No one is coming to save me (Silco x Reader)
Previous Part <- Part 4 -> Next Part
Masterlist:
If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!
Word Count: 9k
Summary: The aftermath of the riot on the bridge.
Reader uses they/them pronouns.
The poor fucker who met your gaze in the dingy bathroom mirror looked like a reanimated corpse rather than a living person. You could sympathise, since you felt like one too.
With soot-streaked skin and eyes weighed down by the exhaustion of someone who’d suffered through a long, uncomfortable night’s rest crammed on a couch using a friend as a makeshift cushion, they met your gaze wearily. Leaning heavily on a borrowed crutch that mirrored your own, they studied you right back.
Where your eyes dragged over the cuts carved into their forearms from trying to claw their way out of a stone grave, they contemplated the blooming bruises curling over your shoulders and crawling up the sides of your neck. They grimaced at the state of your hair, hanging limp from your scalp with all kinds of horror dried into it, whilst you scrutinised the scabbed-over cut on their chin that would certainly scar later, and the dried blood threatening to flake into the sink at the mere suggestion of friction. Simply looking at them was enough to make your own skin itchy with all the dried sweat, dirt and soot that clung to it.
Gods, it was no wonder the others had watched you like Enforcers when you’d grimaced and groaned your way into climbing the stairs up from the living room. Through sheer stubbornness, you’d warded them off from helping you, and then resolved to bite back any signs of pain, even as your hand shook on the handle of your crutch, and your knee protested every suggestion of weight. Your cheeks had burned. And you knew you’d painted a right pathetic picture. That you’d looked like someone Vander would’ve taken great joy and care in coddling. You’d seen it clear as day in his face, and your skin had positively crawled under such a soft expression. It’d taken all your self-restraint to leave instead of giving in and snapping at him. It hurt to be up and moving so soon, but your pride would not allow you to do anything less.
Leaning further onto your crutch, the tap groaned as you turned it. The water was refreshingly chilly when you began pushing a water-slicked hand roughly up and down your face. The touch smarted, but in a good way, helping to shove all those awful worries and self-loathing remarks to the back of your mind in favour of restoring some small piece of order. The water that dripped off your jawline was brown, whilst clumps of scabbed blood slid down your palm when you put your hand back under the running water. Goosebumps prickled up your arms, bringing some perkiness back to your exhausted body and biting a bit of colour back into bloodless skin.
Flicking your gaze up, you nodded to yourself as your reflection watched some of the life return to your broken body. Or at least they did until your eyes fell on their ratty outfit. Yeah, no, that would all have to come off.
Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, it was uncomfortable peeling your shirt from your arms and back. Your entire spine felt like an enormous bruise, as if someone had let an entire playground of kids use your back as a landing pad. It was sheer determination to rid yourself of the stiff fabric that fueled you through the pain. The river water from the bridge flagstones had soaked and dried into your trousers, leaving them stiff and uncooperative. With a lot of painful wiggling, you managed to get them down to your ankles, allowing yourself a couple of pathetic breaths to regain your strength. You then began to clumsily pull them over your ankles and off your feet one by one. Grimacing at the mess of dirt and fabric heaped on the bathroom floor, you privately decided that you would burn the lot instead of attempting to clean any of it.
Your reflection, when you glanced back up, was preoccupied with their own personal maintenance, so you took the opportunity to return to the sink with the aid of the crutch for a desperately needed sponge bath. Balanced on your good leg and the crutch, you filled the sink and dipped a washcloth before setting to work. The rag quickly grew dark. Pulling soot, dried blood and all manner of dirt from your skin, and leaving behind a soothing chill in its wake that cooled smarting bruises and nipped at lightly scabbed wounds. By the time you were done, you’d firmly decided that the rag would be burning with the rest of your clothes, but at least you felt better. Cleaner. A fraction of the put-together appearance you wanted returned to you.
Getting dressed was an entirely fresh circle of hell, but thankfully, whoever had left your clothes out on the counter had picked forgiving articles. The baggy trousers were merciful when sliding over the bandage tightly wound around your bad knee, whilst gliding over your hips smoothly, rather than having to be convinced to cooperate. The thick woollen socks were a smart choice, whilst only one boot had been left out, considering you wouldn’t be needing the other. Whereas the loose shirt that had gone soft after one too many washes didn’t aggravate your bruising as most clothing would have, and the neckline was exhausted enough that it threatened to slide right off your shoulder with every slight movement.
With careful manoeuvring and excessive use of the bathroom sink for balance, you used your crutch to prod your ruined clothes in the direction of the bin. It would take too much energy to stoop and scoop them back up to actually put them inside the can, not while keeping your balance, so you settled for the suggestion of order instead.
Feeling less like a reanimated corpse or sentient bruise, you gave your reflection one last scrutinising look before hobbling towards the bathroom door. Clicking off the light on your way out, you stepped out into the drafty hallway. The doors to the bedrooms flanking the bathroom had been pulled closed, whilst the living room door still sat ajar. Noise from the staircase at one end of the hall gave away where the rest of the bar’s occupants had ended up.
Even one floor down and a whole corridor away, you could hear Violet and Powder bickering over breakfast, with the clank and thud of pans being pulled out of cupboards and spoons being clinked against the side of mugs. Despite the bar being closed, the ragtag family that currently occupied its kitchen made enough noise all on their own.
