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jennithejester · 4 months

Text

Hurtful Words

Pairing: Astarion/AFAB!Reader

Mentioned Background Tadpolycule

Summary: In the months since Astarion left you, furious for refusing to help him ascend, you've tried to put your life back together the best you can. Your heart is broken, but you try to manage.

Astarion, meanwhile, stalks the streets by nightfall, hoping to find you again.

Warnings: Mild Smut 18+ content, hurt/comfort, break-ups, Astarion being bad at feelings (full list of tags on AO3)

A/N: You guys voted, and wanted to see the feely, hurt/comfort fic first, so here it is! It's been a while since I wrote this type of fic, so I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Word Count: 6885

AO3

"I'm done with this, and I'm done with you. I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming."

It had been months since you'd thwarted the Absolute, become the Heroes of Baldur's Gate, and yet, his words never left you. How his eyes that once held so much love for you were filled with a burning hatred, all because you refused to help him give up his soul for some foul, demonic power.

The others had given you space when you returned to camp. Astarion's tent was left untouched, clearly, he hadn't come back for any of his things. You weren't sure he even would.

Wyll and Karlach, sweethearts that they were, carefully kept prying if you really were as alright as you tried to make it seem. You weren't, of course, but their questioning soon became exhausting.

"Astarion wasn't the first person to love me," you had said, voice sure and steady. "And he won't be the last. I am in pain, for now, but it'll fade. We have more pressing matters right now, I'm afraid."

And you did. The tadpoles in your heads were still the greater threat - you couldn't waste any time crying over a breakup, no matter how much it hurt. You needed to get over it, and quickly, else you wouldn't be able to focus on the various crises at hand.

Some part of you was angry at him, too. You hoped it would make all of this easier.

So, the next morning, when you saw that Astarion's tent was still standing, undisturbed, you made a decision. You collected everything you owned that he had once given you, things that connected you to him. A shirt of his you liked to steal. A necklace he had pickpocketed for you. A blouse he loved seeing you in.

The ring you found in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, the one that matched with his.

You left those objects in his tent, scribbled a note to go along with it. If he decided to come back for his things, he'd find them - and if not, some other person may benefit from finding this. It felt like leaving a part of yourself behind - the part that loved him - to try and look forward instead.

With that, you told the others to pack up and move your camp.

You didn't know where Astarion ended up after the whole mess at Cazador's palace. You didn't dare to try and reach out to his tadpole, either. Your heart had clenched painfully as you watched the sun after you'd defeated the Elder Brain - you hoped Astarion could find shelter quickly enough.

But, that had been months ago. What was left of your group split up. You stayed in Baldur's Gate, having asked to be gifted a permanent home as thanks for saving the city.

You live alone, now. Sending stones connect you to the others, or they come to visit you. Scratch and the Owlbear keep you company, make your house feel more lively. You take odd jobs and occasionally help Rolan out at Sorcerous Sundries.

Hells, even Dalyria, Astarion's 'sister', sometimes comes by to check in on you. She's surprisingly pleasant company, and you can tell she's worried that you and her 'brother' are no longer involved. She tries to keep an eye out for him, but unlike the other spawn, Astarion never came to the Underdark. You usually talk research with her - enchanted things are just things with spells on them, so if the Ring of the Sunwalker exists, surely, there must be a way to replicate it.

Your life is quite mundane now. Sometimes you toy with the idea to follow Wyll and Karlach to Avernus, or to help the spawn settle in the Underdark. It was the one victory you had from that day, that you managed to wrench control from Astarion long enough to set the poor wretches in Cazador's dungeon free. You knew that, given how spiteful he could be, he would have let them rot forever after you refused to help him ascend.

On some evenings, you head out to the Elfsong Tavern for a drink. Sometimes, you even take someone home, but nobody ever sticks. You're not quite ready for something new yet. Not when your breakup with Astarion was so desastrous, and not now, when all your other lovers were scattered in the wind.

But, your life is okay. You're not starving, nor are you homeless, your fluffy companions are there to fill the void, and that is just enough for you.

____________

Astarion had been furious after what had transpired in Cazador's lair. He felt betrayed by you, of all people, and then, you had the gall to release the spawn when you had denied him his freedom.

He'd had no plans to return to your camp. He stalked taverns and brothels, indulging in his worst impulses now that he could chose to do so. It was the least he would do after you had refused him his ascension.

But reality kicked in as soon as the Elder Brain was disposed off. Astarion felt his skin burn to ashes in the sun and fled into the shadows, and as he cowered under whatever flimsy shelter he could find, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes at being condemned to the dark, again, he wished for nothing but your comfort. If you had been there, you'd have comforted him, soothed him, kept him safe from the sunlight.

He missed you. He missed you terribly.

Once night fell, he scrambled back to camp. It had only been a few days, surely, you would still be there.

His heart had shattered to pieces when he found his tent to be the only one left standing at camp, a hollow feeling settling in his stomach. Judging from the footprints around, you all must've left shortly after his outburst.

Astarion had resigned himself to simply collect his remaining things and start planning what to do with his new unlife. But then, he'd found the things you'd left for him, and the note.

Good luck on your new path, Little Star. Don't stray too far from the light, despite everything. I love you.

Even after everything, your final words of farewell were words of love, of affection. He'd expected anything else, something telling him that you hoped he'd burn in the sun, that some hunter would come and stake him. But no, even after he had wished violent death upon you, all you had for him was love.

Gods, what had he done?!

Astarion had sobbed into the note, into your blouse, until his voice turned hoarse, at the realization that you were well and truly gone. You had disappeared from his life, and he had no one else to blame but himself.

Seeing your ring had torn him apart once more. He remembered how you'd cheekily given him his ring, after you'd slipped on yours.

"There. Now you can keep me safe, too!"

Your smile had been infectious, even he couldn't resist joining in, no matter how much he wanted to comment on how cringeworthy matching warding rings were. But it also made his heart soar, knowing you were so willing to publically display that he was yours, and you were his.

He'd wished for nothing else, then, but to have you there, so he could return your ring to you.

Nowadays, Astarion is back to stalking the streets like a ghost. He has no proper home to speak of - Cazador's palace isn't an option, the other spawn would surely spurn him after his actions at the ritual, and unlike you, he wasn't a hero with gifts to reward him with.

He hasn't dared to try and reach out to any of your other companions. To be fair, he has no idea where everyone ended up. Astarion knows he'd easily find Gale if he travelled to Waterdeep - but the idea of coming crawling to Gale, of all people, makes him sick.

He never thought he'd be reduced to this again. Seducing people just to get a quick meal in. Getting on his back for breadcrumbs, once more. With you, he had painted a brighter future, the two of you often daydreaming about what you wanted to do once your tadpole problem had been resolved. You had thought up the most delightful things, thinking he could become a perfumer, or even a tailor, should you save up enough for a small shop. You would travel together to source the rarest ingredients or most exquisite fabrics, while you would brew alchemic concoctions or enchant objects for sale. You saw endless potential in him, while all he could dream of was having power. He never realized until now how little you actually cared for power. You wanted to be happy, and you wanted to share life's joys with him.

Even at the ritual, you had tried to see the best in him, had tried seeing everything he could be, but refused to see. He had thrown it away, your hope, your belief in him, and your love for him.

Astarion cowers in the shadows, once more, an ache in his undead heart he isn't sure will ever be soothed.

___________

It's Dalyria who tells him that you're still in town, and that you haven't run off with one of the others.

Astarion bumps into his sister one night while he's out on a hunt. Dalyria is just on her way back to the Underdark after having stayed with you for a couple of days. Their sibling reunion isn't the most euphoric, but Astarion is glad it's Dal he runs into instead of one of the others.

What nearly knocks him off his feet is that he can pick up your scent sticking to her. He immediately questions her on it - why the hells does she smell like you?

Dalyria would rather spare you from him. She'd heard the hurtful words he flung at you, and while you put on a brave face, she can tell you're still heartbroken over him. She can see it anytime you look at her. You very obviously associate her with Astarion, and though you value the friendship you have built, Dalyria clearly is a painful reminder of your lost love.

She leaves Astarion with nothing more than the information that you are still in the city. He wishes he could pry more out of her, but without the tadpole, she and him are evenly matched in power. He also knows that Dalyria will now likely lay low and not go to see you - she knows too well that Astarion would try and follow her.

Baldur's Gate is large, but he knows the city like the back of his hand. And if there's one thing Astarion has in abundance, then it's time. He'll find you.

He'll find you, and get you back.

___________

Find you he does.

Astarion sneaks into Sorcerous Sundries one day, in hopes of maybe finding a tracking spell he could use in his search for you. What he doesn't expect is to see you standing by the counter, arraging your alchemic concoctions neatly on a sales display, while you make idle chat with Rolan.

Astarion has to bite back a snarl. You seem chipper and happy in Rolan's presence. He also knows you're attracted to the tiefling - the two of you had taken Rolan with you for a fun little evening at the Last Light Inn, so many moons ago.

Are you his, now?

Thankfully, it doesn't seem this way. You are naturally flirty, in a way that doesn't always mean anything more serious. Astarion knows you love making people blush, so he files this away as you having a bit of fun with Rolan, nothing more, eventhough he seethes at how easily you fluster the haughty wizard with your sweet words.

Astarion sneakily follows you home. He's glad to see both Scratch and the Owlbear in your home - at least the little snacks have a safe place to stay, and they keep you company. They keep you safe. No burglar would dare enter a home guarded by a dog and an owlbear.

He doesn't approach you yet. He needs to plan this, think about what to do. What to say. A simple 'hello, again' would not suffice.

So, Astarion lays low, and stalks you the next few days. He's sure he must looks suspicious, covered during the daytime in such a thick cloak, but he doesn't care. He needs to know more about you, the city you, and the life you lead.

You don't do much, really.

At the beginning of a week, you head to Sorcerous Sundries to supply Rolan with new stock and collect payment for the sales made the previous week. Other than that, you take Scratch and the Owlbear on walks, and stay cooped up in your laboratory.

It is the evenings, when Astarion can be more active himself, that you actually do something other than your daily grind.

You head to taverns. Your favourite seems to be the Elfsong - you sit at the same table you used to sit with him at back in the day. You chat up other patrons, and let yourself be chatted up. There's no particular pattern to your partners, and you don't always leave with someone. Sometimes you just sit, and drink. Othertimes, Rolan, or any of the other tiefling refugees join you. Cal and Lia come by to try and lift your spirits. Dammon always seems ready for a long night of deep conversation.

Astarion watches you for a good few weeks. He toys with the note you left him - he's so close to you, now, he just needs to make a move. It needs to be one of the days when you're only in a drinking mood, but early enough in the evening that you're not drunk yet.

He makes his move on a night after you've had a goblet of wine. You'd actually brought a book with you, hoping to relax as Alfira is the bard performing tonight. Astarion glides through the movement in the tavern effortlessly, and sits down across from you.

"Could I buy you another drink?"

His voice is smooth as ever, trying his best to charm you.

You look up from your book. First, you look surprised, shocked, to see him. Then you seem as if you want to say something, but you swallow the words in favor of snapping your book shut and giving him a smile - though Astarion can tell you're anything but happy.

