@madeofthreads
It was all unmistakable to him, the little hints and signs of the life that that for him, had been only a short time ago but for everyone else, it had been ages ago. The sofa he'd spent more nights on than his own bed. The gramophone that spilled warbling music he recognized as music he'd once watched a woman dance across the room to. Then there were other things, things he didn't recognize but could figure out.
Notably a picture of Vander with two girls, girls that Silco knew but had been kept distant from because his relationship and friendship were falling apart. A picture of his Vander.
It was that that left a dull ache in his chest, but Silco had always been decent at hiding things.
He was never sure how he should feel about all of it. At least she helped. Her name was Jinx, and she'd been very forward about telling him that he was one of her dads. He'd never really considered himself to be father material, still didn't, but Jinx welcomed him into her life anyway as if he was her dad.
And he liked her.
At the moment, he leaned against her desk, watching her scribble away on a piece of paper using a pencil that was ancient because he'd used it in a far off time in a bar he'd called home to spill forth ideas for how to free Zaun from Piltover's oppressive grasp. One leg crossed over the other; long fingers curled over the desk's edge.
"I'm still older than you," he joked, giving her weird permission to call him 'old man'.
"And...why would I want a pistol?"
