Work Text:
HONEY WHISKEY
This air is getting so thin
Go down, go down, go down
The honey whiskey's kickin'
Go down, go down, go down
I think I better go before I try something I might regret
I might regret
I think I better go before I try something I might regret
I might regret
Prologue
Silco could hear the rumbling footfalls of the Enforcers right behind them, so close the percussion of their heavy boots mixed with the rhythm of blood rushing in his ears.
They couldn’t shoot while running, so he kept them in motion, pivoting and turning sharp corners, his eyes as wide as those of a chased hare.
Vander’s large form was beginning to falter beside him, Silco tried to drag him by the sleeve to help him pick up the speed but he might as well be tugging on a concrete block - Vander could not go any faster.
He was, in fact, slowing down.
A swish. Something brushed alongside Silco’s ankle. Vander’s shirt tore out of his fingers, pulling him backwards for a split second. He could hear a grunt and a heavy fall as his partner tumbled to the broken pavement, legs tangled in the bolas.
Silco continued running out of sheer panic, unable to even call out to Vander.
A meaty thud behind him cut the air in half. He turned just in time to see one of the Enforcers pull his rifle back to hit Vander again over the back of his head as the large man dropped to the ground, struggling on his elbows, blood gushing down his honey hair.
Silco whimpered at the sight and turned back, strangling the terrified animal of prey inside of him that was screaming, begging for him to keep running and leave his kind behind.
He dodged the Enforcer straight behind him, the massive man’s attempt to catch him working to his benefit as the officer’s own momentum sent him tumbling to the ground.
Silco was nimbler, smaller, faster than the heavy-clad fuzz.
He watched the Enforcer that towered over Vander’s fallen form turn the rifle and press the barrel to his head, disregarding the Zaunite’s feeble attempts to collect his bearings.
Silco hollered at the top of his lungs as he charged at the officer. The moment the man turned to him, Silco’s head and shoulder rammed full force into his abdomen, throwing both of them off their feet.
The rifle fired. And missed.
The air burned with gunpowder.
The officer fell hard flat on his back, Silco on top of him, both gasping for air the fall knocked out of their inflamed lungs.
Silco recovered more quickly, well-adjusted to the polluted air. His knife flickered in the gray daylight.
He heard himself scream like a rabid animal, driven by adrenaline and pure bloodthirst.
A massive hand closed around his wrist before the knife found its target and dragged him back. He caught a flash of Vander’s face, dark and furious, war paint of blood turning it savage and bestial, but alive.
Alive.
They were running again. Out of breath, heaving, lungs tearing and legs on fire, and vision narrowed into a single dark tunnel, at the end of which lay one of the elevators down to Entresol and safety.
Somehow, once again, they escaped.
Six months later, Silco would sometimes still catch himself back in that moment, still watching the rifle hit Vander’s head, dying his hair crimson. He would still watch the barrel turn to fire.
And in his flashes of terror, it did.
I.
Some moonlighting jobs are as easy as an evening stroll, some are doomed to fail terribly right from the start. Usually, this tends to be preceded by clear signs.
This one was.
Silco mentally addresses each and every one of them as he sits in the dark interrogation room, tied to an uncomfortable chair that presses into his spine and boney behind. The cuffs that attach his hands to the armrests paint faintly red crescents into his wrists.
Those were some clear signs, alright. It’s too unfortunate that Vander is such an indestructible optimist, because who generally pays for their mishaps? Silco does.
“We enter through here.” The thick finger stabbed into a poorly drawn map and traced a line northward. “These are Bilal’s warehouses.”
Silco glanced up to his partner’s eyes, then back down to the ‘map’.
“The irregular quadrilaterals are the warehouses. For sure?”
“Irregular…” Vander frowned at him and quickly shook his head. “No, rectangles! I’m just bad at…Listen, that’s not the issue! These buildings, shaped like buildings, are Bilal’s warehouses. Alright? So just watch, we enter through here and—” Vander resumed, repeating his point excitedly.
Silco crossed his arms over his chest, no longer watching the hand-drawn map but rather his partner. The smaller man’s expression was that of irritated disbelief as Vander kept going on about the job.
Enter from the riverside through a wedged out window, pick the lock to the office, pick the secretariat desk, third drawer, take what's inside, lock, leave. One bell after midnight exactly, the guards leave for a patrol. Silco and Vander would have fifteen minutes at best, ten at worst.
Ten minutes is a damn short time to crawl through a window, pick two locks without breaking them, and get lost without leaving any trace.
Silco disliked it for more than one reason, and he interrupted Vander to tell him so.
Vander looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and annoyance.“What’s with you today, Sil? You’re really snappy. I mean, more snappy than usual.”
“Oh, am I now?” Silco’s long nose wrinkled in distaste as he shrugged. “Vander, this job is fishy. The time window is far too small. Also, Bilal and Reck are established business partners for the past decade. Mind you, they are our competition, AND both are known to play footsie with the Enforcers. You really don’t find it a bit odd that Reck would pay us, US of all people available, to steal something from Bilal?”
Vander folded the map, lips tight and brows raised.“Heard some rumors that there’s bad blood between the two lately. Something about Bilal cutting Reck out of a pretty good deal.”
“Rumors aren’t factual information. There are some rather curious rumors about you and I as well, aren’t there?” Silco shook a rolled cigarette out of his little tin box and attempted to light it up.
Suddenly, two large hands wrapped gently around him from behind and Vander’s large head rested on his shoulder. Silco first tensed, then leaned into the embrace, lowering the lighter and tilting his head so his forehead buried into Vander’s coarse hair.
Vander purred softly, “Oh, there are some rumors about us, alright…brother…” He snickered into the smaller man’s shoulder. Silco’s lips twitched in an uncomfortable smirk. He took the cigarette from between his lips, reaching over with his free hand to pet Vander’s hair.
“I still don’t know how to feel about that one. Where did it even come from?”
“People forget. Lot of our guys from the mines are six feet under. Our comrades see us together all the time and, unfortunately for me, you are not the most affectionate person I’ve ever met, so of course some people start making assumptions.”
“Let them think what they want…” Silco whispered and turned his head a bit more, offering himself for a shy kiss. Vander’s lips felt dry on his own, his breath hot.
When they separated, Silco watched the wide, kind-eyed face so close to his for a moment, tracing his strong features that he admired so much. Then he patted Vander’s cheek lightly.
“Though I’d appreciate it if you stopped using that word when we’re alone. It’s…I hate it.”
