The streets of Pentagram City were quieter than usual as Angel made his way back to the hotel, or maybe it was just that late. Val had insisted on reshooting that damned deep throat scene so many times that Angel had completely lost track of time, almost losing his voice in turn. He wrapped all four arms tightly around himself, dragging his feet down the cracked concrete before finally making it to the entrance of the large building. He was tired. So very tired. So much so, that if he still had his soul intact, even that would be fucking tired.
Angel let out a heavy sigh and opened the door that led him into an all too quiet lobby. The only sound to be heard was the soft humming coming from the only person who was still awake at this hell-forsaken hour - the hotel’s bartender, Husk. Angel let out an exasperated groan as he flopped himself down onto one of the bar stools, his face promptly ‘thwaping’ down onto the wooden counter in front of him.
“Heh, rough night?”
“Perfect. Best night evah.” Angel murmured into the counter, not moving.
“Hm.. sounds like you could use a drink.”
The tired demon put up a very sarcastic thumbs up before slumping even further into his stool. Drink.. coke.. death.. whatever. Whatever would stop the constant loop of shit that came with being bound to someone like Val. Or at least make him forget about it for a little while.
Angel heard a soft chuckle just before the all too familiar sound of liquid pouring into glass, the song Husk was softly humming still lingering on his lips.
A fact that, for some reason, annoyed the ever living fuck out of Angel. What the fuck did he have to be so happy about anyways?
“MUST you hum like that?” He growled, fingers coming to grip into his own hair. Hair that was covered in sweat and Satan knows what else.
He could hear the subtle swish of fabric in response as Husk shrugged. “Humming clears the mind. I dig it.”
“Well, I'm about to dig your grave in two fucking seconds, Husk, if you don't stop. Ya dig?”
Angel knew he was taking out his bad mood on the bartender, but on nights like this - nights where he wished he could literally be anyone else - he rarely found himself to be good company. For anyone. Even with the soft spot he held for Husk.
“Alright, alright. Tough guy.” Husk chuckled, sliding over his drink. “Here.”
For the first time since Angel had taken his seat at the bar he lifted his head. A somewhat smug smirk dancing at the corner of Husk’s lips.
“And just what the fuck are you so-”
He couldn't even finish his sentence once his eyes landed on the drink in front of him. The pink shimmering liquid and sweet aroma bringing a slight flush to the demon’s moonlit cheeks.
“You.. ya remembered my favorite drink?” Angel’s voice was soft, cracking slightly as he looked up at Husk.
“I'm a bartender, Ange, that's my job.”
“I mean, yah.. but.. thank you.”
Husk shrugged, though the smile that shone within his eyes was far too prominent to hide.
“Yeah, well.. looks like you had a rough night, as I said.”
Angel nodded before taking a generous sip. The drink was expertly mixed and seemed to dance sweetly upon his tongue.
“You got no idea.” He replied, giving Husk a lopsided smile. “Thanks.. for the drink, I mean.”
“Anytime.” The bartender paused before turning back to the glasses he had been cleaning earlier. “And if you ever wanna talk about your night.. anytime for that too.”
He gave Angel a wink that only seemed to deepen the soft pink that speckled the demon's cheeks.
“Alright, I ah.. might just take ya up on that sometime.” Angel replied, taking another deep sip of his drink before leaning back and smiling softly to himself.
Frankie is absolutely the nurse friend. Always has bandages, needles, thread and wire in their pockets just in case someone needs to be put back together in a hurry.
-
It started off as just cute friend sketches. They’re still cute friends…but now I love them. ❤️✨ and now things will never be the same.
Okay soooooooo I've recently been hyperfixation on Hazbin Hotel and I just so happen to be a simp of Alastor! And I just so happen to have a friendo who is also a simp and big fan of Hazbin like myself aaaaand she made a fic and that motivated me so imma be makin a possible fic series based on Alastor and his s/o (my oc named Angelica) trying to raise their daughter. How they had her will be in the story- Don't worry-
Silco x gn!Reader
Summary: When you first started working for Silco, you had some idea of what the job would entail. Corruption, fighting and murder were a given, but nowhere in the job description did it mention looking after the baby he had inexplicably taken in.
Rating: G
Words: 6.7k
Additional tags: Baby!Jinx, reader is good with kids, Silco is trying his best, Silco tending reader's wounds (best trope lbr)
[Part 2]
Silence.
It’s a rare thing to come across in the heart of the Undercity; this moment of calm, quiet and tranquillity. The poetically inclined might even call it bliss or serenity, but such souls are even rarer.
Regardless, it’s something you cherish, especially on a night like this.
You had all but collapsed through the doors of the Last Drop, dragging yourself to the bar on aching legs that were supporting quite the battered torso, garnished by a wearied face that has certainly seen better days.
You can practically feel your eye-bags dragging you down to the wooden countertop (such is their weight) though you’re saved from the grimy surface by a last-second coaster sliding onto the target your forehead is aiming for. You mumble something along the lines of ‘thanks, Thieram’, but you’re not sure how well the message travels through the barriers muffling it.
The young bartender is clearly accustomed to such clientele, because you’re afforded a ‘no problem’, closely followed by the dense sound of a full glass being placed gently next to you.
It’s with immense effort you peel your face off the coaster and lift the glass to your lips, all but sighing into the soothing burn that chips away at every newly-earned cut and bruise on your body.
You like your job. Really, you do, but those newby Shimmer dealers can be so damn greedy sometimes, and you have no idea how many times Silco needs to send his more trusted employees to teach them a lesson before the next round of sellers learn that skimming profits may set them up for life, but a pointedly short life at that.
These ones had been pretty decent at fighting back, though, and they got more hits in than you would like to admit.