Something in you kept you from hobbling your way towards the staircase to join them. That age-old instinct that desperately wanted to find somewhere dark and forgotten to curl up, until you stopped hurting.
At the other end of the hall, the door that would lead out into the alleyway stood innocently. It would be easy to slip away, from the sounds of it, everyone was occupied with breakfast after the shit show that was last night. It would buy you an hour or so of a head start, if you even wanted to leave, that was.
To the surprise of no one but yourself, you made for the alleyway door. It opened with a small creak under your hand, but ceased complaining almost immediately.
The world outside was dim with the sun not yet high enough to peer between the surrounding buildings, nor strong enough to infiltrate the smog. The alley itself was quiet, the light above the door flicking on when you stepped out onto the uneven concrete. As the door swung shut behind you with another small groan, you let the distant hum of the city replace the sounds from the kitchen. Cigarette smoke permeated the air, although the lingering stench of damp still clung to the bricks of the building.
You shivered beneath your thin shirt and flexed your hand around the handle of your crutch. The trip from couch to bathroom had left you clammy and dizzy, and the cleanup itself had only added to your exhaustion. Now, simply the thought of having to hobble your way halfway across town to your apartment, weaponless and vulnerable, made your skin crawl.
Swallowing loudly, you glanced back at the now closed back door of the bar. It’d be so easy to slip back inside. But then it would be too easy to stay. At least if you scurried back home, you could collapse into a heap on your mattress until some of the bruising stiffness relented and desperate hunger forced you back to your feet. Here, you’d be coddled. Kept warm by the hearth, and fed Vander’s cooking, and you’d have to fight off misguided attempts to help you move around and tend to your injuries, when it was no one’s business but your own.
Damn, The Last Drop and its unusually kind staff. If you’d sustained this injury a decade ago, you’d already be halfway home by now instead of standing like an idiot in an alleyway.
“Well, at least you hesitated.”
“FUCK!” You startled, and with a jolt of pure instinct, had both legs trying to balance out your weight so you could turn, only for the bad knee to jolt at the unexpected load and promptly give with an audible pop. The following snarl of pain you let out echoed off the alleyway walls, as you threw all of your weight onto the crutch and ground your teeth through the following waves of pain.
The scuff of a boot approaching made your hackles raise and anger prick at your eyes. “Don’t!” You warned venomously, voice weak from the pain that just kept coming.
He obeyed, hovering in your peripheral but not coming any closer. You remained there for a couple of minutes, waiting for the agony to ease into slight discomfort, forcing your breathing to come even and normal all the while.
With a shake exhale, you unscrewed your face and tried to force your body to uncurl. It fought you every step of the way, but you were more determined. Silco watched you uneasily, as you levelled him with an unimpressed glare, the pain still etched into the furrow of your brow. He looked like he wanted to ask you if you were okay, and you knew you’d rip into him if he dared.
Averting his eyes, he cleared his throat and pointedly took another drag from the lit cigarette caught between two fingers. When he spoke, he pointedly did not address anything but the reason he was out here to begin with. “Felicia bet you’d barrel out of here and not look back.” He explained, a layer of disinterest bullied its way into his voice to smother the concern, “Vander thought you’d make it down the street before turning back.”
“And you?” You prompted, expression radiating your irritation. “What did you bet?”
Another deep drag just to make you wait. “Something similar,” he admitted, “one of your less subtle disappearing acts, I must comment, but you’re no less predictable.”
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?”
“And you’re a delight,” he returned in the same heartbeat. “Had a coffee yet?”
“No?”
“Great.” He straightened and flicked the cigarette away before pulling open the bar door. “Come on. Vander was brewing a new batch of beans when I stepped outside. Wasn’t letting Connel anywhere near the machine, so it’ll be safe to drink.”
Almost in sync, the pair of you shuddered at the collective memory of the last round of drinks Connol had brewed unsupervised. The beans had been burnt to ash and had clumped unpleasantly in the bottom of the cups. You’d resorted to getting rid of the liquid in more and more creative ways whenever the man wasn’t looking, which included but wasn’t limited to tipping it down the sink and sacrificing one of Vander’s herb planters.
“You can make your timely escape afterwards,” Silco promised, as if your resolve needed any more convincing.
You made sure to withhold your answer for a moment or two, at least pretending to weigh the pros and cons. “Fine,” you eventually relented, moving towards the door too quickly to truly be dreading it. “But only one cup.”
Silco hummed, and held the door open wider for you.
_<
The bar was awash with a warm, orange glow when you’d braved the steps leading up into the main room, your knee threatening to give out with every upwards step. Silco hovered just out of your eyeline, hands no doubt held out and ready to catch you should you stumble, but he was smart enough to do it far enough back that you couldn’t feel the warmth of his hovering hands, so you left him to it.
Felicia and her little family were taking up the stools at the bar, whilst Vander moved around behind the counter, grinding coffee beans and mixing up what smelled like hot chocolate for the girls.
“Damn it.” Felicia quietly cursed upon seeing you in the doorway, although her smile suggested she wasn’t actually disappointed.
“Pay up.” Vander mused without looking up from the drink he was pouring. Felicia pouted and angrily reached into her pocket.
“Ah, ah,” Silco interjected, “they made it no further than the back door. I win.”