He stepped away, ready to light up the cigarette, but his lighter wasn’t cooperating. Vander fished out his matches and held one out for Silco, protecting the small flame with his hand.
“Alright, as you wish, my little mouse.”
“No, not that one either.” Silco puffed out smoke, frowning, painfully aware of the Ratman, the ugly nickname he would be sometimes addressed with.
Vander grinned, enamored.
“My baby shark.”
“Vander!”
“Sweet little canary.”
Vander received a punch in the shoulder and snorted out a laugh.
Silco walked out the door, rubbing his forehead with one hand.
“‘Brothers’…I even prefer what the Enforcers used to call us…”
II.
Footsteps outside the room. Two people, Silco estimates. As the sound approaches close, he’s sure. Two people.
He jerks upright when a key rattles in the lock and the door opens. In strides a tall, well-groomed man in his forties, and behind him a woman with a strong, aquiline nose and hard eyes. She can’t be much older than Vander.
The man holds himself with the perpetual confidence all the righteous military forces in Piltover do. The kind of man who strongly believes he is always correct, even when he’s blatantly wrong.
Silco hates him on sight, if for nothing else than at least for that smug way he holds his head, oh, so high.
“The Hound and his Pup,” exclaims the male officer in an iron voice, violating the silence Silco was indulging in. He lifts his head to meet the cold smile of the officer, not attempting in the slightest to mask his distaste.
"Somewhat inaccurate, seeing how I am no pup and you lack the Hound."
The officer is not amused. His perfectly cut auburn eyebrows lower. He nods to his companion:
“I am Sheriff Dorsey, this is deputy officer Greyson. You are under arrest for suspicion of illegal activity.”
“Is it now illegal to smoke by the docks?” Silco blinks, never looking away from Dorsey’s strikingly blue eyes.
The Sheriff smooths out his mustache.
“You and your companion are infamously connected to the smuggling business that thrives in that cesspool you crawled out of for the past few years. Any activity you conduct is deemed suspicious.”
“Superficial at best,” Silco snorts, “ Is that really the best that Piltover's finest can come up with? ”
Dorsey’s frown deepens and Silco smiles to himself. They have absolutely nothing and Dorsey knows it too. He adjusts on the chair.
“What was my suspicious activity, if I might ask?”
“We were given information that a robbery would be taking place tonight in the Customs warehouses,” Dorsey says quietly, glare fixed on Silco’s features, “and lo and behold, two men were spotted by the one belonging to Madame Bilal. A very large man, and a very small one. And within seconds, a patrol finds you, Mr. Silco, casually loitering right by the locked back entrance, one hour after midnight with no one else in sight.”
Silco doesn’t react. He knows well that this man is searching his face for the slightest micro-expression that would give him away. He decides to give him a fake one. He tightens one side of his mouth and scowls in a conscious confusion.
“There is no law against loitering in the docks, nor am I aware of any curfew. I’m not a child, Sheriff, if I feel like going for a walk in the middle of the night, I do so. I don’t see how it makes me unique or susp-”
He doesn’t finish. Dorsey’s fist unexpectedly cuts his sentence short by landing on his left cheek. It costs him a surprised yelp. His head snaps to the side and remains fixed there. Silco’s eyes are wide, lips parted. His cheek burns.
He can feel Dorsey leaning close to him and he glances at the Sheriff quickly. He doesn’t seem amused and neither does his slow voice when he speaks:
“Enough games. Where is your accomplice? Where is Vander?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He wasn’t with me,” Silco replies in a rush of air, still shocked by the punch. Dorsey’s eyes narrow.
“Both of you were seen by the patrol. You were the one caught. Are you suggesting the officers present somehow imagined that huge thug?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I am telling you that Vander was not there.”
“Where is Vander?” Dorsey repeats.
“How should I know that?” Silco bares his teeth, losing patience. “In the Lanes? In the Silt? On the Promenade? I don’t know where he is tonight, we’re not—”
“Where is Vander?” The question repeats in the same voice.
“I. Don’t. Kno—” Once more, his snarl is cut short by the fist, this time meeting his stomach and toppling him over with a dry gasp.
Dorsey straightens, walking away. “Think about how you are feeling right now. Comfortable? Safe? Your ribs feel alright? We will be back in a little while, give you a moment to consider your situation and weigh the pros and cons. Remember. Right at this moment, we only want to know where your companion is. We have the whole night to figure that out together."
Silco hears him leave. The female officer stays in the doorway for another moment before turning on the heel and leaving as well. She closes the door, the lock clicks behind her.
He slowly straightens himself again, then rubs his burning cheek on the shoulder fiercely, baring his teeth.
There were some signs that this won't go well indeed.
-Damnit, Vander. If you just listened for once.
Silco stared at his food with growing dismay. He chased around a piece of fish with the fork for a moment, then stopped, closing his eyes to gain composure.
"Not good?" asked Vander on his right, finishing his own dinner.
"She has three things on the menu. Sweet and sour, hot, super hot. I asked for sweet and sour. This is neither sweet nor sour."
"Is it hot?"
"Super hot. And apparently also super bland. It's JUST hot." Silco dropped the fork and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Vander glanced from his empty plate to his.
"But I thought you like hot food."
"It's not even hot enough to actually be hot." He pushed the plate to Vander, who didn’t hesitate to finish after his partner. "Remind me to rob her later for what she owes me. I can't believe I paid for this."
“You’re terrible today,” Vander said. Even with his mouth full Silco could hear he was smiling. ”I’ll get you something sweet once we’re done with the thing.”
Silco hesitated for a second, then turned to him on the stool, scowling. “Vander, I don’t think we should be doing this.”
“Eating at new vendors? I agree, this is seriously the worst food we’ve had in a while. Established businesses only from now on.”
“No, I’m talking about the…the thing. The job.”
“The Reck thing? What’s the big deal with that? In and out in fifteen minutes, two common locks to pick without breaking, grab some bunch of papers or whatever it is in that drawer. Sil, we’ve done so, SO MUCH worse.”
“Yes, of course, but I don’t like this. I have a bad feeling about it. Reck hates us, for good reasons. We've been undermining his business for years, he must have lost hundreds of clients because of us. I can’t imagine why he’d—”
“He paid up front.” Vander smacked his lips and sat up straight, eyeing Silco. The smaller man looked at him with mild turmoil.
“He did?”
“Yeah. Half up front, look.” Vander opened his leather jacket and patted a bulge in the inner pocket. It rustled as metal scrapes on metal inside it.