"I think not," you say, watching as he visibly deflates at your rejection. "I think I might have already overindulged, tonight. I may be hallucinating - you look like someone I once knew."

Ah, so it is to be a game. No matter, Astarion knows how to play along just fine.

"Oh? And is that someone a friend, or a foe?"

Pain flashes through your expression, gone as quickly as it came.

"I'm not sure anymore. Once, he was my dearest friend, the person first in my heart. Then, he told me he hoped I died screaming, and abandoned me." You toy with the rim of you goblet. Perhaps you did need another drink. "I'm not sure what exactly that makes us."

You take it as a victory that Astarion immediately looks remorseful. Some part of you wants to hurt him back, but what would be the point of that. It's only give you temporary satisfaction and lead nowhere else.

"Perhaps your friend was not in a right state of mind when he said those things," he reasons, a strained look on his face. "If you were to meet your friend again, it might be possible that he would want to apologise."

"Really? Aren't you an optimistic one. I'm not too sure about that. Apologising never was his strong suit. He'd rather lash out."

You can barely hide your scoff, and Astarion feels as if he's been stabbed. Perhaps Dalyria had been right in trying to keep him away from you. He never considered if you even wanted to see him.

He, once again, did not consider what you might want.

You sigh heavily. "Take me home, will you? Though I'd love to hear Alfira play tonight, I doubt I'll actually get much listening done."

Astarion stares after you as you get up out of your seat and make your way to the exit. He follows swiftly.

"How would I even know where you live?" He asks incredulously once you're both outside.

You don't bother turning to face him. "Really? You expect me to believe you just 'happened' to bump into me tonight? I'm not stupid. Knowing you, you've been stalking me for weeks."

"I did not!" Astarion protests. "This was pure coincidence, honestly!"

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that if it helps you rest easier at daylight." You shake your head. "Now, are you going to walk me home? I demand an arm to hold from such a dashing stranger."

Of course, he offers you his arm. And of course, he's already memorised every single way to get to your house. You don't mention it again, knowing full well that your darling vampire has a tendency to be an absolute creep.

Scratch and the Owlbear are happy to see you back home, but are overjoyed to see Astarion again. They circle around his legs, tackle him clean over, yipping and hooting euphorically as he struggles to give out an appropriate amount of pets to them both. You busy yourself hanging up your cloak, smiling at the display.

Both of your fluffy friends had been asking where your 'fanged friend' had went. You never had a good answer for them.

Once Astarion manages to wrangle both of your pets, he follows you to your dining table. You've set out glasses and two pitchers each, and motion for him to sit down. You are clearly drinking more wine. Astarion sniffs at his glass once he fills it, and his brows knit together in confusion. It's pig's blood, seemingly still fresh and warm.

"Your sister Dalyria comes by sometimes," you explain. "I've perfected the art of preserving and re-heating blood by now. I always keep some on hand for her."

"That's...very kind of you," Astarion says, unsure how to respond. "How often is she here? How did that even happen?"

"She thought I was good for you, and disliked the way our relationship...ended. She sought me out a couple of weeks after I settled in here to check on me - you vampires can easily sniff out a person. We usually chat about whatever research projects we've got going on." You take a sip of your wine. Maybe this whole conversation is more bearable if you get drunk. "Dal's become a good friend. She usually stays a couple of days, and we bounce ideas off of each other. I like her."

That causes Astarion to bristle. Was he really that easily replaced? By his own sister-spawn, at that?

"How much do you like her?" He asks, trying to keep his voice sounding casual.

He fails. Your eyes immedately harden into a glare.

"You are in no position to play the jealous one after what you said to me," you spit, rage bubbling up inside you. "But if it soothes your sick little mind - no, I am not fucking your sister, and she isn't feeding on me, either."

Astarion flinches at your tone. He's seen you angry before, but never has your anger been directed at him. It feels awful. He hates it.

"What are you two researching, then?" He diverts. Yes, keeping it casual was a good idea. Maybe you would soften up the more you spoke.

"Dal's still looking for a cure to vampirism. I'm looking into a way to get spawn to walk in sunlight. It would give them all a brief respite from the Underdark." You don't mind answering. You like talking about your work. You're also in constant contact with both Gale and Rolan about all of this - more brains to think with, so to speak. "Dal and I are also thinking to try and restore the Arcane Tower down there. I kind of miss the Myconids, and the equipment there was top-notch. It would provide both of us with a sharable workspace. Rolan could benefit from the resources there, too. Overall, getting it back up and running would just be beneficial, and if we find a way to reprogram the robots, they could help the spawn in building their village."

"So, you're moving to the Underdark, then?" Astarion worries. He's just found you again - he can't have you running off right away.

"Not immediately, and not permanently," you assure him. "Setting up portals between here and there is an easy matter. I'd move from time to time. But enough about me. I believe you have something to say?"

Astarion becomes indignant. He hates being cornered, and you are doing just that.

"You aren't going to apologise for anything?"

"Me? I don't think I have anything to apologise for," you scoff. "I have no regrets. If I had to do everything all over again, I would change nothing. There is not a world in which I would've helped you ascend, not a universe in which I would've let you sell your soul for the ascension. If losing you is the price I have to pay for ensuring you don't commit a vile act of mass-murder, then so be it. I will not apologise for that."

You can see he hates how sure of yourself you are. He wishes you felt any amount of guilt for having refused him, but - breakup aside - your conscience is clear.

"You've gotten over me quickly," he grumbles.

"I haven't. But I'll happily tell you what I told the others." You pin him with your gaze again, looking him right in the eye to make sure he properly hears you. "You were not the first person to love me, and the way I saw it, you wouldn't be the last. And to be fair - would you wish to continue to be with someone who said they hoped you died screaming?"

No. No, he would not. You have no reason to hear him out, let alone take him back. What he said to you was vile, hurtful, and wholly undeserved. He knows that himself.

"So. I have nothing to apologise for," you say again. "Would you do everything the same way again, knowing the outcome? Because if you would, then you don't have anything to apologise for either, and we can end this conversation here. Both of us should move on with our lives, in that case."

Astarion doesn't want to move on. He wants you back. He wants to bask in your light again, share your joy with his own.

"You never were so harsh with me," he finds himself saying.

"My patience has its limits," you reply. "I know you've a lot of growing to do, so I've always tried to be more lenient with you."

Your eyes harden into a glare, turning glossy as tears are slowly burning at their edges. Astarion doesn't want you to cry. He doesn't think he can take it.

"But after everything we'd gone through, how much time we shared, the fact that you would say something like that to me..." You shake your head in irritation. "It helped mask the pain, really. I was furious."

The tears start spilling down your cheeks. You wipe them away angrily. You'd thought about it, of course, what you'd do if you ever saw Astarion again. You would slap him, at the very least. Maybe turn him into a sheep. Cast the Daylight spell on him if he was especially vile to you again. You never wanted to cry. He did not deserve your tears, not after that.

"You once promised you would never hurt me - on purpose, at the very least. I was foolish enough to believe you."

Scratch and the Owlbear sense your distress. Scratch comes to sit beside you, resting his snout on your thigh, nudging you, as if to encourage you to pet him. The Owlbear settles in behind you, hooting at you as a mother owlbear would at her cub. You weave your hand into the soft fur of Scratch's head, and the dog whines.

It's a small victory to you that Astarion looks at you with regret. Even his ears have drooped, and he seems defeated.

"Did you ever cry for me?" He asks carefully.

"No." Your voice is cold as ice. "I did not. Not once. Not until you flitted back into my life."

Gods, maybe this whole plan was a mistake. You seemed like you really were moving on with your life - and then Astarion decided to come crashing in.

Astarion pulls out the ring and the note. The paper is crumpled, the ink faded - he'd read it over and over and over, trying to imprint every single memory he had of you in his mind. The ring is polished and well cared for. It's only now that you realize that Astarion is still wearing his.

"Back then, at the ritual. I was blinded by all the power and the safety it promised," Astarion says mournfully. "You've always seen the best in me, and I know you were trying to show me I could be better than Cazador ever made me to be. I wasn't able to understand it then. All I saw was you stabbing me in the back. You, of all people. Especially since I wanted to do it for us."

You scoff at that. "You cannot even admit the truth. For weeks before heading to Cazador's palace, the ascension was the only thing you ever spoke of, how you'd command some nocturnal hoard we would both supposedly rule over. You never asked me what I wanted. You just assumed. You didn't want it for us. You thought only of yourself."

He looks away, unable to bear your gaze any longer. You know him too well.

"You're right, of course," he says.

"Then say it. Speak the truth. Admit to it."

He shuts his eyes and sighs. "I wanted the ascension for myself. I didn't care what you want. I didn't care if I would turn into heartless being who would take what it wanted from you, regardless of your opinion on it. All I saw was the power, and I wanted it all to myself."

You seem satisfied with his confession. He knows it's the truth. He was too much of a coward to admit to it earlier. Astarion toys with the ring - your ring - in his hands. How long had he stared at it, day after wretched day, wishing he could somehow find you with it?

"I admit I wanted to hurt you when I...when I said I hoped you died screaming. I thought many terrible things in the days that followed. It was only when I returned to camp and found your belongings that I realized what I'd done. What I'd done to you."

He had wailed for you. You had never cried for him. Had he hurt you so badly that any love you held for him in your heart had shrivelled up and died? Had scorched the earth between the two of you so severely, nothing was ever to grow there again?

"You didn't deserve that. Any of it," he says. "And still, you found it in you to tell me you loved me."

"Because that was the truth." Your words weigh on him. Was. What about now? "I also know that sometimes, eventhough you love someone, you may both be better off apart. Which is why I let you go."

Astarion feels sick. Still, he needs to ask. Needs to know. "Do you still love me?"

"I'm not sure you have the right to ask that," you say bitterly. He hasn't even apologised properly, and yet has the gall to ask this. "But if it comforts you, I don't think all feelings are gone. Else, I would likely have less trouble entering a new relationship. And I wouldn't be crying, now."

Your tears haven't stopped. Astarion wishes they would. He hates knowing he's the cause of them. He has to swallow his jealousy. He wants to ask if it's Rolan who may have captured your heart, or Dammon, the sweet blacksmith. If it's Gale you have a distant relationship with, or if Shadowheart visits you in the night. But he is in no place to ask, not if he's the reason you're hurting.

Astarion leans across the table. He presents your ring to you in his open hand. You don't take it just yet, you simply watch him warily, the Owlbear and Scratch loyal at your side.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice almost a whisper. "I fucked up. I was messed up, too terrified of everything to think clearly. I'm sorry I said those things to you. You never deserved such treatment."

He bows his head.

"I've no right to ask for your forgiveness, let alone to ask you to take me back. I have been miserable since we parted, and I know it is my own fault. You're free to refuse me. I just...I just wanted to see you again, even if for the last time. If you are happier in your new life, I have no choice but to let you go."

You stare at him, for a good long while. Astarion doesn't move, frozen in place. He'll stay put until he has an answer, be it to say his farewells, or to pull you into his embrace.

