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Silco is sick enough to be bedridden three times before Justice finally deigns balancing her scales and inflict Vander with something more than sniffles. Sometimes Silco wonders if the man isn't part vastaya, or if his mother didn't arrange a deal with Tahm Kench or some other long forgotten deity, lurking in the ruins of Oshra Va'Zaun. Probably both. Silco has simply never met a heartier Zaunite.
This, he thinks, probably explains why Vander is so distressed by illness in others. He's familiar with all the aches and sores of a hard life, the long recovery of grievous wounds. But fevers, chills, wracking coughs? Even indigestion is foreign to the man!
It would be hilarious, if only Vander didn't panic even more when something finally goes wrong with him.
'No, Vander, you are not dying.'
'But—'
'I understand. Vomiting is distressing. But it's also not going to kill you. At least not for now.'
'What's that mean?' Vander asks, some genuine fear quivering in his words. 'Am I—'
'No, no! Look, this stuff is normal! It happens to people all the time, all right? Honestly, you're the only person I know who can eat the last meal of the day at Jericho's and keep it down.'
'It's discounted,' Vander says in a whine before folding back over the basin.
'For a good reason!'
Silco strokes his broad shoulders, feeling awkward. He's never been one for mothering others, and especially not men twice his size. Kids are easier. For one, kids obey when he orders them around.
'W-we have to go,' Vander mumbles, brushing his mouth with the back of his hand.
'Oh, no we don't. Like I said, you're staying right here. In bed.' Silco gesture with as much emphasis as he can manage. 'Horizontal. Head on pillow. Do you understand, Vander?'
'If I'm not going to die, then why shouldn't I come?'
Silco stamps his foot down, temper boiling over. 'This is not how being sick works! Janna help me, you are the densest creature in Zaun! You're ill! You'll make a mess! People don't go out where they're sick. Just like I didn't, last time. Why can't you listen to your own advice?'
'Silco—'
'Don't Silco me! Just—' he forcefully pulls the basin from Vander's hands and goes to empty it, coming back with a wet rag. 'Here. Use this to clean up.'
'So we are—'
'Staying home.'
'But—'
'Vander!'
Silco immediately regrets yelling. Vander deflates like a popped balloon, folding into a miserable lump. But it's the opening Silco needed. He forces him to lay down, and with some tactical poking about his knees, persuades Vander to pull his legs in after him and arrange himself in something close to a good resting position.
'Room's swimming,' he says. 'I... I don't understand how I'm supposed to survive this.'
Silco bites down on a sigh. 'This statement, by the same man who is so adamant on meeting with Renni? If you were so sure you were dying, wouldn't it make more sense to stay at home? Dying at the meeting table doesn't win us any meaningful deals.'
He looks up when no answers are forthcoming, not even more whining. Vander is staring at the ceiling, mouth pinched, though from emotion or to try and keep things down, Silco can't tell.
'I don't want that,' Vander whispers when Silco gets up to leave.
'Don't want what? I'm coming right back, just going to send Mek to delay the meeting.'
'Dying here,' Vander says. 'Dying in bed.'
He gives Silco a look—a silent supplication. With his sallow skin and bloodshot eyes, he does look a little moribund, although Silco knows it's not for long. Not ever.
Still, he feels a twinge, deep in his heart. A spark of pity. He understands this anguish—for what sort of Hound carves a bloody path for a glorious revolution, only to die in bed, not even twenty years old? While Silco always worries about change, he knows Vander is concerned with legacy. He wants to be remembered.
And Zaun—this tough, cruel home of theirs—does not remember its sick. There are far too many, all amounting to nothing.
'If you die sick in bed, I'll drink the entire Pilt dry,' Silco declares. 'I'll make that promise in blood, if you want me to. I just can't believe it.'
Vander huffs, but he manages to summon a smile. Silco kisses his forehead and darts out of the room to talk to Mek before they can devolve in another senseless argument. The lad is eager to play messenger, and promises to return with kudzu root, in case Vander doesn't improve. The Last Drop is busy as ever, and regulars wave for Silco's attention, asking why their favourite barman is gone.
'You haven't fired him now, have you?' someone shouts over the din. 'We like Vander, ya know!'
'Would that I could!' Silco shouts back, making his exit in the raucous laugher that follows.
Nobody knows about them—Vander and him. Nobody but Benzo, who has come in to cover for his friend, and nods an all-clear at Silco from behind the bar. Silco nods back and smiles. They may not be the best of friends, but Benzo can always be counted on in a pinch, and today Silco is truly grateful.
He leaves the bar behind him and runs back upstairs, reluctant to leave Vander alone much longer.
He's still too late.
I should have seen this coming, Silco thinks to himself as he steps into the empty room. The sheets are crumpled, the basin empty on the floor...
Away for a minute, and Vander is already gone. This is why feeling sympathy for him when he's sick is a waste of energy.
'Vander!!' Silco yells, stepping back into the corridor and slamming the door behind him. 'Where the hell are you? Get back to bed! If I catch you I'll fucking knife you!'
There's a muffled sound on the left, and Silco gives chase. He'll get this man back in bed if it kills him.