl sighed, clasping her hands together. “We really, really need your help.”
“If you can, of course” this voice was the one that had yelled earlier, clearly annoyed by how harshly she was speaking.
Blinking before drowsily nodding, Silas complied. The chain keeping the door closed was let loose with a loud rattle of metal against metal as he stepped further into the hallway. From this angle, he could see the one that fell.
They were sitting against the wall, arms wrapped around his left leg with a strained expression, eyebrows pinched together.
“What… happened, exactly?” He mumbled, meeting the muted green eyes of the woman that secondly spoke to him.
“He twisted his ankle wrong, I think” she sighed, crouching next to the boy and tapping his shoulder softly. “You think you can pull your shoes off?”
Almost immediately, he shook his head, muttering a watery ‘no’. That made things harder.
Silas bit his tongue as he mulled over his options: call the nurse that lived in the building, or deal with this himself. Taking them to the hospital would be the wisest option, but the costs were high currently, and he wasn't enough of a dick to have them pay absurd amounts of money for an ankle brace. Fuck this.
“Take him to the couch, I'll get something to stabilize it.” Slowly pushing the door open with his foot, Silas turned on his heel and walked to the bathroom. The door was left slightly ajar, held together by the built-in chain he had installed a week after moving here, since the handle was rickety and he feared it would suddenly open.
The cabinet door opened, hitting the porcelain wall with a dry ‘clack’ as he crouched, a cloud of dust and — possibly — mold blowing over his face. Coughing into the crook of his elbow, Silas sifted through the pile of old plastic bags the previous tenant hoarded. There, shoved behind a cardboard box of sanitary products, was a stained white bag, one of the medkits he managed to bring out of that hell-hole. It was still fully stocked, the perishables replaced only three and a half months ago. It's not the best, but it’ll suffice.
Grabbing it sent a wave of dread through his body. The weight was familiar, pulling his wrist in an uncomfortable way now that it had healed. He had always wanted to destroy it. To crush it beneath his foot and burn the rest to ashes. But for some god-forsaken reason, Silas never brought himself to do it, and now that someone — young, in pain, and surrounded by two worried friends — was laying on his couch asking for help, he cracked.
This was one of the things about the past he never managed to scrub away; his urge to help people.
Straightening up, he closed the cabinet softly and met his eyes in the mirror. Saparata stared back at him, his soft golden eyes and that faint smile that was always plastered on his face. The face of someone who swore they were doing rightful things.
What a shame he had been wrong about that.
“Are you a doctor or something? Because I'm pretty sure that's a professional first-aid kit.” The older of the three asked, leaning beside the door.
Debating his answers, Saparata Silas settled on an unbothered shrug.
“I wanted to be, got so far as the second year.” He settled down next to the couch, pulling the glass coffee table closer to place the bag over it.
“What happened?” The blonde asked, twirling her fingers over her lap.
“I switched majors, as simple as that.” It was not. “Well, life problems aside, I need one of you to put a pillow under his foot so I can remove his shoe.”
The two of them looked between each other until the blonde girl walked over to slip a hand under the kid’s knees, snatching a cushion to pull under it.
“That works well enough.” He shot her a thankful smile, and she returned it with a quick nod of her head. “Your name?”
The teen looked at him, scooting to sit up slightly before hesitantly answering between a wince of pain and a gasp:
“S-Sidefall”
“Okay, Sidefall, I need you to help me remove your shoe. Tell me when it hurts.” The boy nodded, and Silas got to work.
Thankfully, Sidefall complied. Each question he asked was answered somewhat truthfully, a few times with a sarcastic undertone that Silas could recognize from a mile away; masking. The teen wanted to hide his anxiety, to make it look like it didn't hurt, but Silas wasn't fooled, and it was clear his friends could see right through him as well.
Tying off the bandage, careful to leave a barely noticeable slack on it in case of swelling.
“‘Kay, all done.” He sighed, watching as Sidefall sat up on the couch. “Make sure you actually get that checked out, I only know the basics.”
The other girl, who looked much older than the two, raised an eyebrow.
“‘The basics’, you say?”
“Well-”
“Don't be mean, Meagon. He saved our mission to piss off Snowbird” the blonde girl offered, rising from her spot on the ground to loop an arm around Sidefall’s.
Deciding not to pay much attention to their conversation, Silas gathered the roll of bandages and stuffed them back into the bag. The moment had gone by like a blur, occasionally interrupted by a second of clarity in his focused mind. It was only a sprain, nothing a little ice and elevation wouldn't fix, but it still hurt enough for Sidefall to tear up at every slight movement.
Deep in his heart, something like concern tightened. But it unraveled just as quickly,washed away by Silas’ everlasting denial.
The girls were still talking, too engrossed in their half-hearted argument to notice Silas slipping into his room and locking the door behind him.
He wanted to run. He wanted to go and never see Pandora when he looked over his shoulder. If he kept being reckless, Architect would notice, and he'd come for him. The villain already knew, he mentioned the Director after sneaking into the store, yet Silas still felt trapped; in his own mind, and in this city.
Some days he wished Jophiel had brought him with her. Things would've been normal that way.