Silco glanced up and his teal eyes flashed with anticipation. “How much?”
“Fifty Hexes. Another fifty after.” Vander grinned.
“That’s…quite a lot, for picking two locks.” Silco rubbed his jaw. “You really don’t find it a little odd?” Vander drew an arm around him and forced the both of them off the stools and into the river of people on the street.
“I think you’re a tad paranoid. It’s a job like any other. Bilal cut Reck out of a deal, and Reck wants to get back at her. We’re known to be good at this kind of stuff, so he asked us. If the deal he lost was big enough, a hundred Hexes is nothing, it’s like a pocket change for that guy, you know how chembarons are.”
“But…” Silco protested as Vander aimed them eastward, towards the shore.
“Silco, it’s a lot of money. We could really use that, and I mean really. Plus, doing this for Reck could convince him to put the stupid bullshit he has with us behind him. Imagine not having his goons wrecking our operations for a while, wouldn’t that be something?”
“You don’t think this is a set up.” Silco battled his way out from underneath Vander’s heavy arm, stepping away to face him. People flooded around them, the Promenade even busier than usual this evening.
Vander shrugged, unimpressed. “No. I think we haven’t done this in a while and you’re nervous, is all.”
“Sure, I’m nervous! Do I have to repeat every single concern I already voiced? What if it IS a set up? Just…consider it, for a moment, alright? Think, Vander. That would serve both Reck and Bilal much more. Fifty Hexes to get rid of us. That isn’t much considering how much it costs them to deal with us.”
“Sil…”
“Bilal is a Topsider. Reck is an old-fashioned chembaron. They were successfully smuggling when you and I were still taking mouthfuls of mercury down in Hole 5. They were bribing Enforcers before we were even born. Together, the two of them. WHY would Reck want to drown Bilal because of one misstep? It’s a set up.”
“Sil!” Vander’s strong voice interrupted Silco’s deluge of thoughts.
“What?!”
Vander didn’t say anything. His face was full of concern, eyebrows knotted with worry and eyes gentle. He stepped forward and drew Silco to his chest, never minding that they were in public.
He rested his cheek on the smaller man’s head and tenderly stroked his back.
“Look, I know what it’s about. The last time was…It wasn’t good.”
Silco stiffened as Vander continued in a soothing voice, “It won’t be like that this time. I promise, it won’t.”
Silco breathed out. An image of the rifle’s butt hitting Vander’s head flashed through his mind. Suddenly, he felt light headed. He barely heard Vander when he continued:
“We got it all well planned, the area’s mostly unguarded, the escape route’s much easier. We can go through the whole plan as many times as you want, alright? Just to be sure.”
Silco ignored him, feeling bile rising in his throat. Vander’s arms around his narrow shoulders felt heavy, the heart in his chest was jumping in odd, irregular ways that made him feel like he’d pass out.
The rifle pointing to Vander’s face, the Enforcer’s finger moving to the trigger.
“I’ll go in with you. We’ll stay together the whole time,” Vander kept whispering, “it will be alright…”
“How can you know that?” Silco stepped back, trying to push Vander away but he wouldn’t let him go, hugging him tighter.
“Just trust me. Okay? We made a mistake the last time, didn’t have it planned that well, it was also day time—”
“That’s a stupid argument, absolutely stupid, that’s not even an argument, just—” He could feel a tremor taking over him now, knees buckling, dry throat trapping his breath, but Vander wouldn’t let go, holding him tighter.
“They didn’t shoot me. They didn’t. Alright? It’s alright. It’s good. I’m good. I’m here,” he kept repeating and Silco forced his breath to slowly return into a more regular rhythm.
“It won’t repeat. I promise.”
But, of course, it had, because sometimes, Vander would break his promises.
III.
Dorsey and Greyson are gone for a long time. Long enough that Silco’s stomach recovers from the punch, and nausea becomes just a simple pang of discomfort somewhere below his ribcage. The urgent fire in his cheek turns into throbbing at first, then dull numbness. It is gone now.
When he hears two sets of steps in the corridor outside, he lifts his head, feeling a short stab of panic in the front of his mind. They mustn’t see it, he reminds himself as a key turns in the lock.
-Calm your breath. Swallow. Relax your face and shoulders. Breath in, deeply. Once, twice…
When the door opens Silco’s tension is seemingly gone. He lifts his chin and glares down his nose at Dorsey. :
“Let me go, you can’t hold me here.”
Dorsey ignores him. He steps inside and waits for Greyson to close and lock the door. It isn’t until then that he speaks, watching Silco with calm, cold eyes.
“Have you changed your mind regarding Vander?”
“Let me go. I didn’t do anything, let alone the things you’re accusing me of.” Silco shakes the cuffs, glowering.
Dorsey comes closer, forcing him to look up. Defiance doesn’t work as well when one is forced to tilt their head all the way back.
“My question remains the same, but let me repeat it so that fume-filled head of yours comprehends better: Where is Vander?”
“I don’t know. Let me go.”
“Where is—”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Silco screams this time, eyes wide with fury. He expects a hit, and with the adrenaline filling his body, he’d welcome it, but Dorsey only smiles.
A cold smile, that.
He slowly walks around Silco’s chair. Silco bares his teeth and shakes the cuffs again, but doesn’t give Dorsey the satisfaction of trying to turn to see him. The Sheriff’s polite voice sounds mesmerizing as it gently echoes the walls out of Silco’s sight:
“Do you know Lady Bilal, boy? She owns the trade company, Bilal Enterprise. No? I don’t blame you. A sumprat like you, barely climbing out of that hole you people live in, I’d be surprised if you knew any Piltovan merchants, even if they reside close enough to that polluted cesspit you call home. You would know Mr. Reck, perhaps? He’s a Zaunite, much like you, though a much better sort. Lady Bilal’s business partner and a shareholder of her custom services.”
Silco doesn’t reply, waiting for Dorsey to finish his spiel. He can imagine clearly where this is going. Dorsey walks back around, finally stopping at Silco’s right side.
“You found yourself very lucky indeed. For some reason, both Lady Bilal and Mr. Reck took some interest in you and your partner Vander. I wager they are beyond impressed that you two managed to get where you are.”
There is a long pause. He evidently expects Silco to react but all he gets is silence. Dorsey sighs and continues:
“Two kids like you, entering the smuggling scene the way you did, establishing yourself with such speed, it’s remarkable. No, please, don’t start about the evidence again. After all, we have eyes and ears just as much as you do. All over Zaun.”