“Bullshit.” Felicia challenged, whilst you pointedly decided not to point out that Silco had intervened by revealing himself. The smug bastard winked when Felicia and Vander tossed their coin his way, making a show of pocketing it. Connol took the less direct approach and calmly placed his coin on the counter and pushed it in front of one of the empty barstools.
“Really Connol?” You mused, approaching the bar with as much dignity as one could on a single working leg, “I thought you’d have more faith in me than that.”
“You’re right.” The man said thoughtfully, pausing to bring his mug to his lips, only to mutter loudly into the liquid, “I should’ve assumed Silco’s pretty face would be enough to convince you to stay. What a fool I am.”
“Violet,” you said, watching the girl’s ears practically prick up, a movement mirrored by her little sister, who also glanced up from her cereal. Sat between them, Connel swallowed audibly. “Do me a favour and give your Dad a kick for me?”
With great gusto, not one, but both girls complied, to which Connel let out an undignified yelp and played up how much their little feet hurt his long legs. Going so far as to put his mug down to slide his arms beneath the bar counter and rub his calves. Felicia smiled fondly at the display, running a hand through Powder’s unruly locks, whilst you took their distraction as an opportunity to haul yourself up onto one of the empty stools. Leaning your crutch against the counter, you rested the foot of the injured leg on the foot support of the stool beside you.
Vander slid a mug of something steaming and heavenly along the bar to you, the coffee within the perfect shade for your tastes. You shot the man a grateful smile before stealing a few minutes with the drink, allowing its warmth to seep deep into your bones and chase out the chills and aches from a night spent on the couch.
Vander left a second mug directly opposite yours, which Silco took as an invitation to enter the staff side of the bar. Whilst the family to your left bickered fondly with one another, you watched your friend lean up against the opposite side of the counter, all long limbs and slow movements as he took up his drink and took a long drag.
You dragged your eyes off of him to find Felicia shooting Connel one of her blinding, flirty grins, which of course immediately made you regret not minding your business. Snapping your gaze away, you found Silco already looking back at you, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated exasperation, to which you grinned and smothered your amusement with another drag from your mug.
The creak of the entrance door swinging open froze all movement and smiles at the bar. Footsteps on the welcome mat had you turning on your stool, but the gloom at the other end of the building, where Vander hadn’t turned on all of the lights, hindered your ability to figure out who had entered.
“Apologies, my friend, but we’re closed,” Vander called across the room, his back to the door where he was working on brewing more drinks on the machine.
No reply came, but the intruder did not leave.
“Why is that door unlocked?” Silco hissed under his breath, body tense whilst one of his hands had dropped down behind the bar, no doubt seeking out a blade.
“Sevika stepped out for a light,” Vander replied evenly. “But she said she’d come back in using the back.”
Disregarding Vander’s warning, even footsteps approached the bar. The slightly off-beat tread of two people, but you could only make out one figure approaching the bar, regardless of how hard you squinted. The figure was tall. Their head bowed at an awkward angle, shoulders tense.
“Friend,” Vander warned, only to bite back his next words when Sevika stepped into the light, her eyes burning and her jaw set. She jerked to a stop three paces from the barstools and did not lose the rigidity to her frame.
“What is it?” You demanded on instinct.
Her eyes jumped to you, and then back to Vander; the rage bubbling within those depths seemed endless. “Sorry, Vander,” Sevika said, as if the words were being dragged out from between clenched teeth. “The bitch came out of nowhere.”
She flinched, the glint of metal at her throat finally catching the light. Your face hardened. Your hands itched for a knife hilt to wrap around, any of your knives, but Sevika herself had stripped them from you last night, and you hadn’t thought to return them to your person after waking. The crutch would work well enough, you firmly told yourself. Just knocking the blade away would unleash Sevika; you wouldn’t have to do more than remove the knife from the equation.
Before your hand could creep anywhere near said crutch, a hand slid across the counter and wound strong fingers around your bicep, anchoring you to your stool. The movement was blocked by the angle of your body and Sevika’s position. “Don’t.” Silco hissed somewhere behind your head, to which you pulled subtly on your arm, but his grip remained sturdy, bordering on bruising with how tight he was holding on.
“Now, now, let us not be dramatic.” A voice soothed from behind Sevika’s towering form. A feminine voice, rich and raspy. “I simply needed to discuss some matters with your associates.”
In a show of good faith, the knife was removed from Sevika’s chin, who promptly sidestepped and rounded on her captor. Unphased, the second figure stepped out of the shadows and into the yellow glow of the lights hanging above the bar. The woman only came up to Sevika’s shoulder and was dressed in distinctly Piltovern clothes, but the presence she commanded was undeniable. She stood like a soldier, all poise and carefully contained power, whilst an Enforcer’s pistol sat snugly in the holster at her waist.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you, Officer?” Vander spoke up calmly, pinning her for what she was straight out of the gate. If the Enforcer was caught off guard from being so easily recognised, she did not let anything in her face betray it. Instead, she kept her attention on Vander, as the man casually threw his damp teatowel onto his shoulder so he could lean forward over the bar, showing off his large biceps and intimidating frame.
He left enough room between his sentences to allow her to slip in with a response, but the woman didn’t take the bait and patiently waited for him to lead the conversation. “Don’t worry, I understand, the streets aren’t exactly friendly right now, but I’m gonna have to ask you to keep your hands away from that holster. We don’t wave weapons around in here. Don’t want the kids getting any ideas now, do we?”