There’s no doubt in your mind that Sevika will make fun of you for it come morning, starting with the red mark on your cheekbone and ending with the hastily patched up gash on your thigh. But right now, she’s not here, and by some miracle neither are any of the other mercenaries you share a payroll with.
Why would they be, anyway? The music has been shut off, the bar (mostly) closed, and the partygoers have gone off to their next destination. All-in-all, the perfect combination for a quiet night of winding down and soothing the wounds of a needlessly complicated job.
Or, it would be, if not for the incessant crying coming from upstairs.
It had been echoing through the club when you left, and though you prayed it would have ceased upon your return, it’s clear your faith did not prove strong enough.
You wince at the thought of what it must sound like at the source, if it’s this persistent through the barrier of a door, a hallway and an entire level of flooring.
“Still going?” you ask in vain, fogging the rim of your glass.
“Strong as ever,” a very tired Thieram responds, and it’s with a mixture of pity and amusement you note that his eye-bags are almost as deep as yours.
“Not even a little break?”
“Here and there, but I gave up on hope. As soon as you think it’s over, it just starts again.”
“Tell that to my ribs. Just when I thought the last bastard was down, he got me good.”
“Any of them still around? Wouldn’t mind a hit to the head right now, at least that’ll give me some peace.”
“I will give you literally every coin in my possession if you go upstairs and tell Silco that right now.”
Thieram lets out a laugh so dry, it could rival the most expensive whiskey on the shelf behind him, “What good’s your money if I’m dead before I can spend any of it?”
“Wanna move up to selling Shimmer instead of drinks? We need more dealers who understand that concept.”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Well then, next time I take a foot to the ribs it’ll be your fault. I expect free alcohol as compensation.”
“The way you said that implies you’re gonna pay for that drink,” he motions to your glass with the cloth he’s holding.
“I will, and I’ll give you a bonus of all my money if you just go upstairs and tell Silco—”
“No.”
“Will you pay me if I do it?”
“Yeah, and I’d take it all back before your blood finishes drying.”
“Come on, it’s not like I’d just knock on his door and say, ‘Hey, tell her to shut up already.’”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean, I do feel sorry for her.”
“I feel sorry for myself.”
“And him. If it’s this loud down here he must be on the verge of going deaf.”
“Maybe he already is. That’s why it’s not stopping, he just can’t hear her anymore.”
“You know, I reckon I could calm her down. I’m pretty good with kids.”
“Since when?”
“Since I worked in the orphanage my aunt ran.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Dunno,” you say offhandedly, swirling the liquid around. “A while.”
“Don’t you think you’re out of practice?”
“Wanna bet?”
“Sure. How ‘bout my pay for the month.”
You extend your hand immediately, “Deal.”
The amused laugh initially aimed your way quickly divulges into something much more morbid. “You’re not serious?”
“Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You… die?”
“For offering Silco to help calm down the baby that has literally not stopped crying in a week? That’s employee of the month material right there.”
“Are you sure you didn’t get kicked in the head instead?”
“Ninety percent. So, we on?”
“No, we’re not— where are you going?” the bartender asks, but you’re already halfway up the stairs and looking down at him with an assured smile.
“I’m going above and beyond as an employee of this fine establishment.”
“I’m not giving you any money!”
No matter how many times you come face-to-face with the door that leads into the Eye of Zaun’s office, it always feels just as imposing as the last.
In truth, you didn’t really come upstairs with the intention of offering childcare services. It’s just insanely easy to stress Thieram out, and free entertainment is good entertainment.
No, you’re here because screaming baby or not, business is business and Sevika had so graciously tasked you with the task of giving Silco a report of the job you had both done.
Not that she harbours any fear for the Industrialist, but the high-pitched wails coming from behind the door in front of you would make anyone want to avoid this particular room (more than they already do).
It’s with that in mind you knock louder than you normally would. It’s not like the sound could get worse.
Hearing what sounds like ‘come in’, you are proven wrong the moment you step through the door. How one panel of wood did that much to dampen the sound, you’ll never know, but it seems to shoot through your eardrums tenfold once inside.
And she’s not even here.
You surmise the sound is resonating from the left side of the room, past the other door that leads into Silco’s personal quarters, and you don’t even want to think about how loud it must be through that door.
A stern call of your name has you snapping out of your rumination, and directly into another that tells you he must have said it more than once, if the irritation on his face is anything to go by.
“Sorry, sir,” you say quickly, “I’m here to give you the report but if now’s not a good time I can come back—”
“Now is fine,” he says from his desk, and you take a few steps forward to hear him better.
“Right. Well, it was like we thought from the manifests. The profits from the city’s south-east zone were too consistent. They were being forged to skim cash from the top, just like last time. And the time before that, and… well, you get it.”
You’re met with a deep sigh, followed by two of his fingers digging into his temple, “And how many more times will I have to deal with this particular headache?”
You don’t need to be particularly close to Silco to see that he’s vexed, but you’ve been under his employ long enough to know that said irritation isn’t aimed at you, or even the imbeciles you just dealt with. It’s a tired displeasure, clearly stemming from exhaustion, and you don’t need to guess what’s to blame for that.
“I can’t predict that as well as profit trends, but if I had to guess, probably not for a while.”
“And your reasoning?”
“Sevika was pretty sick of it, too and she got, uh… creative with some of them. The next ones would have to be astronimically stupid to try the same.”
One eyebrow arches. “Astronomically?”
“As opposed to extremely stupid, which is where the majority fall into.”
You would be lying if you said your chest didn’t swell up — just a little bit — at the barely-there curl of his lip at your words; another thing you’ve learnt to pick up on in your time working for him.
Thieram’s words about not getting too hopeful echo in your head, deflating your chest in time with the wail that fractures the easy-ish atmosphere that was settling into the office space. The smile (if that’s what you can call it) quickly inverts into an expression you’re much more familiar with, and it’s back to business.