Silco’s heart skips a beat. The sheriff smiles:
“What are you, boy. Sixteen? Seventeen?”
“Nineteen.”
“There. Barely a grown man. Do you really want to throw your life away to cover up for some thug that didn’t even care enough to come back for you?”
Silence.
Dorsey leans closer to him. Silco can smell a hint of mint in his sterile breath and it raises the hair on the back of his neck. The sheriff’s voice is tender:
“Tell me, son, spare yourself the problems. Tell me where is Vander.”
Silco slowly turns to him, tired and appalled. He sniffles, measuring Dorsey’s features. Clean, rosy skin. Perfectly trimmed mustache. Lucid eyes. Not a blemish in sight. And it’s so close, that face. So close he doesn’t smell just Dorsey’s mouthwash, but also a hint of tea he must have drunk before he came here, a light clue of high quality tobacco, a carefully applied perfume…
Silco’s lips twitch. This will be very messy, he knows, but it also doesn’t really matter anymore. He is starting to realize that he won't leave this building alive . Might as well go with some dance.
He takes a deep breath and spits straight in Dorsey’s face.
The fist that impacts his face a second later is a blur. He can’t hold himself from laughter, even as another comes from the other side, even when they don’t stop coming.
The docks were empty and silent aside from the scarce groups of guards that patrol the area every once in a while.
-I can't believe he talked me into it again.
Silco felt his heart flutter a bit faster than it should as they sneaked by the wall.
He led, less noticeable due to his slim form. He took them effortlessly by a patrol of two officers and they were in the clear, pressing on a chicken fence around the warehouses. The southern side where they found themselves was less observed.
The pavement here was broken and overgrown with weeds, the path between the Customs buildings and the warehouses where they store cargo narrow. The officers were usually too lazy to do much more than just flashing a light in that direction, which served Silco and Vander perfectly.
By a fence post closest to their destination, Vander took out bolt cutters and cut the wires while Silco cautiously watched for any sort of abnormal activity. Vander kept the fence open for him and they slipped inside, swiftly pressing themselves into the shadows of the warehouse. A single window on the far end shone, revealing where the guards were stationed.
A bell rang in the distance, somewhere on the Piltovan square up the hill. Its gentle announcement of one hour after midnight carried over the river and down to the wharf.
Silco felt himself tense up. He glanced at Vander but his partner wouldn’t look at him. His gray eyes shone in the darkness, gleaming with excitement, his Adam's apple bobbing rapidly up and down as he barely contained the joy this brought him.
Vander, the being of chaos, is getting bored with the more steady life-style , Silco realized with a small jab of self-pity. Ever since they managed to get enough people on their side to form an organized group, neither of them had to usually take risks anymore. A year of hard work, bribing, intimidating, passionate speeches, promises, deals, and favors brought them security.
They could have been sitting in their favorite bar in the Lanes right now, plotting and organizing another smuggling operation that would benefit all of them. They could have been one step closer to enough power to free Zaun once and for all.
Instead, they were here, crouching in the shadows, doing what they used to do five years ago – moonlighting, stealing a bunch of papers that meant nothing to them, for someone who saw them as nothing else than thugs for hire.
His thought was interrupted by the far door opening, spreading the warm light from the inside. Two figures stepped out, keeping a muted dialogue. Vander gripped Silco’s shoulder. The guards closed and locked the heavy door behind them and slowly strode away, stopping briefly to light up their pipes.
“Now,” Vander whispered when the patrol disappeared behind the corner. He pushed the window above them and, as promised, it wasn’t even remotely secured. He held it up for Silco, waited for him to climb in, then followed.
Silco crossed the warehouse, crowded heavily with massive crates of cargo, as fast as he could, taking out his lockpicking kit. He held his mind narrowly focused right now, only one step ahead, to keep any threatening panic at bay.
-To the office door now. Kneel. Open the kit. Regular lock, no problem. A bit of fumbling. A soft click. The door opens. Inside the office, the secretariat desk. Don’t look around, just the desk. Kneel. Third drawer. The locking mechanism is very easy. A child could pick this with a bobby pin. Soft click. Slide it out. Take what’s inside. A pile of papers. A folder of invoices. A check book. Into the bag with it. Close it well. Shut the drawer. Leave.
“Vander, we’re done,” he whispered, standing up. Vander was paying him little attention, occupied by rummaging quietly through the contents of the large safe on the opposite side. Silco glanced around, panic starting to settle as he left autopilot.
“Vander! Let’s go.” He pressed the leather bag closer to his chest.
“This thing wasn’t locked…” Vander responded absently, still fumbling with whatever it was inside the open safe. Silco couldn’t see over his partner’s massive shoulders and, frankly, didn’t care.
“Come on! Time is running out!”
“Give me the bag,” Vander ordered and, without waiting, hastily tore it from Silco’s hands. He was now stuffing something inside it. It was metallically clicking as object after object clunked into the bag. Silco stepped closer.
“What is it?”
“Smoke bombs. Flares. Stunt gas.”
Silco’s eyes darted, he quickly turned, his mind switched with a click. Weapons were scarce in Zaun. Reliable weapons were ever rarer. Reliable weapons that wouldn’t rip both the user and the victim into pieces were non-existent.
This was a golden opportunity. The true boon of their little night job.
He no longer rushed Vander, keeping an eye out for the patrol.
He was really just over-cautious after all. This would pay off. With these weapons, they could protect the Lanes from the next Enforcer raid.
Or they could store them meticulously, keep them for when they have more, when they are more ready, and then strike.
Not a religious man by nature, Silco blessed Reck at that moment for this unintentional gift.
IV.
Silco stops laughing after the third blow in the head. He stops counting after the fifth.
By the end, he sits slumped in the chair, red rings forming around his wrists where the cuffs dug into his skin as he was getting thrown left and right with each shot. His head hangs limp, a rope of dark blood slowly dripping from his busted lips.
Dorsey catches him by the hair and snarls something in his face but Silco doesn't hear a word over the high pitched sound in his ears. Dorsey lets him go, allowing Silco's head to fall back to his chest.
The fog in his ears slowly dissipates.
"—a messenger to Mr. Reck. Tell him I'm getting really tired of this. This could be a problem." Dorsey sounds winded and his voice is breaking with barely contained rage.
"Sir."
"Tell him that either he doubles the amount or the deal is off. I won't get demoted over this."
"Yessir."
Silco closes his eyes when Dorsey storms off. The light feels too bright now; the pounding in his skull is bringing the nausea back. He hears a rustle of clothes close by and opens his eyes partially.