The Officer let the threat hang in the air for a moment. Her eyes were sharp and calculating as they swept over everyone at the bar, before she promptly shoved her blade into a sheath across her back, out of sight. “I apologise for such methods, but your associate here was not overly forthcoming with cooperation.”
“Somehow, after last night, I’m not fucking surprised.” You spat before you could stop yourself, earning a squeeze from Silco’s hand on your arm. The Officer flicked her gaze from Vander to you. They tracked the crutch at your elbow, the way you were half off your stool, regardless.
“Yes.” She said heavily. “Well, now that you bring it up, that is actually why I’ve come calling.”
“I see,” Vander replied.
“I’m off the clock,” the Officer added, hands hanging loose and open at her side. “And for the record, who you hide in your establishment before opening is none of my concern.”
Vander’s brows jumped. “Well, that’s a relief. Wouldn’t want to have to clean the floors again so soon.” He added with a disarmingly friendly smile.
“Connol, take the girls down into the living room,” Felicia instructed evenly, without removing her eyes from the Enforcer.
The Officer had the sense to remain motionless as the man did just that, scooping Powder up, drink and all, whilst Violet shot the stranger a scathing look, picked up her breakfast bowl and followed her father from the room.
“The name’s Grayson.” The Officer introduced herself, stepping around Sevika’s looming form to sit down on one of the empty barstools, making sure to leave an empty one between her and Felicia. “And I know that you are Vander, and that you’re the man I should go to if I wish to be heard round these parts.”
“Luckily for you, I’m in a listening mood,” Vander replied diplomatically, stepping away to pull down another pair of mugs and begin pouring some coffee. “So talk.” He prompted, sliding one to Grayson and meeting Sevika’s gaze and motioning her attention towards the second.
A light tug on your bicep reminded you that Silco’s hand was still there. Subtly, you shot him an expectant look over your shoulder. To which the man raised his brows right back in silent challenge. The warmth of the lamplight highlighted his cheekbones and set his eyes ablaze, the locks of hair he kept loose in front of his ear framing his expression pleasantly. For a tense handful of seconds, neither of you moved. Then he backed off. Those eyebrows dropped, and something softer entered his gaze. His grip loosened and slipped away, and in return, you slid yourself back onto the centre of your stool, no longer giving the impression that you were ready to bolt.
At the other end of the bar, Grayson took little more prompting to launch into her tale. Off the record, she had lost a lot of men on the bridge, and she knew that the Lanes had suffered significant losses too. Vander listened to her explanations and concerns with a tight expression. He nodded in the appropriate places, humming here and there or interrupting to offer the Enforcer further insight into a matter she’d approached at an angle he didn’t agree with. Despite how the conversation began, it continued politely and civilly. Both agreed that such a conflict could not be repeated. She proposed a brewing plan to calm the council so they would not bite back too hard, so long as someone on this side of the river did the same. To which Vander vaguely implied, he would see to bringing some heads together and cooling festering tempers.
They were finished dancing around each other by the time Vander had served a second round of drinks, an offer that Grayson politely declined. “I must return to my side of the bridge before my patrol or questions will be asked.”
“Understood. Thank you for taking the time to stop by. I hope it was enlightening.” Vander returned detachedly.
Grayson nodded, sliding off the back of her stool with practised grace. Sevika watched her with open hostility, to which the Officer neatly ducked her head in acknowledgement.
She made to turn on her heel, but a stray thought seemed to stall her actions. With a deep, drawn-in sigh, she turned her attention to Felicia for the first time, her expression serious but not unkind. “A word to the wise, free of charge, because this conversation has been enlightening. I have it on good authority that there’s a poster being drawn up for your man’s head as we speak.”
Felicia promptly bristled, but remained seated. “Whatever for?” Felicia demanded, her expression struggling to smooth out, even as the tension bunching in her shoulders gave her away. Sevika lightly placed a hand between her shoulderblades, although it did little to ease her nerves.
“He was witnessed shooting an officer.” Grayson said simply, “but conveniently for you I am off duty, so there is nothing I will do regarding the matter.”
“That’s bloody ridiculous, he was just-” Sevika’s hand on her back curled into a fist, which she pointedly nudged Felicia with. With a clack of teeth, the woman closed her mouth and huffed.
“He was-?” Grayson prompted, something like amusement trickling into the edge of her tone.
Whatever unlikely ease had settled on the room before promptly held its breath. Felicia visibly wrestled with herself, torn between the burning need to defend Connol’s actions and the man himself, whilst Vander and Sevika tried to telepathically convey to her that giving the enforcer literal confirmation that he’d killed a man would soothe nothing but her pride.
To the surprise of all, it was Silco who stepped up to the mark to break the stalemate. With an obnoxious snort and his sharp tongue, he promptly drew the Officer’s attention off of Felicia’s sour expression.
“Do you find this matter amusing, sir?” Grayson asked evenly.
“Yes, I do.” Silco blatantly agreed, playing up just how much with a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Mainly because you think HE is capable of murder.” Another snigger, just a touch too enthusiastic to be genuine, not that Grayson knew he well enough to pick up on that. “That man couldn’t kill a rat if it were trying to EAT him!”
“Well, the witness claimed it was someone matching his description, armed with a stolen Enforcer rifle.”