But as intimidating as Silco is, you had slowly begun to establish a sort of… amiability with him. A slow going one, sure, but amiability nonetheless.
You often think back to the night in his office, when your eyes had grazed the bookshelf in the room for a moment too long. You thought he would have reprimanded you for lingering and wasting his time when there were no more reports to be discussed, but he had instead asked which book had caught your attention. When you told him rather nervously that it was the one on m-m-marine creatures, he mentioned that it was one of his favourites, and so began a conversation on deep-sea animals you weren't fully sure was just a figment of your imagination once you left the room, some thirty minutes later.
Afterwards, every trip to his office (save for those regarding urgent matters) was often punctuated by such conversations. Chats about oceanic life soon evolved into discussions on the rest of the books lining his shelves, followed by broader literature, which then turned into conversations about all the little, unimportant things in both of your lives. You hadn’t realised how much you enjoyed those rare opportunities to see Silco as someone other than the Industrialist, until you didn’t anymore.
One day, seemingly out of nowhere, a new permanent resident joined the Last Drop. She was much smaller than the rest of the lineup. Younger too, and infinitely more innocent.
They say anything can happen in Zaun, and you always believed that. But Silco just… taking in a baby? That’s not ‘anything’, it’s a damn paradox.
“It’s a long story,” was all Sevika had said when you asked what the hell happened. Because as friendly as you had become with Silco, you weren’t just going to knock on his door and ask him how the joys of fatherhood were treating him.
Not that there’s much to be joyful about, if the infant girl with the lungs of an opera singer has anything to say about it.
“Is there anything else?” Silco asks aridly, shaking you out of your thoughts once again.
“No, sir,” you say before he can repeat himself again, lest that bitter expression turns any more sour.
He excuses you with a flick of his hand — a far cry from the more good-natured dismissals you were growing accustomed to. In fact, he doesn’t even look at you; just goes back to the various papers piled on his desk, and you can’t imagine the stack has diminished much under these working conditions.
Echoes of your conversation downstairs begin to replay in your mind, free of the nonchalance with which you had expressed yourself. You are good with kids, and you do feel sorry for Silco. Jinx, too. You hadn’t seen the little girl that much, but you had come into the office a handful of times while Silco was rocking her to sleep. She was a gorgeous little thing, and it warmed your heart to know that save for Sevika, none of Silco’s other personnel had seen him with her. It almost felt like a privilege.
That particular thought opens the floodgate for another; one that hits you with the realisation that you haven’t been privy to the sight since the seemingly endless crying began.
It’s with that in mind you stop yourself at the door, fingers ghosting the handle, caught between reeling back or committing to your departure.
A particularly brutal cry solidifies your decision, and it’s with no small amount of hesitation you turn and pray you’re not signing your own death warrant.
“S-sir?” you ask meekly, but to no avail.
“Sir?” again, and Jinx wins out easily.
Your third — louder — call coincides with a rare lull in the crying, and if the little girl didn’t know any better you would swear she did it on purpose.
“What?”
“I, uh, couldn’t help but notice that Jinx is… upset…”
The look he gives you makes you want to cut out the middleman and just take a knife to your throat with your own hands, but you manage to steel your nerves.
“I mean, obviously. I have ears. But I also noticed that she hasn’t really stopped and I was thinking—”
“And you think that I haven't reached the same conclusion?”
“What? No, no, definitely not.”
“You think I haven’t noticed my daughter has barely stopped crying in nearly a week?”
“No, of course you’ve noticed, I mean, we all have and—”
You don’t even realise you’re once again stepping closer to his desk until he’s rising from his chair and stalking towards you.
“You think it has somehow skipped my mind that there is something wrong, and nothing I do will fix it?”
“Absolutely not, I would never think that, I swear.”
The only thing separating the two of you is the length of the couch between you, and you seriously consider dashing towards the door and living the rest of your life in hiding.
“You think I haven’t tried everything in my power to help her?”
Perhaps you spoke too soon about who exactly is and isn’t astronomically stupid.
He makes no other moves towards you, only stares down his nose at you with a seething anger. It’s the type of ire that sets him ablaze; the kind that casts his green eye in a flame so hot it matches its red counterpart with its scorching tenacity.
Just as you feel you’re about to be reduced to ashes, though, you see something else beneath the embers. A flicker of another emotion, so clouded by smoke it’s almost imperceptible. But you know what to look for.
Sure, you’ve pissed him off, but you can see you’re not the true source of this fire, only the kindling.
So, you take a deep breath, actually think about what you want to stay, and speak with all the steadiness of lapping waves that slowly drown the blaze out.
“I’m sorry, sir, I really should’ve expressed myself better — that’s not what I meant at all. I don’t doubt you’ve all but threatened the gods to make her feel better.”
He seems to calm down a touch at your words. At least, the tension in his shoulders lessons a fraction, and his good eye stops twitching. It’s as good a sign as any to keep going, you suppose.
“It’s just, I have a lot of experience with kids. Babies included, and I’ve come out of tantrums worse than this one unscathed, if you’d believe it. But this much crying... I just hate the idea that she’s in any kind of pain, and if it’s making me feel like this, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to you.”
He mulls over your words for what feels like a timeless stretch, and it seems like even Jinx wants to give him time to process them — not that the silence lasts long.
“And you think you can get her to calm down?” he finally says, halfway between indignation and accusation.
“I can’t promise anything, but I can try.”
Another stretch passes, and the flame is little more than a warm coal when he comes to a decision.
“Stay here.”
You don’t dare move while he crosses into the room adjoining the office, despite how tempting it is to peer into the space. Moments later he exits, Jinx in hands, looking even more tired than when you had first entered.