You actually got a proper apology from him. That was all you wanted, really, but your mind is confused. You feel so much, all at once. You hate him, for having ever hurt you like that. And yet you love him, still. So, so, much. You've missed having him in your life. So while your mind is definitely still angry at what he said, and how he'd left you, your heart soars at the idea of having him back. It's enough to put out the firey rage, leaving nothing but relief. You'd worried so much about him the past months, wondering what had become of him after he left you.

You lean across the table yourself, and carefully clasp his hand in yours.

"Break up with me like that again, and I'll tie you up in my garden to see your last sunrise."

You're half-serious, half-joking about this. Your delivery is so dry, despite the wetness in your voice, that Astarion lets out a little giggle.

You've missed that sound.

"You'd be justified in doing so, darling. I'm surprised you haven't done it yet."

"Don't tempt me." You withdraw, and take your ring from him. "There's still time."

Astarion finally looks up. Tears are still rolling down your cheeks, but as you slip your ring back on, Astarion senses that at the very least, you're not hurting anymore - at least not as much. He's empathetic enough to understand this won't be a quick forgive-and-forget situation.

"Am I yours again, my love?" He asks. He almost doesn't dare to say it, but he needs to know. Needs to be sure.

"You are." You smile at him for the first time tonight, a true, honest smile. "As I am yours."

For the first time this evening, Astarion smiles a genuine smile. One of pure elation, of relief. It takes the years off of him, rounding out his eyes and softening his features.

He bolts up from his chair to near tackle you from yours. You yelp, for you surely would have fallen straight off if not for the massive Owlbear behind you. Astarion settles in your lap, unintentionally shooing Scratch away from you, and squeezes you to his chest. You can only laugh as Scratch then insistently burrows his snout between the two of you, demanding to be a part of the embrace, yipping excitedly all the way. You return Astarion's embrace, trying to accomodate your fluffy friend as well.

"Gods, what a relief," Astarion murmurs into your hair. "I've missed you, my love. You have no idea."

"I can imagine, my darling. You've gone to quite the length to find me," you reply. You shut your eyes, relaxing in his arms. "I missed you, too. Terribly so."

You stay like this, with his weight comfortable in your lap, until Scratch decides all this cuddling is far too warm for him. The dog scuttles out again, which you use as your cue to head over to your living room. You and Astarion stay there for the next few hours, talking, catching up, and drinking some more. All the while, Astarion is glued to your side - he's been without contact for months, and he's not ready to be apart from you again.

It's only when your yawns start increasing that he decides for the both of you that your night is over. Your tiredness is a bitter reminder to him of how the two of you now exist in different rhythms, but you quickly assure him that you'll find a way to manage.

The two of you have faced harder challenges.

Astarion insists on carrying you up to your bedroom. Scratch and the Owlbear curl up on their respective nests to sleep downstairs - the Owlbear is far too big to climb the stairs, and Scratch would never abandon him to sleep alone.

When getting ready for bed, Astarion is disappointed to learn you truly have none of his clothing left in your possession. No shirt for him, then, which neither of you happen to mind terribly. He strips down to his underwear, and is delighted to see that, while your eyes have a quick roam over his bared skin, they easily settle back on his face, happy and relaxed.

You never were with him for just his body. You always loved him for who he is.

It's a little awkward at first. The two of you just got back together, neither of you are sure what the other is comfortable with. You allow Astarion to take the lead on that - he's the one who has more trouble with intimacy, so his boundaries need prioritising, within reason, of course.

For now, he just stares as he lays across from you, like he is truly unsure of what to do. Then, he hesitantly speaks.

"May I kiss you?" He asks.

He doesn't have to ask twice. "You may."

"Thank you, my treasure. Can you lay on your back for me?"

Easily done. Astarion is gentle with you. He cautiously slides himself between your legs, avoiding too close of a contact at first, and cages you in with his arms. You gaze up at him, taking in the vibrant red of his eyes, the slightly nervous glint in them.

You nod at him once more to affirm that you want this.

He dips his head down and presses the softest of kisses to you lips. It's so chaste and gentle, it seems so unlike him. You enjoy the softness. It's a rare gift from him.

His lips are hungry for more. They wander away from your own, leaving little pecks on your cheek, your brow, your nose, your eyelids. You feel every word he might wish to convey to you in each of his kisses.

Don't leave me. I need you. I love you.

When his lips find yours once more, their touch is more heated. He pulls you impossibly close, and you grasp his shoulders in return. Astarion's tongue licks along your lips, and you easily let him enter, moaning softly as his hands glide down the sides of your body and rest on your hips, squeezing at your flesh.

Astarion moves on from your lips to pepper your neck with kisses. He's disappointed that his bitemarks have healed and left no scars in his absence, no trace of him left on your lovely skin. You feel his growing hardness start to strain against his undergarments, but resist grasping for him in a short moment of clarity.

"No," you say softly.

Astarion raises his head. He looks confused, almost hurt. You run your thumbs over his cheekbones, trying to soothe his fears.

"I want this. Madly so, my Starlight," you say. "But tonight is not the night for it. Everything feels too fresh, too raw. I don't think I would enjoy it if we slept together right now."

You see the relief in his eyes, the panic dissipating from his expression.

"You may be right, darling. Apologies. I got carried away."

"Don't apologise. Not for that." You pull him down for another kiss. You feel him smile against you before you break it off again. "We can keep kissing like this, though. I do rather like that."

"Darling, there is nothing I'd like to do more."

Astarion kisses your lips, your face, lovingly, adoringly over and over, until your breathing starts to slow, and he realizes you've fallen asleep in his arms.

He'll keep watch. Keep you safe. No matter what may come.

__________

The next morning, you wake to Scratch yipping at you from the footend of the bed, and Astarion missing from your side.

You drowsily cast a quick Animal Speak spell, to hear what your fluffy friend has to say.

"The other one's doing something in the food place," Scratch tells you. "It smells...concerning."

Good gods. You quickly throw on a dressing gown and head downstairs, Scratch at your tail. Indeed, you smell something burned, and hear a sound of frustration come from your kitchen.

The Owlbear curiously eyes Astarion through the doorway. You pet its beak, before heading in to meet your lover, who has clearly been defeated by what looks to be heavily charred fried eggs, the yolks burst and blackened bits stuck to the pan.

"Cooking for me?" You coo at him, slinking up and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. "The bacon and the bread looks good."

"Yes, and the eggs are a disaster," Astarion says with a sigh. He turns his head to press a kiss to your forehead. "So much for my surprise. Good morning, little love."

"Good morning to you too, Little Star. Oh, and I'm happy and surprised, nonetheless. The Owlbear doesn't mind charred food, so they won't go entirely to waste, and I can show you how to do it without them sticking to the pan like this."

He lets you take the reigns from there, paying attention as you teach him how to fry an egg.

Later, you settle down in your living room after breakfast, the curtains shut tight so Astarion can get comfortable.

"So, what's next?" He asks. "Any plans?"

"Well, first I'll send message to Rolan that I'm taking the next week or two off," you say. "I'd like to just spend some time...being with you. We didn't get the chance to do that on the road, perpetually fearing and fighting for our lives. Now, we can."

"Sounds delightful. No objections from me."

He'll have to bring what few belongings he has to your house. You have no trouble accommodating him - what had worried you was that he'd admitted to you that he was essentially homeless, drifting from place to place with just his pack and nothing else.

"Wonderful. I think we need a bit of adjustment time. While I'm glad to have you back in my life, some wounds still need healing, I think." You give him a knowing look. "On both sides."

Astarion hates how right you are, but hums in agreement, anyway.

"Do you want to see the others?" You then offer. "Not a lot of them are close, though. Shadowheart is the closest. The others are day's trips away, or in another realm entirely."

"Shadowheart would be a good start," Astarion says. "She may be the least likely to stake me for having broken your heart."

"You'll have better luck with Wyll or Gale," you say with a chuckle. "She was ready to set your tent on fire."

Astarion feels a cold shiver run down his spine. "As long as she doesn't set me on fire, I'd love to reunite with her."

"Don't worry. She's bound to be more mad at me, really." You find this all too amusing. "I can hear her already. 'Really? He trampled all over your heart and you're taking him back?!'"

That does sound like Shadowheart.

"Anyway. We could also head to the Underdark and see what's what. The portal is easy enough to cast," you contemplate. "And the quicker the Arcane Tower is back up and running, the closer I may be to find a solution for your sunlight allergy."

"I'm happy to go anywhere you like, as long as I get to be by your side, my love," Astarion says sincerly.

He's truthful this time, you both know.

Astarion feels that with you by his side, anything and everything may be possible for him. His new life can truly begin now, and he's happy that he gets to share it with you.

His dearest, most beloved treasure.

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jennithejester · 5 months

Text

The Mad Scientist's Assistant - Chp 26

Chapter 26—A Debt Repaid (AO3)

Full TMSA masterlist

Previous Chapter: Chapter 25

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI

Chapter Tags: Silco x Fem!Reader, Reader-Insert, angst, depression, canon-typical violence, minor character death; switches to Silco POV halfway through, don't worry, it'll make sense

Chapter word count: 12.1k

Chapter Beta Readers: Thank you as always @purplefangirl42

Total word count: 164k

Present Day

With Silco so blatantly refusing to accept your help or his cure, you find there’s nothing to keep you tethered. Nothing to keep you from spiraling.

You had told yourself you would look for work once this business with Silco was done, but you can’t seem to get yourself out of bed. Without a project to busy your mind, you lay around your apartment feeling aimless.

That job was the best one you ever had. It ticked all the boxes. It kept you (mostly) away from people. It allowed you to work with your hands while also stimulating your mind. It challenged you daily while still allowing you to fail under the security of Singed’s mentorship. It paid well and it felt like you were a part of something larger than yourself for once.

And then you went and ruined it.

How could you possibly find another job that will hold a candle to what you had?

You sit alone in your apartment, taking frequent naps just to pass the time and quiet your mind. Being unconscious while sleeping is much more preferable to feeling all these feelings (or sometimes feeling nothing at all).

Jinx doesn’t come to see you after your last visit to Silco’s office. After your little stunt, you suspect her father has forbidden her from seeing you.

Or maybe she just didn’t want to see you.

You’re alone again.

Your days spent in bed have your mind overturning thoughts and memories of years ago. Of people you would never see again. Of places you would never go. And while you had become accustomed to—and almost craved—isolation, you find it a much harder pill to swallow these days.

You turn your head toward your desk, still littered with all the papers, slides, samples, and equipment from working on Silco’s cure. (And, well, technically your cure as well.) You never bothered to clean it up, telling yourself that you would just make more for yourself and him. Telling yourself you would force Silco to take the cure if you had to.

But here you are, a week later, immovable as Mount Targon. Your body doesn’t want to do anything. It refuses. And your mind is too weak from overworking yourself to fight it.

You're burnt out.

You're depressed.

And you're resigned to just sit in this lamentation.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way. You had seen glimpses of it here and there, but there was always something else to occupy your mind, to pull you from your darkest thoughts. To keep you from lingering too long in the numbness.

Work.

Hextech.

Silco.

Silco’s cure.