Greyson, the deputy, is crouching by the chair. There's something like empathy in her strong featured face. She speaks in a soft, low voice.
"He will have to let you go, boy. Just hang on a little longer. A few more hours. Hold on, don't say anything, he'll let you go."
She stands up and walks to the door, then pauses.
"For your own good, do not aggravate him anymore."
She leaves, closing the door.
Silco spits weakly. Blood sprays his thighs, leaving behind a strong taste of copper.
A few more hours…
Everything hurts so bad.
Dorsey did not hold back, didn't aim. Silco's upper arms, shoulders, chest ache, his face throbs terribly. At least one of his molars feel loose in the jaw when he inspects them carefully with his numb tongue. The left eye won't open all the way and burns with persistent pain.
A few more hours and maybe he walks out of this alive and only slightly beaten.
Unless Reck pays double whatever it is he promised Dorsey.
Either way, Silco won’t give them a lead to Vander now. That would be counterproductive after all he’s already gone through.
The light of a gas torch flickered in the distance of the side of one building, painting the washed out concrete sickly yellow. Silco couldn’t keep himself from jolting in a pure adrenaline rush.
“They’re coming back, hurry up.”
“Got it. Let’s go.” Vander passed by him, the heavy bag full of the life-saving treasures securely on his back. Silco shut the door and locked it with a memorized wiggle of the lockpick. He rushed to catch up to Vander and pushed his kit inside the bag to keep it safe.
The light from the outside neared now and the two kept low under the windows as they hurried to the back of the warehouse.
“Out, come on.” Vander held the window open and Silco slipped outside into the night. He halted immediately. There was a patrol of four Enforcers maybe twenty feet away. They had not noticed him yet but between them and the guards coming back from the right, there was no way they could advance by them unnoticed.
Silco’s eyes darted, chest jumping up and down.
-What to do? Quick, think, what to do…
And then he made a decision.
It was a quick one, not the smartest one, but the only one at hand at the moment.
He turned fast and shut the window quietly directly before Vander’s nose. His eyes met with Vander’s over the matted, dirty glass.
Vander seemed startled; he glanced at the group of officers behind Silco, then back to him, mouthing,
-what are you doing?-
Silco shook his head a little, then nodded to the crates behind Vander.
-Stay put, hide.
He could see Vander's reluctance, read the curse off of his lips, and the concern in Vander's expression jabbed him in the heart; but at last Vander dove behind the cargo and disappeared into the shadows. Safe for now.
Silco turned. They were too close to slip by even for him alone. The only thing he could do was take a swim in the bay; the edge of the wharf was only a few steps away. And he wouldn’t do that. Not with the knowledge of what's beneath the surface.
He inched away from the window and turned to the water. He swallowed. He was not the best swimmer. If he jumped they would likely hear him, which would give away that he was doing something suspicious, which would prompt them to search the warehouse, which would make them find Vander, and then—
(Rifle’s barrel pressed to Vander’s head)
Silco’s trembling fingers found the cigarette tin box. He shook one out and tried to light it up. His hands were shaking too much to click the lighter.
It was an utterly stupid plan and Silco knew it wouldn’t work but he didn’t have another one.
Finally, the lighter clicked and orange light illuminated his narrow face as he drew in the smoke.
"Hey!" The two warehouse guards that were coming back noticed him first. The group of four Enforcers reacted to their alert, turning to him. And suddenly, six rifles are pointed in his direction.
Silco played dumb, owlishly staring in mild outrage and astonishment.
“Whoa, officers! What’s the issue?”
”HANDS UP!”
Silco stepped back, still keeping up his scheme:
“What? Why? I’m not violating any law! I’m just smoking here!”
“HANDS UP! DROP IT! OR WE SHOOT!”
Silco swallowed. The lighter slipped between his fingers and cracked on the broken pavement, and the cigarette fell from his lips.
“DOWN! DOWN ON THE GROUND!”
It was a stupid plan, yes. But he couldn’t let them find Vander.
Hopefully, Vander wouldn’t get any heroic ideas right now. - Silco prayed as they tore him to the ground, rough enough to knock the wind out of him, strapping his wrists behind his back.
Alphin Reck thought the night was turning out quite well. Three hours ago, one of his people handed him a little note written on a fine, Piltovan paper. He recognized the script instantly, after all Irwin Dorsey’s signature was on more than one of his checks. It excited him and he read it eagerly, a large cigar stuck between the yellow tinted teeth and dark eyes wide.
-Got the rat boy. The Hound can’t be found.-
Reck’s nose wrinkled with disappointment and he crumbled the paper before dropping it into the fire. He leaned back with a sigh, then swiftly dictated a response to the same man that brought him the note.
-Shake it out of him if you want to get paid. Both or neither.-
That should do it. Dorsey was very much a money-loving man, and it didn’t bother him if his coins came smelling of topsider perfume or Zaunite fumes.
This night was far too interesting and exciting than to waste it sleeping, Reck decided. He knew that Dorsey would keep him informed and he couldn't wait for updates. So he waited, in a company of two very willing beauties.
Four in the morning, the chembaron is feeling a bit socially weakened. It has to do with the amount of whiskey, but perhaps also with some of the physical strain he exercised with his two companions. Those are now gone and he is enjoying one of his records. He plays it loud. Very loud. Why hold himself back? A man of his position can do what he wants.
Sitting on the couch with a cigar in one hand and his head tilted back, feet on the table slightly rocking in the rhythm, Reck doesn’t hear any of the thuds behind the door to his personal lounge.
However, he does hear the heavy steps that approach the back of his sofa. A hand extends over his shoulder, handing him a piece of paper. The same soft, silky paper with the same immaculate handwriting.
-Rat boy won’t speak. Further interrogation might end up poorly for him and us. Double the offer or he walks out. A dead Zaunite in the station would raise questions.-
Reck frowns and hands the paper back without looking over his shoulder.
“I’ll dictate you a reply, Mal. Write-”
“Mal is dead. And I’ll be the one dictating to you, you absolute piece of shit.”
Reck's head snaps up and backwards but by that point Vander is already dragging him off the couch. The massive man throws Reck full force into the cabinet with the record player and the music stops abruptly.
Before Reck manages anything more than a stunned gasp, Vander is at him within a second, his face dark with rage, eyes shining like that of a beast.
-a monster.
He holds Reck up with one hand, his infamous gauntlet on the other hand pulled back for a punch. Reck distantly notes that it's covered with blood before it crushes his face.