You also realise (none too happily) that in offering your help, you’re experiencing the crying firsthand, with not even a door to barricade it.
You reach for her slowly, and despite his usual proficiency at masking his emotions, the hesitation written on his face could not be more legible.
“It’s ok,” you say calmly. “The only kid I know who ever got dropped on their head is me.”
Despite your doubts, the infinitesimal smile makes a brief reappearance, present only while he hands her over to you. You take her without missing a beat, immediately rocking her slowly in your arms.
You hadn’t really seen her up close before, and though you could always tell she was a cute little thing, it seems like far too light an adjective to use now.
She’s precious; a tiny bundle with a shock of blue hair that could rival Piltover’s cloudless sky. That, paired with the roundest cheeks you’ve ever seen and eyes that could put any ocean to shame, has you in silent awe.
That makes one of you, at least, because the distraction of a stranger doesn’t prove interesting enough to cut the crying for more than ten seconds.
“Aw, come on, just when I was about to tell you how pretty you are,” you coo, smiling down at her despite her obvious displeasure.
More screaming.
“Well, you’re still pretty,” you say softly, cradling her gently in one arm and softly rubbing her tummy with your free hand.
“May I?” you motion to the couch and Silco gives a wordless nod, immediately taking a seat next to you and you find it endearing how close he wants to be to her.
“Well? What’s wrong with her?” he presses.
Your lips quirk briefly at his uncharacteristic anguish, though you quickly disguise it as smiling at Jinx.
“Hold on,” you say with a hint of that grin colouring your voice, “I can’t just start poking her the second she’s in my arms.”
He seems to accept your reasoning, though he doesn’t so much as blink as you cradle her and whisper soft words while giving her little hands the gentlest of squeezes.
“There you go,” you whisper when she starts to calm down a touch.
Making the most of the opportunity, you begin to squeeze a bit firmer around her arms and legs.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if there’s any aches around her body that might be causing this,” you respond, taking the ensuing silence as permission to keep going.
When the crying doesn’t increase, you hold her up, pressing your ear to her heart, then her stomach.
“Heartbeat sounds normal,” you tell Silco before he can question you, “and I can’t hear anything weird from her tummy, so probably not indigestion. Is she eating okay?”
“It’s one of the few times she doesn’t cry,” he responds wearily.
“What are you feeding her?”
“Formula. From Piltover, the best on the market.”
You don’t doubt that for a second.
“And she doesn’t choke on it at all? No wet burps or gagging, and she’s gaining weight normally?”
“Her eating habits and growth are both fine.”
“Okay, so acid reflux is off the table too. What about temperature?”
“I take it twice a day, it’s always normal.”
“And what has your doctor said?” you ask, not even needing to clarify he’s taken her to some sort of professional.
“He has run all the tests he can, but paediatrics is not his speciality, as he keeps telling me,” Silco says with poorly hidden displeasure.
“Oh, well I know plenty of doctors around here who are great with kids, I could—”
“No.”
His venomous objection is immediate, and it takes Jinx kicking up a fuss in your arms for you to realise you’ve frozen up.
“Can I ask why?” you inquire timidly, rocking her once again.
A deep breath inflates his chest before he lets it out measuredly. Clearly he didn’t expect the outburst either.
“I know the exact location of every doctor that could help her within walking, running and carriage distance from here, but I cannot risk taking her. Very few people know about her, and if someone saw me with her, or if the doctor decided to become loose-lipped in exchange for some coin…”
“It would put her in danger,” you deduce.
“I won’t risk that, not unless avoiding it would present a bigger threat to her life.”
He rubs his temple once again and your heart aches for him. Never did you think your pity would be extended to Silco of all people, but here, now, he is not the Industrialist you work for, or the Eye of Zaun that rules this city. Nor is he a drug lord, crime boss, or kingpin. Rather, he is a father (and an exhausted one at that) who has all the power in the world but cannot use a fraction of it to help his suffering daughter.
Your eyes widen when his gaze drifts towards you, quickly schooling your expression into something more neutral, but it’s fruitless.
“I don’t appreciate being pitied,” he hisses, before continuing in a marginally softer voice. “If you cannot find what’s wrong, I won’t hold it against you. You may go.”
You offer him another smile, this time of solace. “I never said that.”
He studies you wordlessly in a silent order to continue.
“She’s about two months old, right?”
“Nearly ten weeks.”
“And there’s absolutely no other symptoms?”
“None,” he grimaces as she lets out another well-timed wail.
“You know, sometimes no symptom is the biggest symptom of all.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Wait here,” you say, offering Jinx back to him and biting back the smile that threatens to appear when you see how readily he holds her.
“Where are you going?” he asks, half-exasperated but you’re already out the door.
“I’ll be right back,” you call from the hallway before heading down the stairway and stopping in the middle. “Thieram!”
The bartender lets out a shriek at his name, looking up to see you almost hanging off the railing as you lean your torso over it.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Ignoring him, you point to the small radio playing soft tunes behind him, “You using that?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Not anymore you’re not. Give it here.”
“What? No, that’s the only thing stopping me from tearing my hair out cos of the… wait, did she get louder?”
“Yep. And if you want her to stop, give me the damn radio.”
“Please don’t tell me you actually told Silco you could help her.”
“Okay. I didn’t tell Silco I could help her.”
He gives you a tired look before finally relenting, reaching for the small device and tossing it up to your waiting hands, “If he asks, I had nothing to do with this.”
“You’re gonna be kissing the ground I walk on next time I come down these stairs.”
Radio in hand, you make your way back to Silco’s office, where a very upset baby and a very irritated kingpin greet you.
“I don’t appreciate my staff ignoring me when I speak to them,” he says stiffly.
