i am of the headcanon that silco constantly forgets to eat and vander adapted to this by just putting food in his general vicinity knowing that he'll start eating it without thinking
it's super effective!
---
He decides to leave the future chem barons alone, for now.
The good thing about knowing the future is that now Silco can change the future. He can fortify the Lanes even further, spread his influence to topside years early, prevent that day on the bridge from ever happening. He can invest in the really good dumpling shop near Babette's that eventually closed, and place bets on things he knows will work out, and make sure that Vander never ever tries to--
The troublesome thing about knowing the future is that the more he changes, the less reliable his knowledge becomes.
For better or worse, Zaun needs chemtech to survive. The drugs eventually permeate the city - and Silco took ruthless advantage of that, in the future - but the refined version that can be used as a power source goes a long way to relieve their dependence on coal. The mines are mostly owned by rich Piltovans; if the fuel even makes it back down to the undercity, it's at an outrageous markup despite being produced there in the first place.
Desperation over the upcoming winter will spur more advancement of the technology, make it something viable for widespread use, and it needs to happen.
"Can probably kill Finn, though," Silco mutters, tapping his pen against the desk agitatedly. "If the little bastard's even around yet."
"Finally getting your hit list in order?" Vander asks from the office doorway, bearing a bowl of something steaming and a cup of what better be coffee. "Not sure that should really be a priority, right now."
"Your idea of what's important and mine are very different," Silco scoffs, already reaching for the mug.
Vander places the bowl down instead.
Silco's eye twitches.
"Vander."
"Silco," he replies evenly. "Eat some food first. You didn't have breakfast and barely ate anything last night."
Silco stands up.
Vander takes a wary step back.
"Sil," he warns, "I am holding the coffee--"
Silco lunges.
---
One spilled and re-filled cup of coffee later, Silco settles into the ratty secondhand couch they'll replace in four years with a quiet sigh, warm mug in his hands and the buzzing under his skin faded to a dull murmur.
Vander sits across from him in an armchair, unforgiven.
"You should still eat," the sulking lump says, nodding to the bowl on the low table between them. "And maybe tell me what's gotten you so distracted lately."
Silco makes direct eye contact as he swallows back the rest of the coffee, finally setting it down to poke grudgingly at the stew.
"Not hungry," he says, trying a bite anyway. Hmm. Acceptable. "And what, exactly, have I been distracted from?"
He's filled three more journals and purchased a handful of books he owns in the future, and while Vander did end up hanging more shelves in the bedroom, the threat of adding more in the basement is becoming a very real possibility. Silco's memory is excellent, but it's also been nearly three decades, and even he can't perfectly recall all the minutiae of what happened around this time.
He's been quietly poking around to get a handle on things again: who's in power and who's out of favor, what businesses are making moves, even just what current fashion is, because knowledge is everything and he is currently severely lacking in it--
"Our people, Sil," Vander says exasperatedly, which draws Silco up short. "The fuel shortage. How we're going to stockpile enough resources for everyone to survive the winter. That crew from Bilgewater that keeps harassing the dockworkers, and Margot trying to muscle Babette out of the Lanes-- I've been dealing with it all the best I can, canary, but you've always been better at leading than me."
Silco stares.
What complete and utter bullshit.
And yet--
"You would be fine without me," he says blankly. "I know you would be."
Vander wrinkles his nose.
"Why would I ever want to do anything without you?"
The quality of the air in the past is fucking awful.
Silco's never had so much trouble breathing.
Vander reaches over, taking the empty bowl - what? when did he finish it? - out of Silco's grasp to return it to the table. He replaces it with his hands instead, large fingers laced with Silco's own, slimmer digits.
"So maybe let me in on what's got you so stressed," he murmurs, "Or at least tell me what I can do to help. We're in this together, remember?"
Silco wants to laugh. Or maybe cry.
He'd thought that they were in it together, too, up until Vander decided that they very much weren't.
"I need..." Silco closes his eyes, sighs. Decides that at least some truth is necessary, here. "I'm looking into an alternative fuel source for Zaun. But I don't remember-- I don't know anyone that might be able to crack it. I know there are people working on it, but they're not our people."
"A different fuel?" Vander leans back, surprised. "That chemtech stuff you've been looking into recently - you think that's viable?"
"Yes," Silco says firmly. "It will work."
They didn't get into the chem trade, last time, too wary of the untested nature of the stuff and its origin as a drug. Silco hadn't intended to do differently this time, but if he does, if they get a foot in the door, that would give them a massive edge in the chemtech gang wars that eventually break out.
He might be able to prevent them, even.
"And you want to find someone who can work with the stuff?" Vander tilts his head consideringly, then releases Silco's hand to dig around in his pockets.
Silco does not miss his warmth.
"Not sure if they'd be capable of what you need, but Benz bought a bunch of toys from an inventor recently, and they use a little bit of it. If nothing else, they might be able to point you in the right direction; I was going to give one to Fel."
He pulls a little piece of clockwork out of his pocket and hands it to Silco. It's surprisingly delicate: a skeletal butterfly made out of scrap metal, with a tiny vial of green liquid on the back that lights up when he thumbs the switch. After a few moments of ticking pieces and whirring pistons, the butterfly lifts up off his hand, fluttering in a relatively straight line towards the far wall.