Silco positively grinned as if his nameday had come early. “You think Connol can handle a gun too? I would pay good money to watch him fumble and shoot himself in the foot.”
“Is that so?” Grayson challenged.
“He works in the mines with us,” Vander helpfully interjected.
“I’ve seen him with a pickaxe,” Silco continued, “hell, I’ve had to dodge the pick axe when he was trying to use it.” Felicia shot him an unimpressed look, torn between defending Connol’s honour and letting the matter slide.
Grayson, as calm as ever, replied. “You would be surprised how competent an amateur becomes when consumed by adrenaline.”
“I promise you, he is not your man.” Silco doubled down. “The smoke was thick, it was dark, the bridge was crumbling, and most importantly, your witness saw wrong.”
“And if this witness did see wrong,” the officer prodded in a tone that heavily suggested she didn’t believe him an inch. “Then who might I steer the search towards instead?”
Sevika interrupted this time, her voice pure steel and unquestionable. “You’re looking for Mike Anders.” The name struck you as familiar, but the conversation was moving too quickly for you to pull forward a face to match the name.
Grayson nodded to Sevika’s suggestion, looking almost pleased. “The name was reported to have been in attendance. And with his history of assault and robbery, it could be feasible.”
Vander interjected next, the picture of nonchalance. “You know, he’s been known to turn up here and loudly show off a trophy or two. Getting your hands on a search warrant for his residence might turn up more than a simple, stolen rifle.”
Grayson’s brows were practically at her hairline, her eyes calculating as they swept back and forth across the group. “How intriguing. I’m assuming this man is an enemy in your neck of the woods.”
“He certainly won’t be missed.” Vander reassured, “and his absence might even settle some of the trouble on this side of the river.”
That final comment seemed to be exactly what Grayson was looking for. “Thank you for your cooperation; it has been most helpful.” Her eyes caught on Sevika again when she turned to go, to which Sevika pointedly did not look away first. You almost jumped when her gaze darted to you, recognition sparking somewhere deep in those depths as she acknowledged you for the first time. You knew for a fact your paths had never crossed before, regardless of how many enforcer patrols you’d upset and officers you’d taken delight in taking down a couple of pegs.
“Problem, Officer Grayson?” Silco asked sharply from across the bar. You didn’t have to look back to know he was posturing. His form of intimidation relied on the silent promise of harm, preferably the kind found in a darkened alley, as opposed to Vander’s open intimidation.
“None as of now. Let us just hope we never cross paths when I am in uniform. I would hate to have to break up this little unit. Good day.” This time, when she turned to go, she followed through. All eyes at the bar watched her shadow retreat towards the front door, which she opened smoothly and pulled shut with a final click behind her. Silence reigned until her silhouette passed the front windows and disappeared.
With a whoosh of breath, Vander broke the following silence. He fixed an amused look in Sevika’s direction when he asked, “what did Mike ever do to you?”
“He’s a prick,” Felicia interjected without missing a beat.
“That, but he’s also in the same line of work as the Runt and I,” Sevika informed Vander. Which finally brought forward the memory of a mousy-looking man, with beady eyes and a sneer sharp enough to cut yourself on. “I just took out one of our competitors.” She raised the rest of her drink in your direction, to which you huffed in amusement.
“At least we won’t have to listen to his brag about how many Enforcers he took out when he comes down here for his next drinking binge.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Sevika agreed.
_<
The day ran away from you.
Between Grayson’s dramatic visit, and being bullied by the children into colouring the back of menus with Powder’s crayons, and then test tasting Vander’s cooking as promised, it was growing dark already. There had just been so much to discuss after last night, and the girls kept roping you into activities you could do sitting down, whilst Vander kept supplying you with drinks, and Silco gave you warning looks whenever you glazed longingly at the door for too long.
Before you knew it, Sevika had dipped out for the night, and Felicia and Connol were debating whether or not it would be safe to take the girls across town. As before, Vander had quietly offered up the living room, which the girls had enthusiastically jumped on and begged for a second sleepover, which of course immediately swayed Connol, and in turn because Felicia was weak in the face of his puppy eyes, crumbled her longing for her own bed.
The little family had gone downstairs at a reasonable hour, whilst Silco and Vander cleaned up for the night. The bar would likely remain closed for a day or two more until the tempers outside cooled, so there wasn’t too much to do besides wiping down and putting the washed dishes away.
“See you at breakfast,” Vander cheerfully declared over his shoulder, with a wave and everything. A blatant warning not to slip away or forget his reassurances from the night before.
You returned his enthusiasm with a tight smile and remained seated at your booth by one of the windows. A half-finished mug of tea was cradled between your chilled hands. It had been so long that the drink was lukewarm by now, but the simple act of sipping on it and watching the moths dance around the street light bulb outside helped to calm some of your skittishness. The need to escape still lingered in the back of your mind, although not as urgently as it had been this morning. Apart from the episode in the alleyway, your leg had scarcely bothered you - although that was no doubt largely because the others had given you little to no reason to get up again.
The groaning of the kitchen door behind the bar closing pulled you from your musings. Glancing up from your drink, you found Silco already watching you. The night on the couch had caught up to him, the weight of his exhaustion making his eyes visibly heavy. His hair was loose and hanging around his shoulders, whilst one of his sleeves was damp, the skin of his forearm studded with leftover water from the washing up.