It occurs to you that perhaps you could have handled that better, but what’s done is done. And besides, it’s hard to really feel the threat when he’s cradling a baby in his arms.
“I know, I’m sorry. But I think I figured it out,” you say sheepishly while your hands occupy themselves with the radio’s tuner as the device flicks through a catalogue of genres.
“What is it?”
“Well, she’s not sick.”
Classical.
“No fever, and there’s nothing on her body that’s causing her pain.”
Rock.
“She’s eating just fine, too.”
Electronic.
“And she’s hit eight weeks recently.”
Static.
“There we go,” you say when you land the radio on a dead channel before placing it on the coffee table.
Clearly at his wits end, Silco stares as you switch on the lamp at his desk and make your way to the light switch by the door, hovering your finger over it in a silent request for permission.
He nods, watching as you make your way to the couch in the now dimly lit room and ask for Jinx.
You spare a glance at him while you lean on the couch’s arm and resume rocking the baby in your arms. The confusion painted across his face is evident, but just when he looks like he’s about to demand an explanation for your puzzling actions, it shifts into the closest thing to awe you’ve ever seen on him.
“She stopped.”
The silence that settles across the room is richer and more alleviating than the alcohol you had nursed yourself with downstairs, and infinitely more indulgent. You let yourself bask in it, relishing in the quiet that had become something of a cryptid in the Last Drop, partially to enjoy it and partially to ensure it’s not just a short-lived blessing.
When it stretches on, you follow Silco’s gaze down towards Jinx, and the look of peace gracing her face all but melts your heart.
Fluttering eyelids finally close shut, free of tears brimming their edges, while her nose and mouth lose their scrunched up disposition and the redness of her cheeks slowly desaturates into a rosy pink, in time with the increasingly tranquil rise and fall of her chest.
The look that he gives you half-convinces you that you just hung up the sun, and you barely hear the whispered ‘how?’ that leaves him.
“Colic,” you whisper back.
“What?”
“Colic,” you repeat. “It’s really common in babies her age.”
“Is it serious?” he asks gravely.
“No, not at all,” you reassure him quickly. “It’s barely even a condition. More like an unexplained crying fit. No one really knows what causes it, but it peaks around this age.”
“How do you cure it?”
You pause for a moment while Jinx stirs in your arms. “You don’t. There’s not really much you can do other than wait, but sometimes white noise helps.”
He diverts his attention towards the radio, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so content to hear static.
“It helps them sleep,” you bring a hand to her stomach and start rubbing softly. “So does this, sometimes. In case of gas bubbles.”
He watches you, utterly transfixed as his daughter falls into deeper and deeper sleep in your arms, and the three of you stay like that for what feels like a peaceful eternity.
Once you’re sure she won’t be waking up anytime soon, you hand her back to Silco, albeit with a touch of hesitation. You’re not sure if it’s your exhaustion, or the events of the day, but a strange sensation of peace has washed itself over you, and you don’t really want to breach its surface.
Either Silco doesn’t register your reluctance, or he simply ignores it in favour of staring at Jinx’s sleeping form.
You also find yourself unable to look away. There’s a light in his eyes that warms you like a halo of sunshine peeking through the clouds. It’s so unlike the low burn or scorching blaze he so often weaponises, and though you want to stay and bask in it, it almost feels intrusive.
So, it’s with more hesitation than before that you speak up in the most hushed of tones, rising from your seated position and taking a step back. “I’ll leave you to it then, sir.”
He must feel the resounding calmness, too, because he doesn’t respond right away. You’re debating repeating yourself when he casts his gaze over you, and you can’t deny the flicker of warmth it sparks within your own eyes when the two pairs meet.
“Sit down.”
“Oh, um… why?”
The ensuing look thrown your way has your feet carrying you to the couch’s edge of their own accord.
You watch in apprehensive silence as he walks back to his rooms (radio in hand), presumably to put Jinx in her cot.
When he steps back out, he does so wordlessly and with a small metal box in-hand instead of his sleeping daughter. You’re also not afforded any kind of explanation when he takes a seat at your side and flicks the latch; only an order.
“Move your arm.”
You do so quickly, with no small amount of confusion painted across your face.
Your bewildered expression clearly does not show up on his radar, even when it augments to accommodate for the surprise of seeing him pull out gauze and a bottle of what looks to be rubbing alcohol from the box perched on his knee.
“What’s that—”
“You’ve been bleeding for the past fifteen minutes,” he says plainly, and it’s only then that your attention is diverted down to the gash on your thigh you thought you had fixed up.
Apparently not.
All you can manage is a soft ‘oh’ while you wait for him to hand you the gauze, but he makes no move to do so, even after dousing it with alcohol.
Your silence earns you a tsk and a roll of his eyes before he brings the white cloth down to your leg himself.
You stiffen up immediately, trying to back away despite being pressed against the couch, “It’s ok, sir, you really don’t have to—”
“Quiet,” he interjects brusquely and with no room for protest. “I’ve seen your stitch-work before, and you’re not nearly as good with a needle as you evidently are with children.”
“Oh… thank you?”
Try as you might, you cannot make any sense of what’s happening right now, and you’re almost grateful for the burning sting of the alcohol seeping under your skin for the distraction it provides from your whirlpooling thoughts.
“Are you fond of these pants?”
The startling question is punctuated by the cool sensation of a knife pressed flat against your skin, and you have no idea which of the two is more responsible for the new home your heart has found in your throat.
The impatient tapping of Silco’s thumb against the blade’s handle has your words clogging in your throat, wholly unable to form a coherent sentence.
Your inability to conjure a straightforward ‘yes’ seems to be answer enough for him, evident by the way he slices around your wound. When the torn fabric falls away after four quick motions, there isn’t even the trace of a line on your skin, and the small part of your brain that isn’t currently short circuiting finds itself transfixed by the expert way he handles the knife.