V.
Silco feels himself trembling subconsciously when he hears the steps again.
He grits his teeth, absolutely livid that Dorsey is making him react with fear.
He forces himself to raise his head. It feels heavy, and the pain in his shut left eye is forcing him to tilt his whole head to the shoulder. His bloodied nostrils flare and burst lips peel momentarily to accommodate the urgent fury he feels.
When the door finally opens, he feels himself ready. Fuck Greyson, fuck everyone, he won’t give this to Dorsey for free. He will spit, bite, headbutt, kick, whatever it takes to make this hard for him.
But it isn’t Dorsey who enters.
Greyson jingles the keys slightly.
“Don’t do anything stupid, boy. You’re going home.”
Silco’s good eye narrows with suspicion.
He leans away when Greyson bends down to open the cuffs. Once his hands are free, Silco draws them to his chest, rubbing the right one. Greyson steps back and nods to the door.
“Come on.”
Silco keeps sitting, eyes darting between the door and Greyson. Partially, he isn’t standing up because he doesn’t trust his legs. He also doesn’t trust her and even less to Dorsey.
Greyson’s lips tighten.
“It isn’t a trap. You’re free to go. Get up, come on.”
“Why…” his voice comes out as an unintelligible croak, and he tries to clear his throat but his battered chest protests. Thankfully, Greyson understands regardless:
“Why are you allowed to leave? Apparently we made a mistake. Nothing of value was stolen from Lady Bilal’s warehouse, no sign of breaking and entering. So, it seems like you really were just getting some fresh air.” She sighs.
Silco tries to evaluate that information, turning it up and down in his mind. Either Reck really decided to not follow Dorsey’s demands, or…
Or they got Vander.
His eyes shoot up to Greyson with a newfound fear.
Did they get Vander? Would they let him go if they got Vander? Don’t they need both of them? Would he be so stupid to come to his rescue? Surely not…
-Yes, he would. Only that moron could do something so stupid. He would find it romantic.
Either way, he will be more useful on the outside.
If they actually do have Vander, Silco can organize a riot. Get enough people, decimate the Bridge patrols, and flood the Piltovan streets. He will burn down every house in Piltover if it means they give him Vander back.
He slowly stands up. His lower back aches terribly, ribs scream in agony, arms feel heavy. He takes a step and the numb legs don’t cooperate, foot trips over an ankle and sends him stumbling, wide-eyed.
Greyson catches him, her strong fingers digging into his upper arm. She pulls him up straight, one hand on his back as she pushes him towards the door.
“You can rest once you cross the Bridge, but cross it fast. Don’t make Dorsey find a reason to drag you back in here,” she advises with a quiet voice.
Silco doesn’t respond. All he can think about is Vander. His stupid, hot-headed partner, the idiot love of his life, the dumbass soulmate, and whether they have him or not.
Oh he will cross the bridge fast alright, he will run if his legs allow him. He will run all the way to the Lanes, wake up every comrade, every mercenary, everyone who owes them a favor. He will promise favors to anyone else, to the whole of Zaun if he has to.
The corridor keeps going and at the end is the cold and blue light of the very early morning.
The sun has not risen yet, but its presence is already pushing out the dark of the night. Greyson leads him out.
When the cold air hits his face and seeps into his lungs, Silco closes his eyes, allowing the brisk breeze to wake him up. Despite the fact they are only just over the Bridge separating (or was it connecting?) Zaun and Piltover, the oxygen is richer here, the air is fresh and clean. It smells like the ocean, like kelp and freedom.
His battered ribs and stiff back protest against the influx of air but Silco forces his chest to expand and take it in.
Greyson walks around him to take off the cuffs but a familiar voice stops her:
“That won’t be necessarily, officer Greyson,” Dorsey says with an audible smile. Silco freezes. “Give me the keys, I’ll accompany our prisoner to the Bridge. It would be a shame if he got lost on the way there.”
Their eyes meet.
Silco's one open teal eye is full of a mixture of repulsion and fear. If Dorsey decides to kick him into the river with his cuffs on it's over.
Dorsey's blue eyes are cold and unreadable.
He nods his head and nudges Silco, catching him by the chain of his cuffed hands:
"Let's go."
They walk slowly, leaving Greyson behind by the station. Silco is reserving his energy; the sheriff doesn't rush him, behaving as though they're on a little morning stroll.
“Pretty morning, isn’t it,” he starts, voice calm and casual. “If you try to run now, I’ll shoot you.”
Silco doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust his voice and even less his emotions. Dorsey breathes in through his nose and glances at him.
“You cost me a lot of money, boy. Your…absolute unwillingness to cooperate, I didn’t expect that. But apparently you, unlike the Hound of Undercity, are not worth the time and effort. I won’t be risking all the paperwork just to swipe under the carpet an accidental death of one sewer rat, and Mr. Reck is not interested enough to pay an adequate amount to cover it either. You’re very lucky. Now you can go back to that hole you crawled out of and lick your wounds.”
The Bridge is very close now, the surface of the river is shimmering with the first pale sun rays. The sheriff continues as they approach the two guard posts on either side of the bridge:
“Don’t get me wrong, if I bumped into you on your side of the Bridge, I would run a bullet through that hard head of yours without thinking. One less idealist, one less smuggler, and no one would breathe a word of remorse. Me least of all. But us topsiders, as you like to call us, we aren’t savages. There are papers to be filed, reports to be submitted, and explanations to be made. Everything in Piltover functions like a perfectly oiled clockwork and, alas, even the life of something like you has a certain amount of weight.”
They stop in the middle of the Bridge, on the exact borderline between the two cities.
Silco doesn’t break eye contact. He wants to memorize every freckle, every hair on this man’s pleasant face so that he can one day come back and slit his throat.
To fuel his fire, Dorsey is smiling, little crow feet forming in the corners of his eyes. He takes the chain of Silco’s cuffs and raises his hands to the chest level, entering the key into the small lock.
“Too bad that the Hound didn’t realize this. Perhaps if he came willingly, and gave himself up, maybe Reck wouldn’t have to…Oh but I’ll leave it to your imagination. I’m sure even you people have some.”
Silco freezes and his open eye widens. The careful rage he was building this whole time shatters. He blinks stupidly and his voice is but a breath.
“What?”
Dorsey chuckles softly.
“Mr. Reck sent me a little word, along with the instructions regarding you. Your dear friend is dead, boy.”
The lock clicks.
VI.