“If you decide to slip away,” he said tiredly, “just be sure to lock us in behind you.”
You scoffed. “Not going to manhandle me down into the basement then.”
“You’re safer here,” he replied, “I know that. You know that. You’re smart, you’ll make the right choice.” With that, he headed straight for the stairs. “Good night, my door is open if you need it.” You sat in silence long after his footsteps had faded out and a door below had closed.
His words had soothed your hackles, you realised long after the tea had gone uncomfortably cold. There was no biting urge to slip away anymore. That part of you had fallen completely dormant, soothed by a lack of expectation on his part. How odd.
Eventually, you knew you would haul your weary body to its feet and struggle to descend the stairs back into the belly of the bar. Eventually, you knew you’d find your way back to the living room, where Connol would insist on helping you down the stairs regardless of how sharply you snapped at him, and Felicia would show her concern by throwing a spare pillow at your head, and then a balled-up blanket if you continued to complain. Eventually, you would fall asleep, soothed by the breathing of others around you and the crackle of a fire.
But for now, you were content to stay put. The front door to the bar was already locked, but you knew the key had not been hidden. It would open under your touch if you willed it, and that was reassuring enough that you relaxed into the creaking leather of the booth and just let yourself exist. Perhaps, recovery didn’t have to be as dreadful as you feared.
_<
In the coming days, moving around with the aid of your crutch grew easier. The threat of your knee giving out was ever-present, but your body gradually became comfortable leaning on the mobility aid when getting around. You woke - your body aching from the unique pains only sleeping on a couch could awaken in a person - and you would instinctively reach for it before even attempting to stand. It got easier, and you got over your embarrassment in needing its support.
A fact effortlessly proven to yourself, one evening when Connol was being especially cheeky. He’d wrongly assumed that he was safe standing just out of arm’s reach, continuing to press a point you’d insisted he drop, until in a burst of frustration, you’d snatched up the crutch to swipe at him. He’d dove to the floor to avoid it, much to the amusement of the others who’d been watching the exchange, and to your own surprise. Maybe it was the thought that something once viewed as a weakness could be as useful as any other tool that helped soothe your unease. The thought had already resonated with you and fallen away by the time the man had rolled onto his back loudly complaining about fairness, to which you had held the crutch at an angle reminiscent of an unsheathed knife and playfully propositioned a second round. He’d promptly declined.
As the world gradually returned to normal and the sting of the protest turned riot eased, the city beyond the safe walls of the bar began to stir. Vander switched on the sign and opened the doors, much to the relief of the locals, eager for a warm, home-cooked meal and the comforting presence of their neighbours. During those hours of peak activity, you favoured sitting in the kitchen, basking in the scent of different dishes being prepared and the joyous cacophony of patrons laughing and joking just a room away.
Privately, you decided that the mornings were your favourite. The bar was quiet and peaceful after the rowdy crowd from the night before. Felicia and her family had returned home and tended to drop in come noon, and Vander and Silco would be up early preparing for a morning shift down at the mines.
You got into the habit of venturing up into the kitchen when footsteps from above roused you from sleep. Usually, it was Vander, humming softly to himself as he whipped up drink and meal prepped for that night’s rush hour, but today, you were surprised to push open the heavy door to find Silco flitting around the space already dressed in his work coat.
The kitchen wasn’t an overly large space compared to the main room and the floor below, but it had enough space for the essentials and a laughably small round table that couldn’t fit everyone if they decided to spend the evening in here instead of out at the bar counter. In contrast to the main room’s warm lighting and sleek tables, the kitchen was all wooden floors, darkly painted cupboards and a brick wall instead of tiles behind the stove.
“It seems I woke up in an alternate dimension. Since when could you cook?” You joked, travelling straight to your usual seat with a glide to your crutches that could almost be categorised as smooth. Pulling out the chair, you carefully lowered yourself down into it, with your back to the wall and a clear view of both the door and Silco moving around near the stove.
“Since always,” Silco replied without turning around. “I just have to time it for when Vander isn’t around. He likes the whole room to himself when he is cooking. Drink?”
“Go on then.”
He moved between the kettle and the stove with practiced ease, stirring what was in the pan, between bouts of pulling mugs down from the overhead cupboard and spoons from the drawer. You watched him with divided interest, acutely aware of the twinge in your neck from the way you’d slept. Felicia and her family returning home had given you more pillows than you knew what to do with, and yet, the couch still had a unique talent for putting a crick in your neck and a tension in your lower back.
Eyes absently tracking Silco’s movements through the kitchen, you massaged at the nape of your neck first with one hand, digging your fingers down into tense muscles as you rolled your head back and forth. The motion succeeded in relieving some of the tension, causing a small sigh to slip past your lips. You already knew your back would be a pain to massage in this chair, but it could wait for a moment or two.
“You know, if you sleep on that couch any longer, you’re going to ruin your spine,” your companion commented without invitation.
“Oh?” You returned playfully, readjusting your hand placement and going straight back to the task at hand. “Trying to kick me out already?”
His scoff was almost inaudible over the sound of the food frying in the pan and the increasing bubble of the kettle. “Quite the opposite,” he said unevenly, before adding. “I have a large bed. More than enough room for two people.” A tense pause, and then, as an afterthought. “And a lockable door.”