But with all that gone, there’s nothing stopping your mind from tumbling over thoughts you’d long kept silent, from ruminating over scenes you’d rather forget.

Nico.

Shimmer.

You thought you were past this. That you had begun the healing process. But it would seem your declaration of love falling on deaf ears has only set you back, flung you into the past. A cold, dark, familiar place where you can’t feel anything.

Sometimes… sometimes… not feeling is actually kind of… nice.

Going about your days in a fog, there’s no joy. But, to your benefit, there’s no despair either. No anger. No fear. Simply… being.

Is it the healthiest state to be in? Not at all, but it feels much better than the wallowing guilt you had been suffering from before, or the bone-deep trauma you had survived after Nico.

As you continue to aimlessly pass the time, no longer a person with goals, feelings, or motivations, your mind starts to wander. You get strangely contemplative.

Is this what Nico felt? Is this what led him to do the things he did? To take the things he did?

You lie on the floor in your bedroom, too tired to move the evidence of your work off your bed. A thin layer of dust settles on all the untouched surfaces of your room. If you stayed here any longer, would you be covered in dust, too? Maybe it could envelope you like a blanket and just make you disappear.

You feel a strange sense of understanding.

I get it now.

After all these years, you never quite understood why Nico would turn to Shimmer, why he would knowingly turn his world upside-down in order to chase a temporary high. Why he would give up his entire life for a glimpse of happiness.

But you get it now.

It takes hitting your lowest low, coming face-to-face with your rock bottom, to finally piece it together. To see that Nico wasn’t running toward the Shimmer, but away from his pain. A person leaping from a burning building doesn’t crave the fall, they simply desire to escape the flames at any cost.

A sense of calm trickles over you like a soft rain, small drops on your skin. It feels oddly rejuvenating, like a warm shower. You close your eyes, letting the feeling wash over you. But as pleasant as that bit of closure is, it does nothing about your current state. Epiphany or no, you’re still unemployed.

Depressed.

Alone.

You turn your head, lifting your eyes to your desk.

I could just… make Shimmer.

Your eyes linger on the vials of the cure you had made with the intention of giving them to Silco. Your lips purse. Shaking your head, you turn away.

You’re lucky your lack of energy is outweighing any desire for escape.

Face turned up toward the ceiling, up to the heavens, you push out a sigh from deep within your lungs.

I need to get off my ass.

You close your eyes, accepting that this is your only way forward.

I need to find a new job.

The bell chimes as you open the door, peeking your head through.

“Hello? I saw your ‘Help Wanted’ sign out front.”

“Just a minute!” a warm voice calls out from the back of the shop.

You step inside, keeping your hands in your pockets to keep yourself from touching anything. As tempting as the bolts of fabric that line that shelves are, messing them up before you even have the job wouldn’t be wise.

Just like the rest of the Lanes, the tailor shop you've stepped into has a vibrant personality to it. The walls are filled with fabrics of all sorts of textures and colors, from shiny gold satin to soft and inviting baby blue fleece. A row of mannequins sporting fashionable outfits overlook the front window, their designs befitting some of the trendiest Zaunites.

The owner—a short, plump woman with graying hair who looks to be in her fifties—comes out from the back room brushing thread off her maroon apron.

“Hello there!” She smiles brightly as she looks at you, hazel eyes earnest and gleaming. “Yes, I could use some help ever since my son moved Topside.”

You open your mouth to speak, unsure of what to say, not wanting to say anything that may offend a potential employer. She continues on as if she didn’t notice your hesitation.

“So proud of him. In a few years, he’ll be able to open up his own shop up there!”

“Oh, wow,” you reply, genuinely astounded. “That’s amazing.”

“It is,” she sighs. There’s equal parts wistfulness and sorrow in her tone. You imagine it must be bittersweet to have a child move away from you. She claps her hands together, seemingly done with that topic. “When can you start?”

You blink.

“What? Don’t you need to interview me first?”

“Nonsense,” she says with a wave as she walks toward the back room. When she emerges, she returns with a broom in her hand and a grin on her face. “Can you work one of these?”

You laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re hired!” She comes out from behind the counter, shoving the broom into your hands. “Be a dear and do the front. Can’t have customers seeing what a mess I’ve made!”

You chuckle to yourself, shrug, and get to work.

You did need a job and you did need one as soon as possible. While you didn’t expect to start immediately, it’s not like you have anything better to do with all your free time.

As you sweep, you can’t help but think of your mom’s tailor shop. It was in a different part of town and not nearly as nice as this one. Much smaller, for starters. She also only had the one sewing machine whereas it looked like this woman had at least two, with an unknown amount in the back room.

After locating a dustpan to collect the loose thread, fabric, and lint in, you toss out the trash just as the owner comes to join you. She introduces herself as Thalia and lets you know what your hours and pay would be, as well as what she expects you to help with. It’s not much, significantly less than what Silco was paying you, but the tasks are much simpler. Sweep, restock fabric as necessary, accompany her to Piltover when she needs to make a supply run. Maybe sew a button or iron a shirt here and there.

You shake her hand as you accept the job and she promises to make you a matching apron. When you clock out for the day, she sends you home with a tin of rolls she had made.

The days turn into weeks.

Thalia's sweet. On occasion, she'll invite you upstairs for coffee or a homemade scone. You joke that she could easily have gone into business as a baker. She shoots back that everyone needs a hobby outside of work, then prattles on about her son, beaming with maternal pride.

It’s easy work.

Almost too easy.

It allows your mind to wander more than you would like. You find yourself daydreaming about Singed’s lab or walking up the steps to Silco’s office. But the longer you spend in the shop, the more your memories start to fade, the passage of time wearing down the edges so that they’re fuzzy.

One night, after a long day of lugging fabric bolts from a truck into the store, you walk home, ready for a hot shower and some food. What you get instead is a visitor outside your apartment building.

“Sevika?”

The large woman stands with her back against the brick building, cigarette as always hanging from her bottom lip. Upon seeing you, she quickly throws the cigarette down and stamps it out with her boot. She greets you by nodding her head.

“How do you know where I live?”

She chuckles.

“Who do you think moved all your shit?” she counters.

“Oh,” you reply, eyebrows raising. “Thanks, I guess.”

You walk past Sevika, opening the door to the front lobby. She follows suit, a couple steps behind as you ascend the stairs to your unit.

“Silco needs you.”

You turn over your shoulder to stare at her, halfway up the stairs.

“What?”

“Silco needs you for a meeting.”

You shake your head and laugh, resuming your journey up the steps.

“Yeah, right,” you chuckle.

She follows after you, making quick work of the stairs and planting herself in front of your door. Your hand holding the key hovers uselessly in the air and you tilt your head in annoyance before crossing your arms.

“No, really,” she adds. “He needs all hands on deck.”

“I’m sure he does,” you say, nodding toward your door. She steps aside and you unlock it, letting yourself in. “But I seem to recall being fired.”

You drop your satchel onto the kitchen island, beelining for a bottle of wine you had opened a week ago. Without missing a beat, Sevika sits on the one bar stool you have in your kitchen, flesh and chemtech arms crossed.

“He made a mistake.”

“Ha!” you let out derisively. “Is that what he calls it?”

Gray eyes dart to the side, conceding.

“No, that’s what I call it.”

As you pour yourself a glass, you nod toward your unexpected visitor.

“Want some?”

She declines with a shake of her head and a wave of her metal hand. You take a swig of wine and wince, making a mental note to get some sort of stopper to make the next bottle you open last longer.

“Well, thanks for the support, I suppose,” you mutter.

“Look,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but something’s going down tomorrow night. And it would be good for you to be with us.”

You forgetfully take another swig of wine and immediately regret it. With a retch, you pour the glass and bottle contents down the sink. After setting both aside, you rest your hands on the countertop, shoulders hunched. Eyes to the wall and back to Sevika, you ask the question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind.

“So… he asked for me?”

When she doesn’t answer right away, you turn to her. She pulls her lips to the side before answering.

“Not… exactly.”

You scoff. She gets to her feet, closing the distance between you as she tries to defend her employer.

“He didn’t exactly ask for you, but—”

“You said he ‘needed’ me!” you shoot back.

“He does!” she counters, voice getting louder with each exchange.

“But he didn’t ask for me—”

“He’s prideful, you know that!”

You roll your eyes, leaning your hips on the counter edge as you cross your arms.

“I don’t know what’s ‘going down’ tomorrow, but you can count me out.”

Sevika steps forward so that she’s hovering over you. In an attempt to not be intimidated, you straighten up, forgetting just how tall the woman is. Regardless, you pull your shoulders back, determined to not be bullied. When Sevika speaks, it’s with a tone you did not expect. Gentle, almost warm.

“He didn’t say it, but he does need you there.” There’s a softness in Sevika’s eyes that you’ve never seen before and you hate to admit it, but it’s working on you. “He’s been different ever since you left. He tries to hide it, but… I can tell.”

You scoff again, side stepping her to get out from her shadow, walking toward your couch.

“I wish I could believe you.” Arms cross over your middle protectively. “But he made it clear the last time I saw him that he wants nothing to do with me.”

You both stand in silence for a moment, Sevika standing in your kitchen with you halfway to the living room, your back to her. You chew on your bottom lip when Sevika’s voice breaks your thoughts.

“What if I asked you?”

You turn around.

“What?”

“What if I asked you?” she repeats. “Call it a hunch, but I feel it in my gut—” she places her flesh hand on her exposed abs, “—that we’re going to need you there tomorrow.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you blink, suddenly feeling like you needed a shot of your cure. You’d give anything to end this conversation so you can run into your bedroom and inject your medicine.

Finally, you let a sigh out of your nose.

“Fine,” you relent, waving your hands as if you don’t have a choice. “What can I do to help?”

She smirks, reaching into her pants pocket for a small slip of paper. “Just show up.”

You unfold the paper to see the words “Greenhouse Building, 9pm, tomorrow” written on it in what you assume is Sevika’s handwriting.

“Sevika…” Your voice lowers as the seriousness of the situation dawns on you. “What are we walking into tomorrow?”

She shrugs her shoulders, walking backwards toward your front door.

“Come and find out.”

You’re lucky the tailor shop closes at seven on weeknights; it means you don’t have to bother trying to make up some excuse for missing a shift.

You pack a few vials of your cure in your bag along with your syringe, just in case. You’re about to walk out the door, when you remember something and run back inside. Quickly, you grab a sheet of paper off your desk. You had written the formulas for both Silco’s makeup and cure in the hopes of giving it to Singed. Even if Silco wanted neither, at least there would be the option.

Don’t know why I even bother though.

Yet you tuck the paper away into your pants pocket anyway.

After locking your apartment, you walk down the stairs, groaning when you see a familiar figure standing just outside the lobby door.

"Seriously?" you ask, exasperated, as you open the door to see Sevika waiting for you. "Are you escorting me?"

She nods, uncrossing her arms as she leads the way.

"I told you I was coming.” You fall in step next to her. “What? Do you not trust me?"

"No, it's not that," she’s quick to counter.

"Then what is it?" You shove your hands into your pockets, balled into fists. The knuckles of your right hand graze Sevika's note and you do your best to ignore it.