A brief glimpse of your own face in the steel’s angled reflection is revealed to you as he twirls it once around his knuckles before closing his fingers around the handle when the flat of the blade is tucked in parallel to his wrist.
You quickly school your expression into something that less resembles a fish in its wide-eyed, open-mouthed condition, clearing your throat just in time to be treated to the sight of Silco unwrapping a length of bandage around his hand.
“Lift.”
You do nothing, and the vexation in his voice at his repeated order has you tearing your gaze away from his hands and up to his face, where you are greeted by a flat set of eyebrows, one half-lidded eye and lips folded into a thin line. The picture of displeasure could not be clearer, and — not wanting to be the reason it becomes any more detailed — you quickly raise your wounded leg, glancing at him when your boot hovers over the coffee table to give itself something to prop up on.
The briefest of nods sees you balancing your leg’s weight on the wooden structure; not too heavily, and far away from the cigars neatly lining an intricate humidor. You wouldn’t want to scuff something that likely has a price tag steeper than your rent, and—
And then your thigh is being supported by Silco’s hand while its twin wraps the bandage around the newest addition to your collection of knife wounds.
“It’s alright,” Silco murmurs, and you find yourself staring at him once again, bewildered by the fact that he’s comforting you, clearly under the impression that your shrunken pupils are a result of the tight wrap.
You say nothing. You don’t trust yourself to. Where the confidence that had seen you remedy his daughter and leave without his dismissal ran off to, you’ll never know. But there’s no denying that it’s gone.
“What happened?” he questions when the bandage makes a second loop around your leg.
You disguise your hesitation in a shallow breath, in time with the white wrap tightening. “One of them was holding me up while the other rushed me. He had my arms in a lock so I could only kick the other guy away when he came in with the knife.”
“I take it he got lucky with the blade?”
“No, I let him have that one.”
There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “How so?”
“Well, it was either do nothing, get stabbed in the stomach, and die. Or, knee him at the last second and cop a knife to the thigh instead. That one seemed like a sweeter deal.”
“What was Sevika doing?”
“…Fighting off the other three.”
“Ah, so you got the lighter load.”
You hope you’re imagining the squeak in your voice as a response to his teasing. “I mean, I could’ve taken all five but that would’ve been selfish, you know?”
“Of course. How humble of you.”
Like a hooked fish being pulled out of the water by a fisher’s taut line, you find yourself suddenly thrust outside of the strange limbo you had been pensively toeing in whenever enveloped by Silco’s presence. The discomfort that ebbed at you whenever you stepped foot in his office since Jinx’s crying fit began flushes out like a vacuum in space, leaving you with nothing but the star that flickers in your chest when the two of you peel away the customary professionalism.
You missed its warmth.
“Well,” you begin with a slight tilt to your lips, not wanting your silence to be mistaken as unease, “I can’t be the best child carer and fighter in your employ. Sets the standard too high, don’t you think?”
“Seeing as the former doesn’t apply to my terms of hire, I’m afraid you’re obsolete in that regard.”
“Do you make sure all your obsolete staff don’t bleed out in your office, or do we just have a very different definition of that word?”
“Perhaps it would do for you to borrow one of my dictionaries and dedicate some time to vocabulary, as opposed to sea creatures.”
“There’s no way a dictionary could be more interesting than leviathans.”
Your lips mirror Silco’s in their amused quirking, both tightening in time with the last loop of the bandage around your thigh.
As has become apparently customary, your smile is quickly warped into something more suited to the widening of your eyes when his hand envelops yours, bringing it to the top of the bandage and pressing it down.
“Keep the pressure on,” he instructs as smoothly as ever, either unaware or indifferent to the redness on your cheeks while he leans back to rummage through the first aid kit once again.
You’re still staring — unashamedly, at that — when he faces you again, bandage clips in hand.
“Be more careful next time,” he says while setting the clips in place.
“I- I will,” you say, perhaps too quickly, when his fingers once again graze yours.
The spiked thrumming in your chest fills the ensuing silence, and you take the clicking of metal clasps on the first aid kit as your cue to stand.
“Thank you, by the way. For the, uh, treatment.”
He rises too, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down at you with a smile that borders amusement. “It’s the least I could do.”
Silco never struck you as the type of person to say thank you, and you surmise that’s the closest thing you’ll get to vocal gratitude. Not that the way his hands treated you didn’t more than make up for it.
You immediately wash that thought away while he’s distracted by the humidor on the table, lest those cunning eyes hone in on it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” you clear your throat before continuing. “After the Boundary Markets job?”
“You will. In one piece, I hope.”
“I’ll do my best,” you quip with a smile of your own, lingering at the door. “But maybe stock up on more bandages, just in case.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
You’re halfway out the door when a call of your name hooks into you just as firmly as the bandage clip’s teeth are dug into the wrap. Turning wordlessly, you eye the motions of his hand as it fishes a lighter from his pocket.
“I trust that should anything else arise with Jinx,” he says around the cigar in his mouth, pausing to light it.
“Of course, sir,” you offer immediately. “Anything at all, I’m happy to help.”
You mentally curse the smoke for obscuring the way his mouth angles in the infamous smirk that is just as unique to Silco as his whiskey, cologne, and tailored clothing.
“That will be all.”
You nod and close the door gently, feeling less hostile to the grey haze for the fact that try as it might, it did nothing to hide the smile from his voice.
“Well, let’s hear it.”
Sevika’s voice is drowned out by the incessant crowd weaving around the two of you as she pushes off the wall she was leaning against. “Hear what?”
You eye her dubiously, matching her long strides despite the protest coming from your scarred thigh.