Brows furrowing, you paused in tending to your neck to check his intentions. His voice had snagged on the offer. He was leaning back against the counter when your eyes met, an arm crossed over his middle, whilst he examined the nails of the second. His head was tipped in a way that had his fringe partially covering his expression. To anyone who didn’t know him, he would appear disinterested; you knew he was feeling uncertain.
“Tempting.” You hummed in response, injecting enough amusement into the single word to break a bit of the tension.
For a second, he froze, turning your response over in his head, and then lifting his gaze to find you already watching him. His cheeks coloured under your attention, but he’d regained his footing. “But?” He prompted, clearly expecting conditions.
“Ask me nicely,” you teased, surprising him and yourself in the process. It came out bordering on flirty, but with luck, he wouldn’t read too far into it.
He stared at you, like a sniper whose target had just turned and stared directly up at them through their scope. You held his gaze, allowing the challenge to shine through in the playful quirk of your brow and the angle of your lips. His eyes darted across your face, weighing what he found there. Then he snorted and promptly dropped his head again, the following smile almost immediately shrouded from view by his shadow and fringe.
“Brat.” He said with no shortage of fondness. He peered up at you through his lashes, head tilted just so, that the adoration in his eyes was abundantly obvious. Against your better judgment, just a glimpse of it froze the breath in your lungs. He had to know he was blatantly showing his hand. Right?
Pointedly clearing your throat, you looked away first.
Right on time, the kettle popped, drawing his attention off of you. He turned away to make the drinks, and you busied your hands by working the rest of the tension out of your neck. All the while, you resolutely shoved aside any lingering thoughts that wanted to circle back to the meaning of that look. It was fruitless to dwell after all. Wishful thinking on your part, and a dangerous train of thought. Nothing good ever came of entanglement on this side of the river. Best to ignore it.
He set your mug down with quiet care, closely followed by your painkiller bottle. The care brought a small smile to your face despite yourself and warmed something between your ribs. “Thanks.”
Instead of responding in a normal manner, he took a sweeping step back and hummed to draw your attention up to his face. You only had a handful of seconds to clock the mischief twinkling behind his eye, before he was making a dramatic, sweeping bow, more at place in an aristocrat's party rather than the bar kitchen. Brows furrowed, you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell he was up to, only for him to speak first. In a rich, over-the-top, prim and proper Piltovern accent of all things.
“My dear,” he began, easing his bow enough to reestablish eye contact, a hand extended like an olive branch between you. It would have been a comical sight if anyone were to walk in. He, done up for work, bent at the waist, hand extended out to you, still in your pyjamas, looking utterly confused. “It has come to my attention that there is space in my expansive bed for you, should you want it. The nights are oh so lonesome without your presence by my side.”
You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not a no.” He grinned back, taking it a step further by claiming one of your hands and pressing a dramatic kiss to your knuckles. “What do you say?” He asked with a smile that would send a healthy portion of the Piltovern gentry swooning. “It would please me greatly if you were to accept my proposal.” He muttered against your skin, eyes peering up at you through lowered lashes. He dropped the accent to add. “Polite enough for you?”
That did make you laugh. Enough that you had to look away to cool some of the heat in your cheeks before responding. Once under control, you dragged up your best imitation of a similar accent and fell into the role of a noble weighing the suitability of their suitor. “My, my, you propose quite a tempting bargain, don’t you? It would simply be cruel of me to refuse you, wouldn’t it?”
“Quite.” He agreed, just in time for the kitchen door to swing open and for Vander to come lumbering in, stretching his belly with sleep still in his eyes. He froze upon seeing you and what the pair of you were up to.
“I don’t want to know,” he said quickly, as Silco dropped your hand and you practically lunged for your pills and drink, somehow feeling like you’d been caught doing something wrong. “And perhaps, I won’t tell Felicia when she brings the girls over later if I get a share of whatever’s cooking.”
Silco scoffed meanly, “how hungry are you?” Was his simple request, to which Vander grinned like he had won and moved to pull out the chair opposite yours.
_<
You’d had to remind yourself three times already that you’d been invited twice. Once as a genuine offer, and the second in playful but no less serious jest. And the worst thing he could do was say no. Or slam the door in your face. Or just blatantly ignore you…
Alrighty, shutting that trail of thought down pronto, trail or you’ll be sleeping on one of the bar booths out of pure mortification.
Your knock was both too quiet and too loud in the stillness of the hallway. The light was on in the other room, bleeding out across the floorboards, and giving you a couple of seconds of warning as feet blocked out parts of it on their way to open the door. The lock clicked, and Silco pulled it open, sleepy and visibly confused.
“I looked at the couch, and my back already hurts. Does your offer from this morning still stand?” You said in a rush, before you could fully chicken out.
For a moment, he barely moved. His face was utterly blank.
You felt your stomach drop and horror flood in. Shit. Ah, shit! Abort mission. ABORT! Keeping your expression easy and light, whilst your insides churned, you took a step back, your crutch making the floorboards groan as you glanced down the hall. “I mean, I can always check if Vander’s willing to shift over.”
Silco blinked hard and seemed to come back to life. Awareness returned to his eyes as he inhaled deeply and pulled himself together. “Vander will roll on you in his sleep and suffocate you before either of you knows what’s going on.”
It didn’t even seem to be a joke; he was dead serious.