Sevika’s eyes briefly look to you before darting back to the path in front of her, her lips pulled to the side in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness.

"I didn't tell Silco you're coming."

You freeze in place.

"You didn't?! Why the fuck not?!" Hands pulled out of your pockets, you raise them up, your eyebrows furrowed as your mouth hangs open, aghast.

"That's not important—"

"Bye!" You say as you turn on your heel and wave, heading back to your apartment.

Sevika groans and follows you, her flesh hand wrapping around your upper arm and tugging.

"Come on."

You try to pry your arm from her grip but she tightens it. You wince and she gives you a look. You sigh, defeated.

"This is a terrible idea," you mutter.

"It'll be fine."

You roll your eyes. She spins you back around and takes a few steps. You've no choice but to follow or risk having your arm ripped off.

"Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission," she offers, releasing her hold on you.

You pull your arm back and massage where she had grabbed you, careful to put distance between your bodies as you walk.

"In what world does that ever apply to Silco?"

You make it a few more paces in silence before breaking it with a question that's been lingering ever since you left the apartment.

"Why are we going this way? Greenhouse is in the other direction."

She takes a few steps, picking up her pace.

"Change of plans; we're not going there."

You pull Sevika's note out of your pocket. "But that's what it said—"

"We're going to The Drop."

Your throat bobs. You had assumed you would be seeing Silco at the rendezvous, not beforehand. A weight settles in your gut, upsetting your stomach. Something about meeting him in his office feels wrong compared to the greenhouse building. At least the latter is mutual territory. Silco’s office is so distinctly… Silco’s.

As you walk the familiar route to the club, you worry about what Silco’s reaction to seeing you will be. If you had to guess, there will be others at this meeting, so Silco won't be able to show his candid reaction.

You hold in a sigh that threatens to push past your lips.

After your last encounter, you imagine you're never going to see that side of Silco ever again. He's never going to want to see you one-on-one or show you anything other than the mask he's painstakingly crafted since before you met.

It'll be as if you never knew each other at all.

And isn't that so much worse?

When you arrive at the club, you spot Zane behind the bar, counting out the till. He looks up at the sound of your and Sevika's bootsteps, his thick eyebrows furrowing when he sees you.

"What are you doing here?" he mouths silently.

"I don't know," you mouth back, shrugging and then pointing at Sevika like it's all her fault.

He rolls his eyes before closing the register with a loud cling!

As you ascend the steps up to the balcony, Sevika addresses you over her shoulder.

“Leave the talking to me."

You nod, throat bobbing as you steel yourself.

Without knocking, Sevika opens the door to Silco’s office to find Silco already speaking to a small group. Jinx sits perched on Silco's desk while Ran, Dax, and half a dozen others you don’t recognize stand around the coffee table as Silco lounges on the velvet couch, one arm draped over the chair back as the other rests at his knee, cigar between his knuckles.

"Ah, Sevika, good of you to finally join us—"

Silco pauses mid-sentence when you step into the room after Sevika, your head sheepishly tucked down and avoiding his gaze. If you hadn't been so intent on staring at your boots, you might have noticed the way Silco's mouth hangs open for a moment as he catches sight of you. But by the time you lift your chin and meet his eyes, he's already recovered.

Seeing him sitting on the couch, his posture that of a confidently relaxed, completely unbothered kingpin, it sends a sharp pang to your chest.

It’s as if nothing happened.

But then, Sevika’s voice cuts into your memory.

“He’s been different ever since you left.”

Your eyes track over his figure, watching him as he speaks.

Well, he’s doing a really good job of not showing it.

Silco’s voice cuts through your thoughts, authoritative, bordering on arrogant.

"As I was saying: this will be a short meeting." He takes a drag from his cigar before flicking the ashes into the ashtray in front of him. "He doesn't have anything; nothing but parlor tricks and flashy marketing. Nothing to be concerned about."

Your mouth starts to move before your brain has time to stop it.

"By 'he' you mean Finn, right?"

You look around the room, met with a series of furrowed eyebrows, with the sole exception of Jinx who has lost all interest in the conversation and instead opts to fidget with one of her braids, bringing it up to her lip like a long, blue mustache. At the sound of your voice, however, she flinches, her eyes darting away from you.

Not you too, Jinx.

"At least, I'm pretty sure it's Finn…" you mutter, voice trailing off.

You let out a small yelp when Sevika pointedly elbows you in the ribs.

"Ow! Hey…"

You look up at her as you rub the tender spot on your chest to see her eyes narrowed, her jaw set.

"Sorry," you whisper, taking a step back. When you look up at Silco, you're met with a smug look on his face.

"Yes, as I covered earlier—" he shoots a look at Sevika before continuing, "This is Finn and his Slickjaws. They apparently have a new drug they're hoping to introduce to the market."

"Sir…" Sevika speaks up from beside you. "Why are you bothering with this? Isn't Finn small time? And why’s he suddenly interested in dealing things other than weapons?"

Silco chuckles. You feel a lump forming in your throat, chest aching like someone has just stabbed it. Loathe as you are to admit it, you had missed that sound in your time apart.

"Sevika…" Silco coos, "competition is good for business. It inspires innovation." He takes another leisurely drag from his cigar, letting it billow out his mouth as he addresses his second-in-command. "You of all people should understand that. After all, I seem to recall your employment under me happening after a similar 'hostile takeover.'"

Out of your periphery, you watch Sevika clench her jaw.

Silco lets out a small derisive chuckle as he leans forward, snuffing out the cigar in the gray ashtray on the coffee table.

"Though I don't expect business to be exchanging any hands tonight."

Ocean green and volcanic orange eyes drag across the room as he makes eye contact with each individual member of his team, pointedly avoiding you. Tugging at the hem of his vest as he stands, he wraps up the meeting.

"You all have your individual orders."

One by one, the members of the crew file out of the room.

“Jinx, Sevika, with me,” Silco says as he grabs his coat off the rack. With a swish, he quickly pushes his arms through the sleeves and tugs the collar up high.

You stand awkwardly to the side, awaiting instruction and trying as much as you can to shrink into the background.

“You,” he adds, tone painfully neutral. “With Ran.”

You look over to your assigned partner to find them smiling softly at you. With a gesture of their metal claw, they allow you to exit first.

As you make your way down the stairs back to ground level, you notice something you had missed on your arrival. There's something off about the club, like something is missing. You realize just as you're leaving out the front door that the VIP booths on the long wall are missing their curtains, their tables exposed to the dance floor. The area feels oddly bare.

Redecorating maybe?

Eyebrows furrowing, you shake it off before hopping onto Ran's bike.

You’re thankful that your travel partner is the silent type. No invasive questions or teasing comments. Clinging to Ran’s jacket, you’re met with a sense of deja vu.

On Ran’s bike.

On the way to the greenhouse building.

For a meeting you know next to nothing about.

The last time you were in this position, it led to an arousing show of power from Silco segueing quickly to a mindblowing “private meeting” of your own in Silco’s office.

Something tells you this meeting will not go the same way. Not when the look Silco gave you in his office was less infatuation and more resignation. Like he was stuck with you. He couldn't call out Sevika for her insubordination in front of everyone else. It's best to play it as if he had always planned it. His second-in-command had forced his hand.

You're not quite sure if you're thankful for it or not.

Only time will tell.

The ride is short and uneventful, the only thing of interest is how Silco's carriage follows closely behind you. Looking over your shoulder, all you see is Dax at the wheel, his large frame almost taking up the entire windshield. The partition behind him is raised up, blocking the passengers from view.

After dismounting Ran's bike and leaving your helmet on the back of it, you wait on the sidewalk. Sevika is out of the carriage first, followed by a chipper Jinx and a stoic Silco. Your mind imagines the three of them squished together in the back of the carriage and you can't help the small smile from forming on your face. But then Silco's eyes meet yours and you wipe it away, casting your eyes down to your boots.

After the rest of your entourage arrives, Jinx leads the way as you all file behind her with Dax taking the rear. Once inside, you start to beeline for the elevator doors when you feel a tug at your elbow. Turning over your shoulder, you see Sevika holding your sleeve and shaking her head.

"We're not going upstairs?" you whisper, not wanting to draw attention to yourself.

She shakes her head again, eyes never leaving Silco as if on high alert. She lets go of your coat, following Silco's posse as they head for a set of grand doors, not dissimilar to the ones you had seen during the last Chembaron assembly.

When the doors open, you're greeted with a large, concrete room. Wooden crates and various barrels line the graffiti-filled walls. You're not certain what this room's original purpose was, but you get the sense Finn has converted it into his headquarters.

There's rows of tables filled with cases of vials, the tables arranged to form an assembly line. The vials look similar in size and shape to the ones used for Shimmer, but their color is a strange yet familiar shade of brown. Your eyes narrow before taking in the rest of the makeshift base of operations.

Nothing out of the ordinary. More tables, some chairs, used booze bottles littered throughout.

It's shoddy at best.

The only thing out of the ordinary is the long curtain partition toward the back of the room. It's the same gaudy shade of yellow you recognize from Finn's jacket. On it, there's an outline of an insignia in black spray paint resembling an "F."

The double doors close behind you with a resounding groan. When you whip your head around at the sound, you see a masked figure standing in front of it. Turning back around, you see more and more masked men sauntering out from their hiding spots behind the boxes.

Shit. Should we have worn masks? Are they going to gas us? Or is it for anonymity?

There's movement behind the dark curtain and finally, Finn makes his entrance. Donning his signature yellow jacket and brass smile, he lifts his hands in invitation.

"Finn," Silco calls across the room, dripping with sarcastic politeness.

"Silco," the young man responds with a tilt of his head.

You and Silco's crew step forward to close the distance. As you do, you're acutely aware of the way they flank you from the back, surrounding you. The leaders of both factions keep their distance, leaving enough room to fit the penthouse's large conference table between them.

"Was vandalizing my establishment really necessary?"

Finn shrugs, grinning like he's some youthful scamp and not one of the Undercity's richest and most powerful men.

"I had to get your attention somehow."

Silco raises his hands. "You have it now. What couldn't wait for the next assembly?"

“I wanted to invite you to join us at the ground floor of our new business venture,” Finn says, arms raised as he shows off his meager headquarters. “You see… Things just aren’t moving quickly enough for my tastes. You’ve flooded the streets with Shimmer, but have done nothing about Topside.”

He pulls a small vial out of his pocket, considering it. It looks like one of the ones you had seen earlier on all the tables. As Finn continues to monologue, you can see Silco restraining himself from rolling his dual-toned eyes.

“So, I took it upon myself to speed up the process. With this, we can finally show those Pilties we mean business.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Silco and Sevika sharing a look. Finn continues, oblivious to the silent conversation happening in front of his eyes.

“We’ve been brewing up our own little drug to rival Shimmer. If you’re smart, you’ll join our venture as equal partners.”

Silco clicks his teeth with his tongue, the scarred side of his lip tugging up into a smug smirk.

“And what makes you think your ‘venture’ can compete with my empire?”