Silco's knees were buckling under Vander's weight as Vander leaned on him. He was tripping over his feet, thighs burning, ankles trembling, back protesting. But he kept going and no one was helping, damnit.
No one.
Vander groaned softly, his head practically lying on Silco's narrow shoulders, the blood from his head wound seeping into the smaller man's shirt, warm and sticky on his cheek.
"A little longer…" Silco uttered through clenched teeth, propping Vander up a bit so they could cross the final distance to their home, "just a little bit more, alright?"
He wasn’t sure if he was encouraging Vander or himself. His partner's weight was far beyond his strength and Vander wasn't cooperating much.
He seemed alright when they were running from the Enforcers. Sure, his head bled but he WAS running, practically dragging Silco behind him, crashing into one of the many elevators to take them down.
And then he began slowing down, became dizzy and tired.
Silco supported him the whole way through Entresol, by the end nearly carrying him.
Now, so close to home, he felt defiant tears of frustration and pure exhaustion collecting in his eyes because Vander was limp and terrifyingly quiet. His feet still moved but Silco carried most of the weight and he really couldn’t go on anymore…
But he did anyway, somehow.
Silco supported him through the door. When Vander fully collapsed, Silco dragged him down the stairs. He could not, just could NOT lift him onto the bed but he made him comfortable to the best of his abilities and options right there on the wooden floor.
He was scared to leave for the doctor, so he tried to help him alone. It wouldn't be the first wound he would suture, Vander's or his own.
He washed the blood from his hair, cleaned the wound with alcohol, and held Vander's head in his lap while he sewed up the wound on his temple. His hands trembled.
He sang quietly to keep Vander awake:
"This air is getting so thin, go down, go down, go down. The honey whiskey's kickin', go down, go down, go down…" his voice stammered, ran out of air, clashed on the notes and trailed off into a whisper as he focused, making the tone unintelligible.
Vander was pale and drowsy, and wouldn’t speak, only moan faintly. Silco pressed the cleanest rag they had on the wound and held him in his arms.
“I think I better go before I try something I might regret, I might regret…" he whispered, failing.
He stayed up the whole night, terrified to fall asleep, terrified what he would wake up to. He pressed himself on Vander as much as he could, rolling him on his side and holding him like that in case he vomited in his sleep. He kept whispering the chorus of that song Vander liked, but he couldn’t remember the rest of the lyrics:
"But if you wanna free your body tonight, It's our secret, it's our secret…"
And he just hoped that Vander would live because Vander is all the humanity he has and without him, Silco was just a flame.
Silco is running.
The pain is gone and unimportant. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters, only to find out the truth.
He leaps over the rubble of the Bridge, testament to forgotten riots, his arms waving by his body in pure hysteria.
He feels himself heaving, breath catching on his ribs, ripping his throat raw. His wide-open eyes are dilated with terror, everything is saturated despite the muted morning light. Adrenaline makes his heart ache but he won’t stop until it bursts or until he finds out the truth about Vander.
He can’t be dead. If he’s dead then nothing makes sense. If he is dead, everything is dead.
Dorsey must be lying. Just the last stab at Silco, just a spiteful punch in the gut to see him consumed by fear.
But Dorsey didn’t claim that Vander was simply dead. He claimed that Reck’s men got him. And that is entirely possible. They had so much trouble with the chembaron in the past year, and today (or was it yesterday), Silco voiced his concern that the odd job was a setup. Which it was.
Would Vander be so stupid to actually go to Reck?
-Yes.
Silco lets up an exasperated, dry sob of despair as he reaches a corner of a street. He catches on it, nearly falling over.
He fights the broken ribs, the nausea, the headache and tunnel vision. He keeps running.
This is his fault. He should have done…something. Something more. Something else. But something, damnit, because clearly, whatever he’s done was not enough.
He turns a corner, skidding and crashing his shoulder hard into the side of the building. The sharp pain makes him yelp in frustration, but he won’t stop.
How in the Runeterra did they fuck up this badly….
His legs tangle, vision starts turning black. Reck’s penthouse is on the far northwest of Zaun. So far away.
When he turns another corner, someone grabs him from behind and he screams in a hoarse voice. Large arms wrap around him and hold him tight as he kicks and struggles. Then a voice penetrates his panicking brain:
“Sil! Silco! Stop! It’s me!”
“Vander?” Silco freezes. The arms around him tighten gently. He feels a nod of head on his shoulder and hears a quiet sob.
They stand there unmoving.
Silco’s chest is jumping up and down, knees are trembling. He’s unwilling to turn now, scared even. Vander’s hair smells of blood and gunpowder, his large arms wrapped around Silco are covered in scratches, burns, his knuckles are skinned and bruised.
A wet sensation on the side of his neck tells him that Vander is crying. Silco allows himself to do the same, feeling a tear of exhaustion and relief find a way down his cheek. He lifts one hand and touches the giant forearm around his neck.
“You’re alive.”
“And so are you.” Vander’s voice is immensely hoarse.
“You…went to Reck’s.”
“I did. I couldn’t…You were right, I didn’t listen…I couldn’t just sit and wait.”
Silco leans back a little. The exhaustion is slowly weighing down his body, and he allows Vander to support him.
“And you didn’t listen again. I told you to hide and stay put.”
“Snarky bastard…” Vander chuckles helplessly and Silco joins him with a faint smirk. Vander turns him around, keeping his hands on Silco’s shoulders. He gently touches his chin and lifts his head, looking his battered face over with concern. His own broad face is covered in gashes and gunpowder burns.
Silco winces when Vander brushes his large fingers over his left cheekbone and gently swats his hand away.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not—”
Silco interrupts him with a hug. It’s unusual for him and Vander accepts it gladly.
When he speaks into Silco’s hair, his voice is threatening to break:
“Silly little shit, playing a hero.”
“Speak for yourself, Vander.”
“Reck won’t give us any more troubles.”
“I know.”
He steps away, holding Vander’s forearms on his shoulders for a little longer, running his thumbs alongside Vander’s thick wrists. Then he pats his arm and looks up.
“I need a shower. Let’s go home.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Hmm…no. You can patch me up.”
Vander joins him as they slowly walk towards the inner maze of streets. He chuckles and carefully draws Silco closer, one arm around his shoulder. Silco doesn’t resist. He sighs, tired, sore, a bit shaken, mostly relieved. Vander’s body is warm by his side, his presence soothes him.
VII.
“—something I might…regret…” Silco’s voice was half drowning in exhaustion; sleep deprivation stole the color in his eyes and the volume from his voice.