You huffed, mentally mourning a night of comfort. “Not if I push him off the edge first.” You added petulantly, and then took another step away from his door, this time in the direction of the living room. “Anyway, forget I brought it up-”
“Don’t be an idiot.” He promptly interrupted, “I offered. I just fell asleep.” With that, he pulled his door all the way open and stepped out of the way. “Come on, you’re letting the chill in.”
And you went.
_<
The doctor’s visit earlier that day had left you cranky and short-tempered. It was the same woman from that night, just as polite and professional, but no more encouraging than that first time. She’d ‘um’ed and ‘ah’ed as she had before, and offered little in the way of steps forward outside of prescribing more pain killers.
You’d grown small under her inspection. Drawing into yourself as Vander and Silco supervised, exchanging worried glances, you wished they’d do it behind your back rather than right in front of you.
“This leg isn’t getting any better.” The doctor had concluded. “It’s still too weak.”
“It’s been less than a month,” Silco attempted to reason, “it’s still early.”
She’d already begun to shake her head before he’d finished. “Injuries like this don’t remain in stasis. Even if it remains weak, it will recover in other ways and be able to bear limited weight. Your friend cannot even do that.”
The end of the assessment left you feeling jumped and contained within the bar. Enough that you’d slipped out the back whilst the doctor had shown herself out, and Vander and Silco had ducked into the kitchen under the guise of getting refreshments. You hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of sitting there idly and overhearing snatches of conversation. Surely, your presence was beginning to wear on them. Surely that goodwill would run out sooner rather than later, even faster now, considering it didn’t look like you’d be getting your feet under you any time soon. And what would you do then? Unable to work or comfortably move, let alone defend yourself in the ways you were familiar with. That was another thing, you’d become so complacent you’d fallen out of the habit of carrying your knives around. Who does that on this side of the river? An idiot with a death wish, that’s who.
Absently, you tapped your belt with the hand not gripping your crutch like a lifeline, and let out a long, annoyed sound when you realised you’d done it again. Not that you dared turn back. Your knee was obeying your drive to move forward for now, and likely wouldn’t if you let go of your annoyance. Best to work off the energy and look busy enough that no one thought to try their luck.
Your restlessness drove you to the rooftops. A time-consuming task, seemingly unobtainable considering the crutch and gammy leg, but in this state, you proved more stubborn than was probably healthy. By the time you’d painstakingly made it up a rusted ladder and sat down heavily on someone’s roof, swinging your legs off the edge and laying your crutch across your knees, you were suitably exhausted.
Enough to let loose a long breath and finally sit still. The breeze was a gentle caress across clammy skin, wiping some of the sweat from your brow and ruffling the damp ends of your hair. It was the most exercise you’d done in weeks, but damn did it feel like an accomplishment.
By sheer luck, it was a clearish night, giving you a fair view of the waning moon and the stars keeping it company. Whilst by chance, the roof you’d settled on had a straight view to the blasted bridge, large and imposing and lit up with its creepy statues. It still bore the scars of the riot, although the council had sent builders to it within days of the clean-up operations.
You’d heard from the bar patrons that the Piltover side had been strewn with flower bouquets, whilst the Zaun side held trinkets of the deceased and scrap metals, anything people could spare in remembrance of the dead. The bodies had begun washing up downstream in the canals within a week of the riot’s end, having made their way downriver after the Enforcers had tossed them over the railings instead of giving them the courtesy of a burial with their own fallen or returning the deceased to their Zaunite families.
True to her word, Grayson had managed to sway the council from retaliating too harshly, and even the enforcer patrols had been lighter than routine. Not that it made anything better. Those people still died in what was supposed to have been a simple protest. Life moved on, but what had happened would linger in the minds of the survivors and continue to feed their discontent.
“You didn’t lock the door behind you,” Silco said by way of greeting as he hauled himself up the ladder. You barely had the energy to be surprised. How he had found you when you hadn’t even known where you were going in the first place, you weren’t sure, and you didn’t much care.
“You’ve got an early shift tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed non-commitally, his footsteps light and unhurried as he approached from the side instead of straight from your back. He made a show of fluffing out the red blanket thrown over his arm before carefully draping it over your shoulders, then he pulled a flask out from beneath his arm, unscrewed it, and held it out to you. Wordlessly, you took it, immediately feeling soothed by the warmth the thin metal gave off. “But I won’t sleep well knowing you’re out here brooding. Can I sit?”
“I don’t brood.” You replied in reflex, lifting the corner of the blanket and gesturing with your head.
“A shame, this has a good view for it.” He said, lowering himself so that your thighs were pressed together. Your arm wound around his back, hooking the corner of the blanket over his shoulder and holding it there so his thin clothing would stand a chance against the light spring chill. He barely batted an eye, his own arm winding around your lower back as his eyes found the bridge and stayed there.
It was a comfort, his presence. It was the reassurance of company, without the pressure of performing. You didn’t deserve it, not in the slightest, but it was nice not to be alone with your thoughts.
It cost nothing to gradually lean into his side, melting into the weight of his presence. To feel the warmth of the flask seeping into your fingertips through the thin metal and allow his presence to soothe some of the helplessness.
Masterlist:
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I have no idea if there's anyone on this site who remembers this fic or is still holding out for it, but it's here regardless. At long last! I finally woke up with the motivation to format today. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!