Chapter Text
The first time Silco wakes up screaming, he bites Vander so hard he needs stitches.
It's a jagged scar, a torn crescent cupping Vander's thumb joint. Silco has mean teeth and a willingness to use them. Vander fingers that mark often, an unconscious tick, and he's surprised to discover that it settles his nerves; a scar he got because Silco came back, not because he ran away.
Vander now knows better than to try and calm Silco down. When the nightmare starts, he rolls to his feet, disoriented but quick, and leaves. Shrieks follow him out the door.
Fleeing isn't a solution, but it's the only thing he can do that doesn't draw blood. He sits at his bar in nothing but threadbare boxers, smoking his pipe and breaking peanut shells between his fingers. He doesn't eat them.
It's tempting to pour a drink. That isn't a solution either.
For a long time, he stares unseeing at the bar, dry-eyed and drifting. He doesn't feel wrenching guilt these days, but the hollowness that replaces it doesn't feel much better.
The sound of footsteps lifts him from his stupor, a familiar measured rhythm. Silco descends the stairs; lush crimson bathrobe, slippers to stop himself getting splinters. His hair is combed and his cheeks are colored from a splash of cold water. His mismatched eyes are ringed with exhaustion.
He's never come downstairs after a nightmare before.
Vander sits up straighter. "Sil?"
Silco doesn't say anything, not at first. He slips onto the stool next to Vander and plucks the pipe from his hand. A long, slow drag. His good eye waters, but he doesn't cough. He's showing off.
When Silco exhales, his mouth curves into a smile. Vander doesn't know what to make of it. The bewilderment must show on his face, because Silco laughs softly as he hands back the pipe.
Laughs. After a nightmare.
"…Sil?"
"You let me go, this time," says Silco.
Vander can barely believe it. His sigh of relief is thunderous. They smile at each other, half-inclined towards humor—as if this is all some silly misunderstanding.
"Really?"
"Mmhm." Silco's bony hand rubs the spot where his scars intersect his lips. "Almost too late, and yet… somehow not too late."
If there was ever a tagline for them, that's it.
"Do you think—"
Vander stops. It's a stupid question. Do you think the nightmares are over, then? It's not that Silco won't try to reassure him. It's that Vander can't accept it, not without feeling like the most selfish cunt in the Lanes.
Thankfully, Silco doesn't pursue the abandoned thought.
"Come back to bed."
Short, to the point. Silco's made up his mind and won't be argued with.
Vander taps out the last few smoldering ashes from his pipe and follows Silco upstairs, heart in his throat. He wants to say something, but when they settle on the mattress, he can't think of a single word. Maybe it doesn't matter.
Silco finds his hand, fingers tangling in the dark. He brings it to his mouth for a kiss, and falls asleep with the crescent scar against his lips.