He rocked forward a bit, eyes closing briefly, then snapped back into attention.
Vander slept peacefully now. Silco propped his broad back up with a crate, wrapped him in blankets, kept his head elevated, and meticulously cleaned the wound every few hours, frantically terrorized by the idea it could get infected.
He tried to give him water to drink after the first night, and Vander would accept small mouthfuls when Silco patiently tilted the tin cup to his lips.
First he worried that Vander could inhale the water, but when he saw his adam's apple move, he relaxed slightly.
He talked to him carefully in a quiet, hoarse voice. He lay next to Vander, whispering to him that everything would be alright.
Vander came to himself a little bit sometime during the second night. He groaned and moved, eyes opening slightly. His right eye was swollen shut and blackened from the hit to his temple and Silco covered it with frantic kisses, emanating broken sobs upon seeing it flutter.
Silco calmed down a bit after Vander’s first signs of consciousness. A concussion could kill a man. He’d seen it numerous times through the years – a stone in the mines hitting a woman’s head, a bad punch in the cranium to one of their friends, the little girl in the Sumps that hit her head on a stone while jumping into the cave lake – all of them feeling fine at first. Then they would fall asleep never to wake up.
After he first regained consciousness, Vander became a bit better. He slept deep and hard but Silco would see him change position, move an arm, open and close his mouth.
He waited patiently, repeating his care hour by hour – water, clean the wound, whisper sweet promises, take care of his needs, wait, observe, guard.
Vander finally spoke to him three days later.
“You look like shit…” voice raspy from the days of silence.
Silco knew he did. He had not changed his clothes or washed himself more than splashing his face. He’d not slept and barely ate. He knew he was pale and gray with dark shades under both eyes, that his hair was greasy and still caked with Vander’s blood.
He chuckled and sniffled:
“Likewise.”
*
"This air is getting so thin, go down, go down, go down…" Vander mutters into Silco's ear absently and kisses his smudged cheek.
He carries Silco on his back with ease through the entirety of Entresol, the smaller man's lanky arms limp around his neck, head resting on Vander's shoulder.
Silco sleeps and Vander is glad he does. He wagers his partner has no idea just how badly hurt he got by Dorsey.
Dorsey… Vander will remember that name. Soon, he'll give that name a face and then he will leave that face bloodied and broken on the pavement of the Bridge.
He brings him home, into what would one day in the future become the Last Drop and what now serves as both their hideout and the office.
Benzo is sitting in the lobby of the corner building. It's partially also a storage and a pawn shop, and the windows are barricaded and painted black. The heavy man, maybe a decade older than Vander, is fumbling with some mechanical device, either ripping it apart or perhaps trying to put it together.
He raises his head when he hears the door:
“Where you’ve been? You heard ‘bout that thing with Reck? Fuckin’ chembaron wars, hope they just slaughter each other like-”
He interrupts himself when he sees Vander carrying Silco on his back. His brows shoot up, then lower.
“What did that lil’ shite get himself into again?”
Vander gives Benzo an amused look, then glances at Silco’s sleeping face so close to his and whispers,“Saved my life again, I think.”
“Betcha did. Nothin’ but troubles, this one…” Benzo scoffs and turns back to his work, shaking his head. Vander sighs and continues down the stairs to the living squads in the basement.
Silco woke up when Vander lowered him on the sofa, frowning in confusion.“Did you carry me?”
“All the way from the elevator.” Vander smiles and carefully strokes his cheek. “You fell asleep, I didn’t want to wake you up.”
Silco nods lightly, then turns to his side to continue sleeping, exhausted to the bone. Vander pulls him a bit higher against some mild protests, and props his head up with a folded blanket.
“Not so fast, let me clean you first.”
“Vander, I just want to sleep, it’s only a nosebleed,” Silco mutters, Vander is already on his feet with a clean rag and a cup of water. He sits back down, the couch whimpering under his weight.
“I’ll be fast. You don’t want to sleep like this, trust me. It will hurt more tomorrow. Now come on.”
Silco resists, but not for long.
Vander doesn’t have to do this—both of them are used to taking a hit or two, live on the verge of collapse, fall asleep with faces smudged with blood and dirt—but he wants to do it, because he wants Silco to deserve better.
He’s not blind to the tenderness with which his smaller partner treats him. Vander feels shamed by it. Both of them had the same rough upbringing, surrounded by violence. Both had to toughen up, fasten their belts, and pretend that pain is nothing, that it’s never too much, that they can take it and won’t slow down.
And here is Silco with his protective behavior and gentle hands, the smartest fool Vander has ever met.
The way he cared for him anytime Vander needed, before they even were together, when they were only friends.
He wants to give him the same and hopes he has enough kindness in his killing hands to convey his love for this scrawny, patriotic jerk.
Silco feels he’s supposed to still play that role of a hardened miner, a true, invincible Zaunite. He clenches his teeth, mocks Vander’s gentle touches and tender words with scoffs and smirks, but soon drops the mask and allows Vander to kiss his battered ribs, and ever so carefully wash his bruised face.
Vander strokes his tangled, coarse hair and washes the blood off of the cut lip.
He holds the cold rag to Silco’s bruised eye, petting his cheek with the other hand, and they just watch each other, sitting close enough that their legs touch.
At some point, Silco leans forwards and rests his head on Vander’s chest.“You killed Reck to get me out,” he remarks. Vander nods.
“That was quite…unwise.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Think, Vander - you killed a chembaron. This will be trouble…”
Vander pulls him closer, lying back and drawing Silco to his arms until they lie together.“Yeah, well, they can come and try us, hm?”
“We might regret this. You should have left me there, I could take it, you know.”
“Oh, I know, love. I know you could. But I didn’t want you to HAVE to take it.”
Vander leans closer and kisses the top of Silco’s head.“You think you have to be tough all the time. I would never want you to get hurt because of me.”
“It wasn’t just you, the weapons—”
“Here you go again.” Vander smiles. “Just relax. Sleep. I’m here.”
He feels Silco’s tense shoulder resist, then slowly lower. In a moment, he hears his breath deepen and knows he fell asleep again.
He draws his arms closer around him, petting the side of his jaw with a knuckle of one finger.
He wants to teach Silco to relax around him more often.
There is no need to keep his guard up all the time. After all, they have been partners for quite some time.
The others might laugh if they’ve seen them cuddle and use pet names, care for each other’s wounds and comfort. But Vander would never.
He would never want to hurt Silco.
He would never do something he might regret forever.
He would never hurt him.