“Well…” Finn’s voice comes out as almost a song, taunting and playful. He’s not the stumbling young man he was at the last assembly, brimming with misplaced confidence. “It’s less of a drug…” He turns to his grunt closest to Silco and nods before adding, “And more of a poison.”

Before anyone has time to react, the small masked man is lunging toward Silco with a knife. Silco instinctively takes a step back, bringing both arms up to shield his face. The knife cuts through his bracers, slashing the thick fabric and slicing through Silco’s left forearm.

Jinx starts to lunge for her father, but you hold her back, noticing that two other goons have trained their guns on you. Watching with wide eyes, your eyebrows furrow when you hear Silco laugh.

It’s not warm, nor is it in any way humorous. Nothing like anything you’ve ever heard from it.

It’s biting and cruel.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

Everyone in the warehouse looks around stunned, unsure of what to make of this reaction. When finally Silco gets a hold of himself, there’s a melody to his voice.

“Ah… now that’s a familiar sting,” he says, considering his arm as if it’s a beautiful piece of art and not a limb covered in blood with a long gash going down it. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he taunts as he steps forward towards his assailant, who is stunned in place, unsure of what to do.

Silco reaches out and plucks the dagger from the man's hand with ease, the grunt visibly shaking as he takes a step back in retreat. You're suddenly reminded of the safe room as Silco holds the knife up in the air, studying it.

The man that had attacked Silco turns over his shoulder to address his leader, fear shaking every syllable.

“You said it would be instant!”

Finn doesn't seem to hear, eyes locked with Silco's, unblinking.

“Mind if I guess the secret ingredient to your precious product?” Silco hums.

You can hear a faint sound. Drip. Drip. Drip. It's Silco's blood falling to the floor as he continues to taunt the younger Chembaron.

Finn falters. Fear floods his eyes and his dark eyebrows furrow.

“Toxins… from the River Pilt,” Silco says practically gleefully.

Finn shakes his head, taking a step back.

“How… how did you know?”

Another bark of laughter from the Eye of Zaun. It fills the room, ringing in your ears, sending a shiver up your spine and goosebumps to form on your arms.

“As if this hasn’t been coursing through my veins for two decades!”

You look back at Finn to see his eyebrows furrowed together, a look of determination spread across his face. Silco's taunting has triggered something within him and you suddenly feel tingling all over.

That electric static feeling.

Your hand shoots to your hip, only to remember you had traded away your pistol. Just as you start to reach for your dagger, you see Finn nod at another masked goon, this one much closer to you and Jinx.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion.

Your eyes widen and feet work quickly as the grunt launches forward with another poison-laced dagger, aiming for Jinx. You jump forward, grabbing her by the shoulders as you tuck and spin, positioning yourself between her and the attacker.

The sound of tearing fabric and Silco screaming your name, then— a white hot burning down your back as the blade slices you open from your right shoulder to your left hip. Your hands tighten your grip on Jinx as the pain rips through you, blinding and overwhelming. It's the same stinging sensation you felt in the river but ten times worse, as if Finn had somehow managed to concentrate the toxins to be even more potent.

Every muscle in your body contracts, leaving your form frozen. Eyes wide, your mouth is agape but you cannot scream; it's as if the sound has lodged itself in your throat and is too terrified to come out. You cling to Jinx, the only thing keeping you upright and feel her start to crumble.

You start to fall forward and she guides you to the floor, crouching in front of you as you fall to your knees.

"Stay right here," she says, uncharacteristically calm and soft.

She gets to her feet, grabbing her pistols as she does. You can see the way both her hands shake as she holds them at her side. Chancing a glance up to her face, you see a fire behind her eyes that you've never seen before. A fury that only her father could rival.

"My turn."

The world speeds back up. Or perhaps you're just too disoriented to keep up. In a flash, there's a flurry of activity in the room as shots ring out, sending bits of table and wooden crates to burst through the air. You're barely aware of something at your side shattering as you fall to all fours, your back arching as another wave of pain courses through your system, burning you from the inside out. You're almost positive the toxins are eating away at the skin on your back, exposing more and more of your vulnerable insides to the elements.

Somewhere near you, Sevika is crushing a man's skull with her chemtech arm as Ran is slashing through another's chest with their clawed fingers. There's a flash of maroon and suddenly the man that had attacked you lays lifeless on the floor, his poisoned dagger sitting squarely in his right eye.

You lift your head just in time to see the last grunt fall and a dagger of gold and red sail through the air. It pierces through Finn's exposed chest, perfectly nestling between two ribs. A flash of blue and then—

“Jinx, no.”

Silco's voice is even, but you can tell, even now, that there's a boiling rage waiting to erupt.

Jinx freezes, her pistol within point blank range of Finn’s face.

“Sevika," Silco calls out. "Care to do the honors?”

“With pleasure.”

In a few quick strides, Sevika closes the distance between her and Finn, rolling her chemtech shoulder as she does. In a heartbeat, she grabs his bronze jaw with her metal arm. Finn’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, his voice muffled by Sevika’s hand in his mouth. Even in your foggy state and only her back visible to you, there's a clear satisfaction in her body language as she holds onto Finn's gaudy prosthetic. Then, you hear metal on metal scraping as she clamps down on Finn’s jaw before pulling her arm back, putting her entire weight behind the motion.

The sound it makes—somewhere between a squelch and a crunch—carves itself into your memory. You're certain you will never be able to forget that sound.

There’s a splattering of blood, followed by bronze hitting concrete as Sevika throws the useless hunk of metal to the floor. All the while, Finn screams in agony, a loud, gurgling, wretched sound. It fills your head so much you can practically see it. There’s a loud thump as Finn falls to his knees and then the rhythmic clicking of boots.

You lift your head just enough to see Silco leaning over Finn, both hands clasped behind his back. He looks to his second-in-command and puts his hand out. Without missing a beat, Sevika hands him a bottle of Finn's new product.

The screams turn into desperate pleas as Finn shuffles away from Silco. Without a lower jaw, he cannot form words, only pathetic wails and moans in an attempt to beg for his life. Among the disjointed vocalizing, you can only pick out one word.

No.

Silco's left hand darts out, grabbing Finn by the neck. Blood continues to pour from the young man's face, drenching his clothes to turn his bright yellow jacket a deep, pulpy orange just as it paints Silco's hand crimson.

“I’m afraid…" Silco starts as he uncaps the tube with his thumb, "we’ll have to reject your business proposal.”

You watch as Silco pours the contents of the vial down the gaping hole that is Finn's face. There's another blood curdling, gurgled scream as the toxins eat away at what's left of his jaw before doing the same to his teeth, gums, tongue, esophagus, and insides. A burning sensation you're all too familiar with. Your screams would be just as loud as Finn’s if you had any energy left to do so.

Even over the sounds of Finn’s incoherent last words and wails, you can hear his internal organs as they melt away, a bubbling and fizzing sound, popping and crackling as the toxins work their way through muscle sinew and bone. The sludge seems to have a mind of its own as it continues its journey along Finn’s twitching form.

And then.

Nothing.

Silco tugs his dagger out of the man's chest.

Finn's body falls slack onto the floor.

And yours follows suit.

Frantic yells of your name.

Someone lightly slapping your cheeks, begging you to wake up.

"Come on! Stay with me!"

You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids are so heavy. Whoever that is trying to wake you, can't they just let you rest for a few more minutes?

You manage to open your eyes enough to see a blur of maroon and crimson red. Through the fogginess that is your dwindling consciousness, you can just make out Silco's voice saying your name.

"Can you get up?"

You try to get to your feet, but immediately pitch forward. Silco moves to catch you, but his hand grazes the large gash on your back and you let out a pathetic sob, tears falling down your cheeks.

"You're okay," he coos, dual-toned eyes darting all over your body and taking in the damage. "You're okay…"

"Silco," you manage to get out through the tears. "I'm sorry."

You don't know what you're even apologizing for. You just know that you're sorry.

For everything.

"No, no, no," he desperately chants, shaking his head. "It's me. I'm the one who should be sorry."

His voice breaks and you try with all your remaining energy to lift your hand. The backs of your fingers graze his scarred cheek—beautiful, complex textures on a beautiful, complex man.

Tired.

So tired.

Your eyes flutter closed. Your hand falls to your side.

Just let me rest.

You wake up in the back of a carriage with seats the same red velvet as Silco's couch.

"Hurry up!" Silco's voice barks out from above you. "And avoid Old Levy Road or it'll be your head! The last thing she needs is her insides jostled about."

You feel a light pressure on your face and look up to see a warm orange glow above you as Silco looks down at you. He cradles your face with his bloodied hand.

"I've got you," he reassures you. "Stay with me."

If you weren't so loopy from the blood loss and shock, you might have seen the way Silco's eyes glimmered. Or felt the warm tear as it trickled down his chin and onto your cheek.

"Stay with me, please," he pleads, his voice broken.

You try.

You really do.

But the current of unconsciousness pulls you under again.

"It's the only option we have," rasps out a familiar voice.

"There has to be something else. I will not entrust her life to a coin flip!"

You can't see what's happening, your vision too blurry to make anything out.

"50% is better than zero," Singed counters.

You cough, alerting the two to your waking. You feel cold all over as you lay on your side on what seems to be a metal table. You're barely conscious of the tube connected to your arm, giving you blood.

"Si… Silco…"

Maroon, charcoal, and crimson red flood your vision as Silco runs to the table, taking one of your hands in his.

"I'm here! I'm here."

"My…" you croak out, but Silco tries to stop you.

"Don't speak. You need to conserve your energy."

"My bag…" you cough. "In… my bag…"

Silco lets go of your hand reluctantly to search the contents of your bag. You hear shuffling and clattering, followed by nothing.

"Silco?"

He freezes.

"... Silco? Did you…"

Footsteps, then Silco returning to your view, your syringe in his hands.

"What is this?" he whispers.

You ignore his question.

"There should be… vials…"

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to stay awake.

"There was nothing," Silco whispers. "It was all broken."

Your eyes flutter closed.

So much for that idea.

You give into the darkness's pull.

Silco stands next to your limp body, his eyes wild, his mouth hanging open uselessly, his hands clutching a bronze syringe much like the one in his own pocket. His eyes dart down to it to see the signature markings of his daughter’s handiwork: splotches of neon paint and clumsy indents from the heavy banging of a hammer.

All at once, pieces start to fall into place in his mind, telling him a story that he is not ready to hear.

Squeezing his good eye shut and shaking his head, he quickly turns back to the tattered slump of fabric that used to be your satchel.

Clearly, she thought something in here could help her.

Hands shake as he grabs the entire thing and upends the contents onto a nearby table. Fingers dart frantically over the random assortment of items, searching for what? He does not know.

There.

His eyes land on a folded sheet of paper. It's in bad shape, riddled with bullet holes and chard from the gunpowder. As he reads, his eyebrows lift to his hairline and he shouts to the man a few feet from him.

“Doctor!”

Singed stands to join him, taking the proffered paper. Wordlessly, he reads it, looks back up to his employer, and nods.

He's a few steps away before he calls back, “if you don't want her bleeding to death, I'd stitch her wounds shut if I were you.”