Instead of giving her verbal ammunition, you motion broadly to yourself, hands gesturing around the purpling splotch on your cheek, and the white bandage visible through (a different pair of) torn pants.
She scans you once, before casting her gaze forward again. “You get a pass this time.”
You can’t blame your leg for the way you nearly trip up. “Uh… why?”
“Because Silco told me you’re the reason I walked into a silent office today. I don’t know what you did — and I don’t care,” she preemptively cuts you off before you can offer an explanation, “but you’d have to fuck up monumentally before I insult you today.”
Her arm extends in front of you, effectively halting you.
“There they are,” she says, nodding in the direction of the contacts you’re meeting with today.
The pair see you, and after a silent exchange you and Sevika make your way to a more secluded area of the markets, trusting that they’ll follow suit when they’re sure no one is watching them.
You’re only half paying attention, though. You hadn’t really expected Silco to tell Sevika you were the one that had put a stop to Jinx’s indefinite crying fit, but the idea that he spoke well of you — to his right hand, at that — reignites that flickering warmth in your chest.
Not that it lasts long, with the unimpressed look Sevika is staring you down with.
Quickly working your expression into something less telling, you take advantage of her earlier promise and give her shoulder a brief clap before throwing a shit-eating grin her way, just as your contacts round the corner.
I just rewatched TNG's "The Measure of a Man" and I'm having major Data feels. 🥺🥺🥺 Is there any chance I can request some Data fluff? 👉👈 Like maybe some emotional or feels-y fluff from that episode because the reader hasn't told him how they feel yet??? I'm sorry, I'm just so soft for the sweet android boyyy 😭😭😭😭😭😭
HELL YES YOU CAN. The happy sounds that just came out of my mouth when I saw this omfg. Data is the sweetest little android boy and I will never say no to writing for him. I just watched that episode not long ago myself, and I'm having feels too. So here ya go!! Some feels-y fluff. Because Data. Cross-posted to my AO3 here.
If anyone wants to be added to my taglist or wants to submit a fic request, my ask box is always open! If you want to know whether I write for a certain character, have a look here. If the character you want isn’t on the list, I probably just forgot to add them, so please feel free to ask.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Measure Of A Friend
Data (ST:TNG) x Reader
[A/N: This was really fun to write! Data deserves a lot more love, so I hope I did alright! Also, it goes without saying that if you haven’t seen “The Measure of a Man” and don’t want to be spoiled, you shouldn’t read any farther.]
Warnings: None, bc this is just sweet, emotional, fluffy fluff. Unless it needs to be said that there is a spoiler warning for part of “The Measure of a Man”. In which case, you’ve been warned.
~*~
“Data’s what?” I asked feeling horror wash over me.
“He’s being forced to resign. If he doesn’t resign, then Maddox will be able to disassemble him without his consent,” Geordi said as he paced back and forth in a quiet corner of engineering. I could feel the frustration radiating off of him, and frankly I was angry as well.
“How could Starfleet allow that? Data’s a person!”
“Apparently he’s legally property.” Geordi practically spat the last word. “This just isn’t right! Data has earned some of Starfleet’s highest honors and awards and suddenly they decide that it’s morally fine to jeopardize his life for some obsession-driven scientist’s experiment? If he was human they wouldn’t be doing this. Hell, if he was Andorian, Vulcan, or...or anything else, this wouldn’t even be a question. But no. He’s an entirely unique, sentient android.”
“We can’t let this happen, Geordi. Surely there’s something we can do,” I said going over to him and putting my hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going to talk to the Captain and see if he knows anything more that we can work with,” he said, but just before he left, Geordi paused. “I uh...I know you didn’t want me to say anything to Data about your feelings for him. I haven’t broken that, I promise, but given the circumstances, I think it’s time to tell him. You...might not get another chance.”
My stomach felt like it turned into lead. Geordi was right. I’d been waiting for the right time to tell Data how I felt - if ever - but I might not have that luxury now. I nodded my head in acknowledgment, and Geordi hurried to find the Captain.
“Computer, where is Lieutenant Commander Data?” I asked walking toward a turbolift.
“Lieutenant Commander Data is in his quarters,” the computer responded and I called for the turbolift to take me to Deck Two.
--
After taking a deep breath, I pressed the door chime to Data’s quarters, hoping I wouldn’t make an ass of myself with this. When he called out for me to enter, I hesitated a moment before doing so. Data paused in the middle of putting something into a little blue container and gave me his usual inquisitive look.
“Is there something you need, Ensign?” Even though I wanted so desperately to say that all I ever needed was him, I found myself stammering out a different reply altogether.
“I...I guess I didn’t believe it when Geordi told me, but...y-you’re really leaving, aren’t you?” I asked quietly, internally grimacing at the trepidation in my voice. Data had so many more important things to deal with right now. Why was I wasting his time?
“I am. Circumstances necessitate my immediate resignation and departure,” he stated taking a few steps toward me. “Are you feeling alright? Your breathing is slightly irregular, and you seem preoccupied.”
“No. No, Data, I’m not alright,” I answered in nearly a whisper. Anyone else wouldn’t have heard me, but I knew Data would. I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. Looking away, I wrapped my arms almost subconsciously around my middle.
“Ensign-”
“I don’t want to lose you, Data,” I blurted before I could stop myself. Tears blurred my vision and I swallowed around a lump in my throat. As I looked down at the floor, Data’s perfectly shined uniform shoes stepped in front of me. He said my name quietly, coaxing me to look up, and when I did he put his arms out to offer me a hug. I stepped into them without hesitation, and even though his movements were a bit stiff, I knew he was doing his best to be comforting. He always did his best. I put my arms around his waist as he held me, and I couldn’t help the tears that dampened the shoulder of his uniform.