Silco's hands won't stop shaking, the adrenaline coursing through his body—usually a welcome companion in moments of high stress—proves more harm than help. How can he close up the large gash along your back if he can barely hold the needle between his bloody fingers?

He sits on a stool next to the metal table your body lays limp on. Your shirt lays discarded on the floor as you lay on your side with your back to him. While the poison has stopped eating away at your flesh, it did a lot of damage.

He takes a steading breath and starts to work.

Pinch with one hand, push in and pull out the needle with the other.

Pinch, push in, pull out.

A memory rings in his ears, unbidden.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

He shakes the memory away, good eye narrowed as he concentrates.

How did he find himself here again? Closing up a wound for a woman who sacrificed herself in order to save his daughter?

It should have been me.

Just as he's about to finish the last stitch—his handiwork leaving much to be desired—the doctor returns at his side.

“She's lost a lot of blood.”

Silco's eyebrows pinch together as he lets out a snarl.

“Then what are you waiting for? Use our stock.”

“There isn't enough,” Singed replies with a miniscule shake of his head.

Silco shakes his head, frustration building within him as he's met with his lead scientist’s clear obtuseness. With a violent shrug, Silco removes his coat and throws it over the nearest surface before chucking his bracers off and rolling a shirt sleeve up, exposing the inside of his elbow and the visible blue vein within.

“Then hurry up and take as much as she needs.”

The good doctor simply shakes his head again.

“Your blood will only add fuel to the fire,” he rasps, his dual-toned gaze landing on Silco's bloody forearm.

Silco turns his arm over, to see the long cut he had all but forgotten about. The tilt of Singed’s bald head is a silent question that Silco brushes off.

“I'm fine,” he growls. “She needs blood.”

“I can give some.”

Two heads whip around to find Jinx standing a few yards away. She hugs her arms around her middle and, next to the large glowing tanks around the lab, she looks so small.

“Please,” she closes the distance, “I want to help.”

“Absolutely not,” her father replies, retreating to the sink to wash his hands.

But Jinx is already pulling off the purple-striped sleeve on her left arm, the long black armband underneath close behind. By the time Silco turns around, she's tightening the belt that's wound around her bicep.

“Jinx!”

“Silco!”

He freezes.

It's been years since she's called him by his name, always “dad” or “pops” or “old man.” The last time she called him “Silco,” she still answered to Powder.

He blinks, rooted to the spot, a barrage of voices—all Jinx's—flooding his ears.

“What's this I hear about a mission topside?”

“I thought you would be proud of me!”

“I did this for you! We both did!”

Silco's hands fist and unfurl at his sides. He's already losing one woman he cares about, he can't endanger the health of another. But as Jinx stands there, eyes piercing into his with determination, he finds he can’t stand in the way.

It’s her choice.

“Singed,” he calls back to the doctor. “Only take exactly as much as needed.”

She's so small. Any more and she risks fainting.

Jinx nods, jaw set, taking the stool by your bedside as Singed brings over the supplies. Silco leans on the sink counter, both hands gripping the edge, knuckles white.

“She's stable,” Singed's muffled voice rasps, medical gauze in one hand. It's pristine white against the darker, tattered fabric of his wrappings. He offers it up in silent question to the father and daughter sitting dutifully at your bedside.

Silco's eyes remain on your form. You lay on your side, the evidence of his work dotted along your back. There's a small prickle of guilt as he looks at you.

Even now, he can't bring himself to look at you face to face. Seeing you like this sends shards of glass to his chest, cutting him up into tiny pieces. Not only that, but with the way the two of you had left things, seeing your half naked form feels almost wrong. Like he's undeserving of it.

He stands from his spot, taking the gauze. Jinx lifts her chin to look up at him, her head tilting slightly to the side in confusion when he passes the tube of fabric to her.

“I'll hold her up; you bandage her,” he instructs, his voice soft. Not from any warmth or purposeful gentleness so much as from exhaustion.

Jinx nods and they quietly get to work. Silco holds you by your shoulders, his eyes on his daughter beside him as her nimble fingers quickly unravel the gauze, her thin arms wrapping around your torso. When she finishes, she takes the opportunity to bring her arms around your middle again in a tender, light embrace. Her right cheek rests on your right shoulder, azure eyes gazing up at her father.

“Is she going to be okay?” She whispers.

He nods, bringing one hand up to cradle her jawline. She hums and closes her eyes, content to hug you in silence.

Hesitantly, Silco bars his left arm over your collarbone to hold you in place before wrapping his other arm around Jinx's shoulder blades. Nose a soft press to the crown of your head, he can smell the faint scent of your shampoo. His eyes flutter closed as he takes in an unsteady inhale. On the exhale, he tightens his grip just a little.

Finally, it's quiet in the lab.

Silco winces sharply as Jinx clamps down hard on a device on his arm.

The pair sit in stools just a few feet from where you lay in Singed's bed, Silco's arm resting on the small desk in the good doctor’s quarters. Singed himself is in the main section of the lab, hard at work on a cure for the poison that continues to surge through your system.

“Done!” Jinx chirps, pulling back the device to reveal a neat row of metal staples along Silco's forearm. His bracers had taken the brunt of the damage, but that grunt at the greenhouse had managed to pierce skin despite the many layers.

“Thank you.”

His hands with practiced movements roll his sleeve down. It dangles uselessly around his forearm, a long slit from elbow to wrist.

“Go home,” he instructs softly.

“But, I want to be here when she wakes up.”

Silco shakes his head as much as his aching muscles will allow.

“We don't know how long that'll be. You need rest.”

Blue doe eyes peer into green and orange ones. “You do, too.”

His lips tug into a small smile.

“I'll be fine.” He leans forward to plant a tender kiss to her forehead. “I'll send for you as soon as she's awake.”

Reluctantly, Jinx gets up from her stool. She's a few steps away when she turns on her heels and darts back, wrapping her arms tightly around Silco’s shoulders. His hand is quick to brace himself against the desk to keep from slamming into it before returning the embrace.

“She's strong,” he whispers into her hair. “She'll be okay.”

Jinx nods, a soft sniffle at her nose.

“Get some sleep.”

She nods again.

“Okay, dad.”

Jinx retreats home, leaving Silco to sit alone with you.

Shoulders hunched forward, elbows digging into his thighs, Silco sits at your bedside. His hands are clasped as if in prayer, but he hasn't resorted to that.

Yet.

His head hung low, his eyes cast downward toward his feet, though he looks less at and more through them, his dual-toned eyes unfocused, his eyebrows pinched as tightly as his lips do.

“You should not have even been there,” he says, voice lower than the mines he once worked. “Why did you come?”

No one replies.

Only the sounds of bubbles drifting aimlessly in Rio’s tank accompany his voice in the cave.

“And Sevika…” he snarls. “What was she thinking? She forced my hand by bringing you.”

She was probably thinking for once of Jinx’s safety.

He shakes his head at the thought. Easier to blame Sevika than to look inward. Easier to leap to anger than to guilt.

His lips pinch into a thin line as his good eye squeezes shut.

Unbidden, flashes of memories play in his mind’s eye.

You, stepping into his office.

You, staring with wide eyes as Silco laughs at Finn's hubris.

You, holding Jinx back.

You, putting yourself between Jinx and the assailant.

You, screaming as the blade rips through your flesh.

It's all too much.

“In my mind…” Silco continues, his voice shaken. “I've replayed that moment a thousand times.”

He lifts his head, raising his eyes as if to speak directly to you. But you continue to lay perfectly still except for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of your chest, your eyes closed.

“Why wasn't I faster?” His voice cracks. “Why didn't I kill him?”

The words are laced with venom, but his tone is anything but. It's fragile, pleading, desperate.

I froze.

Silco bares his teeth at the thought, a snarl on scarred lips as he overanalyzes his every move at the greenhouse building. Looking for ways he could have changed the outcome.

“I couldn't protect you. Not from them. Not even from myself.”

His hand comes up, the insides of his thumb and forefinger pressing to his brow, shielding his eyes, pads of his fingers a tight squeeze on his temples.

He takes a shuddering inhale through clenched teeth. Then, another. With each breath, he can feel his resolve starting to wane. With each minute that passes without you waking, he feels the strong facade he has mastered over the course of decades slowly start to crack.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

He fights the bitter sting behind his eyes, snarling at it to keep it at bay.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats before burying his face in his hands. “For everything.”

Silco startles awake when he feels a light tap on his arm. Blinking, he gets his bearings. Two-toned eyes adjust to the soft green light of the cave. There’s a shuffling sound as he straightens up, rolling out his neck, his hands slow to catch the dark fabric as it falls off his shoulders to the floor. Crouching down, he realizes the “blanket” was in fact his coat.

“A moment,” the doctor rasps beside him softly before turning on his heel, retreating to the lab proper.

After folding his coat neatly in half, Silco places it at the foot of your bed as he stands. Reluctantly, he steps away from your bedside, following the doctor’s footsteps.

“What is it?” he asks, an edge to his voice, still waking up.

“I cannot make this formula,” Singed says plainly.

That wakes Silco up.

“What?!” Hands are quick to grab the lapel of the scientist’s coat, bringing their faces together so they’re nose-to-nose. “You said you could—”

“I never said that,” his voice even, unthreatened.

“Why can't you?”

“There is a missing ingredient.”

Silco lets go of the labcoat, long fingers pulling through his tousled hair. Just like his updates with the doctor, Singed withholds information, only adding more when prompted.

“Well? Then go get it!”

“It's not so easy to procure,” he explains. “One can’t simply purchase it from some street vendor in the market.”

There’s a growl at Silco’s throat.

There’s always something, isn’t there?

“What is it?”

“There is a creature in the River Pilt. According to her notes—” Singed nods toward his quarters where you lay sleeping, “it seems to have developed a tolerance—an immunity—to the river toxins. Its blood is the key.”

Silco's good eye widens.

“What creature?”

“From the description, a squid-like animal with purple tentacles and blue blood.”

Scarred lips part as a series of memories flash in his mind’s eye.

A large Vastayan handing you two kebabs: a purple tentacle—slightly burnt around the edges—skewered on each wooden stick.

“I can buy my own kebabs, Silco.”

“I insist.”

Another, similar memory.

Jinx walking beside him, her mouth smacking as she happily hums around her post-round treat. Her lips and teeth are stained blue, almost as bright and vibrant as her childlike smile.

“You sure you don’t want any?”

“Thank you, poppet, but I’m fine—”

Without warning, Silco stalks back to your bed. After donning his coat, he leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple, filled with promise.

“I'll get you that blood,” he whispers into your hair, his hand finding yours as it lays lifeless on the bed.

Quick staccato footsteps bounce off the stone walls as he stalks toward the mouth of the cave, his collar pulled high around his face, a determined scowl at his lips.

“Where will you go?” Singed calls out from behind him.

“Jericho's.”

“I’ll have one— uhh… no— two of the uhh… the tentacle kebabs… please—”

“No, you won’t.”

Silco sits in a wooden stool next to a short, mousy man whose eyes are as wide as saucers as he stares up at the Eye of Zaun.