“My neural pathways have become accustomed to your sensory inputs,” Data stated. “I have no desire to leave, but it is necessary. I shall miss you, Ensign. You have become a close friend.”
“Data...I would never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you while I had the chance, so...please forgive me if what I’m about to say is out of line,” I muttered still hiding my face against his shoulder. If he did reject me after I told him how I felt, I didn’t want to see the look on his face when he did it.
“You are always free to tell me anything you wish. Is that not what friends are for?” He asked innocently. I nodded my head quietly against him and took a deep steadying breath.
“Data, we’ve become good friends in the time we’ve served together. Of all the crew, I trust you the most...I feel the most comfortable around you...I feel safe around you,” I started quietly. “What I’m trying to say is...Data, I’ve developed...feelings for you.”
“Of what nature are these feelings?” He asked sounding both confused and intrigued.
“They’re of a...romantic nature,” I said feeling as though my breath was getting stuck in my throat.
“You are trembling, Ensign. Are you cold, or are you afraid of my potential response to such a confession?” He asked and...it was such a Data thing to ask that a small, nervous giggle escaped my lips.
“Th-The second one,” I whispered, and Data pulled back just far enough to tilt my chin up and look into my eyes.
“There is no need to be afraid. I am honored by your feelings toward me. I have always been curious about the romantic feelings that humans and other species experience. I have been in what may be classified as ‘romantic relationships’ before, but neither was successful. I have considered a third such attempt, and of the entire crew of the Enterprise, if I were to try again, I would prefer it be with you,” he said matter-of-factly, and my heart skipped a beat. “If the Captain’s legal challenge on behalf of my right to choose to reject Commander Maddox’s procedure is successful, would you be interested in assisting me?”
“Data, was that your way of asking me out if you get to stay?” I asked hardly believing my ears.
“Yes,” he said quite simply, and I cupped his cheek softly as I agreed. “Then I hope the Captain achieves a favorable outcome.”
--
As Geordi and I waited in Ten Forward together for the result of Data’s hearing, I told him what had happened in Data’s quarters a few days before.
“You see? I knew it was a good idea to tell him how you feel. Data always ends up talking about you in some manner when the two of us are off-duty,” Geordi said with a smile.
“I just hope the Captain is able to resolve this,” I muttered, staring at the synthehol in my glass like it could give me the answer I was waiting for. Ten Forward was almost empty by then. “I think I’m going out of my mind with all this waiting.”
The doors to Ten Forward hissed open as I let out a sigh, and Geordi sat up a little straighter.
“I think our wait is just about over,” he said looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Data walking toward our table, and I stood so quickly I almost knocked over my chair.
“Honey, I am home,” Data said in a voice resembling that of an old television show character. “That is the correct phrase for greeting one’s significant other, is it not?”
“Y-You mean you can stay?” I asked feeling joy bubble up in my chest.
“Affirmative. The Captain’s argument was successful. As one might say in romantic literature, I am all yours,” he said, and without giving a damn who saw, I threw my arms around him. Data held me in much the same manner as he had in his quarters, patting my back softly. “Would it be appropriate to kiss you now, Ensign?”
Pulling back just far enough to look into his eyes, I smiled through my happy tears.
“Yes, Data,” I murmured, and with extreme care, Data’s lips met mine.
For today, I went with the Sleeping Beauty AU, because ADORABLE. ‘Nuff said. It’s pretty short, but plenty sweet and fluffy. Enjoy!
~*~
Once Upon a Dream
Sherlock’s breath came in laboured gasps as he raced toward the castle. By some miracle, he had come out of battling the dragon unscathed, and with that obstacle gone, now nothing stood between him and his goal. He sheathed his sword as he entered the bailey through the open portcullis, shocked at the scene he found.
Everyone, from the poorest peasant to the wealthiest merchant, was asleep. Some were comfortably reclined in their seats, some bent over wagons or shields, others lying in a heap on the ground. He even spied a dog curled up against its master, who was snoring softly. Not a soul, human or otherwise, so much as stirred as he approached, confirming his suspicion. It was magic that brought about their slumber, just as it had their princess.
Reminded of his objective, Sherlock let the sleeping villagers lie, and continued on his way. The castle was likewise filled with slumbering nobles, and even the king and queen, seated on their thrones, were utterly oblivious to the scene around them. He paused only a moment to observe, then carried on.
Onward and upward, he climbed, following the directions given him by the good fairies, until he found the tall, winding staircase that lead to the top of the highest tower. His body ached and groaned from the exertion of both the battle and the climb, but his pace never faltered. At long last, after seventy-two steps, he reached the top. There stood a door, and he took but a moment to catch his breath before pushing it open…
And there she lay, looking almost too beautiful to be real. The blue silk of her gown shone in the fading light, and he smiled at the white rose resting just beneath her folded hands. Her hair, golden brown and luscious, was fanned out over the downy cushion tucked under her head, and a hint of rouge painted her pretty, perfect lips. All that the image before him lacked was a blush to her cheeks, and her wide brown eyes smiling at him. Memories of their first meeting, of their subsequent evenings spent together in secret, of the love that had soon blossomed between them, came to the forefront of his mind and urged him forward. This was not the scenario he had envisioned for their first kiss, but he hoped to share many more in the future to make up for the less-than-perfect beginning.
Sherlock knelt beside the bed, his eyes roving over her face, marvelling once again in her beauty, before finally bending his head and pressing a feather-light kiss to her lips…
And she awoke.
He straightened and watched with baited breath as colour bloomed beneath her cheeks, and she drew a slow breath through her nose before her eyes fluttered open. She gazed unseeing for a moment, then he was granted the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “You saved me,” she whispered.
Sherlock took one of her hands and brought it to her lips. “Did you ever doubt I would?”