“In fact,” Silco starts, his voice a low rumble as he turns his head like a snake spotting its prey, “you were just leaving.”

Leaping out of the stool with a series of muttered apologies at his mouth, the man scurries away, lost immediately in the tall crowd.

Silco turns his gaze at the large Vastayan ahead of him, who now wears a scowl.

“Jericho, how’s business?” he asks as if speaking to an old friend.

With a look of indignance on his turquoise face, Jericho brings a hand up, gesturing at the man whose business he just lost.

“Ah, my apologies,” Silco purrs with a nauseating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You, see, I’ll be needing your entire stock of tentacles.” His nostrils flare. “And the name of your supplier,” he adds.

The Vastayan crosses his arms in front of him, a bloody cleaver in one hand, unamused.

Silco’s lips downturn, done with pleasantries. “I’m cashing in my favor. Or did you forget?”

Something akin to fear flashes behind Jericho’s eyes, but his body remains unmoving. After a few tense moments, he lowers his arms and turns over his shoulder toward the large tentacles hanging off hooks in the corner of his stand.

There’s a series of loud thumps and splats as Jericho starts to pack all six tentacles into a large wooden crate.

“And the supplier?” Silco calls out from behind him.

The Vastayan places a lid onto the crate, turns over his shoulder, and points to it as he stares down the Eye of Zaun.

Ocean green and volcanic orange eyes tick over the box to see a logo spray painted in red on the wooden lid. “Ah, perfect.”

Small metal wheels squeak under the weight of the box’s contents as Jericho pushes the crate out from behind the stall into the space between his and his vendor neighbor’s booth.

“Wait—”

Silco’s eyes catch the movement of something at Jericho’s hip. Good eye narrowing, he looks at it and back up to Jericho.

“I’ll be taking that as well.”

Silco’s acutely aware of the stares he’s receiving from the passersby on the street. Typically, on the rare occasions he leaves his office, the stares that follow him are accompanied by hushed, anxious whispers said behind shaking hands. But today’s whispers are different. What is usually fear is now confusion and—much to his chagrin—amusement.

Not that he can blame them. He must be quite the sight as he pushes a large wooden crate through the streets of Zaun. It’s a small miracle the squeaky wheels on the box haven’t fallen off and he’s thankful that the roads have mostly been downhill. But he’s aware of just how ridiculous he must be looking. He brushes it off with a shake of his head.

There was no time to have Sevika do it.

He reaches the edges of the Undercity where the concrete streets end and the ravine stone begins.

It had to be me.

The next trek of his journey proves even trickier. The uneven, steep descent over rocks, mud, tree roots, and various plantlife makes for a treacherous path. By the time he’s reached halfway to the cave, two wheels have popped off, leaving him to push the crate with his shoulders.

His hair mats to his forehead while his clothes stick to his body, a thin layer of sweat dotting his features. His makeup would have run off his face entirely if not for the fact that he hadn’t bothered with it since arriving back from the greenhouse. What use was there? This was the first time he had left your side.

Could also explain the stares.

The crate gets stuck on a root. Each subsequent shove of his shoulders to the unforgiving wood ends up embedding the box into the soil even further. Teeth bared, breath coming out in short huffs, he struggles against the crate. Taking one deep breath and getting into a low squat, he centers himself before charging at the box with all his weight, tucking his chin down as he brings his shoulders to the wooden surface. It succeeds in not only getting the box unstuck, but toppling it over entirely, spilling its contents onto the dirt.

Silco stands with his face upturned to the heavens, fists shaking at his sides as he lets out weeks’—if not months’—worth of frustrations in one animalistic howl. Birds scatter at the sound and leaves rustle as other animals flee the scene. Then, there’s a series of frantic drumming as his gold-toed boots make contact with the box over and over again, splintering the wood and sending shards to fly into the air.

Chest heaving, eyes wide, he stares at what he’s done.

Closing his good eye, he straightens up and takes one long, deep inhale through his nose. His chest expands and his shoulders rise with the breath. His fists unclench. He pushes the breath out through his lips.

Enough.

Pulling his fingers through his hair, he returns a few stray tendrils back to the crown of his head as he composes himself.

Crouching down, he picks up one tentacle, lifts it onto his shoulder, and continues his journey down.

Singed doesn’t even flinch as Silco drops the purple tentacle onto the metal table with a loud splat! He merely lifts one hairless eyebrow up, seemingly impressed.

“Have your men bring in the rest,” Silco says between short breaths. “They’ll find them halfway up the hill.”

“It's ready.”

Silco stands at your bedside, both hands resting on the sheets, one hand’s fingers tightly wound around something small and precious. At the sound of Singed’s voice, he turns, abyss eye a small beacon in the otherwise darkened corner of the cave.

“And it's identical to this,” Silco says, lifting the vial in his hand.

Singed nods.

“Good.”

Before walking to Singed's desk, he pulls out his syringe from the lining of his coat, which is still draped over the foot of your bed. As he sits, he brings the two halves together, a soft familiar hiss emitting from the device. He slots the vial—the cure you had given him in his office so many weeks ago—into the cartridge and starts to line the syringe up with his eye.

“That shouldn't be necessary,” Singed notes from across the room.

“We have to be sure it works,” Silco says, the device still poised over his face. “I leave nothing to chance.”

Hands shaking, the bronze rattles in his hands as he stares up at the syringe.

When was the last time he had actually administered his medicine? With the excitement of the last few days, he didn't have energy to spare worrying about himself.

The anticipation grows worse the longer he stalls. He's stuck, frozen in this position, the only movement the quiver of his hands and the increasingly frantic rise and fall of his chest with each anxious breath.

If only you were awake.

If only it could be you doing this for him.

Both eyes dart to your sleeping form, to your face. One small reprieve from your state is how at peace you look. There's no sign of pain or anguish in your soft, relaxed features. It doesn't take much to imagine a gentle smile on your face, like you're simply just sleeping, enjoying an afternoon nap.

Silco closes his good eye, taking a steadying breath, your voice in his head.

“Silco, it's okay.”

He opens his eye.

“Let me.”

His hands still.

“I'll count to three this time, okay?”

He nods as if you're standing above him, holding it.

“1… 2… 3.”

He engages the trigger. The syringe shoots out into his abyss eye.

A familiar yet also different pain shoots through his corrupted eye. His vision swirls purple briefly before fading back to normal. He rides out the pain, hands curling into fists in his lap.

But then it eases.

Rather quickly actually. Much quicker than his usual medicine.

Blinking, lips slightly parted, he looks around his surroundings. Nothing looks different. Nothing feels different.

Give it some time.

He sets the syringe down on Singed's desk, turning to him.

“In an hour, test my blood.”

He turns to your bed, lips pinched tight.

“Let's hope our brilliant scientist is as brilliant as she claims.”

Silco clicks open a small compact, eyes gazing into his reflection. He doesn't even know why he had it; it's not as if he'd been reapplying his makeup at all. Perhaps it is just habit that it stays hidden within the lining of his coat.

He stares at the image in the small rectangular mirror, turning his head slightly back and forth to look from every angle.

He doesn't expect to see any actual change to the appearance of his scars. He imagines the damage is too far gone; there's no bringing back the dead tissue that lingers on his face.

An hour after administering the cure, he sees no change.

Not necessarily a bad thing.

No adverse effects is, of course, preferable.

But he's seen no improvement either. No change to his appearance, no improved vision.

What a disappointment.

Singed pushes over a small cart with medical supplies, its metal wheels dancing along the uneven stone surface. Rolling up his sleeve, Silco offers his arm.

As Singed takes a sample of his blood, he speaks.

“The longer we wait to administer—”

“I know,” Silco cuts him off. “We just…” his eyes cast to you in bed. “I just need to know we won't make it worse.”

A half hour of waiting as Singed runs the usual tests on Silco's blood.

Silco leans his hips against the edge of your bed, one long-fingered hand resting over the back of yours as he stares straight ahead. At the sound of footsteps, he gets up and turns to see the good doctor nodding.

There's a flurry of activity as the pair get you prepped. Silco peels back the sheets from your body as Singed readies a syringe, fingers tapping lightly against it to remove any air pockets.

No time to fetch Jinx, Singed holds you by your shoulders as Silco carefully unwraps your bandaging. With each subsequent strap removed, his heart rate climbs higher and higher. A small, broken sound escapes his lips when he sees just how bad the damage to your back is.

The sutures he had done hold, but the deep red and gray around the cut looks just as fresh as the moment you received it.

“Lay her on her side. Hold her steady,” Singed instructs, pulling a stool up so he's eye-level with your back.

Silco stands on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes on your face, staring intently, waiting for any sign that you might wake up, one hand at your shoulder, the other at your hip.

Green and orange eyes lock with green and hazel.

A pause.

Silco nods.

Between two stitches, directly into the cut, Singed injects the cure. Your back arches reflexively at the touch and Silco's hands tighten around you, holding you in place. When the last of the blue-ish liquid has left the syringe, Singed pulls it out with a soft grunt.

Silco's hand comes up to frame your face, eyes staring into your features, pleading. Your name a quiet whisper on his lips.

“Please… please, wake up.”

There's a few tense minutes as the pair wait.

Nothing.

Silco looks up at the doctor, the man who has worked by his side longer than anyone else. The two men lock eyes: green and orange silently pleading with green and hazel.

Singed hangs his head, good eye closing. Silco's throat bobs, brow pinched together.

“I'm sorry,” the scientist rasps behind his maroon scarf. “We can try again in another hour or so.”

With that, Singed retreats to the lab proper, leaving Silco alone with you.

He leans down, bending his torso so his shoulder rests on bed. His forehead pressed to yours, he whispers desperate pleas into the small space between.

“Janna, please, help her…”

His good eye squeezes closed, a lump forming in his throat.

“Kindred, please… not yet.”

A tear drifts from his good eye down his temple to land on the pillow beneath him.

“Not yet.”

Silco waits.

Two hours later, he and Singed administer the medicine again.

One for Silco.

One for you.

When you don't wake, he shifts your body on the bed. Climbing over the sheets, he settles on the thin mattress with you, laying on his good side to face you.

Left hand tangled in your hair, right hand clasped around yours between your chests, he lies with you, your name a soft prayer whispered for your ears only.

“That night…” he starts, his voice a ghost of a whisper, “you told me about Nico, I told you…”

His hand shifts, palm warm against your jawline.

“You don't have to be alone.”

His thumb rubs a tender line into your cheek as he takes a deep breath.

“I meant it. You never have to be alone again.”

It's quiet in the cave. Almost peaceful.

“You have Singed. You have Jinx.”

His throat bobs, an almost nervous laugh at his lips.

“And if you'll forgive a foolish, old man… you have me.”

An invisible hand clenches around Silco's heart, threatening to squeeze it until it bursts.

“But first, you have to wake up. You have to beat this. I'll never forgive you if you die like this.”

A shake inhale, followed by an equally broken exhale.

“I can't do this without you.”

He squeezes your hand, pressing it to his chest.

“I need you. I cannot see a life in Zaun without you.”

He wets his lips, eyes unblinking as he stares at your resting face.

“You're strong. You're so strong and you don't even know it.”

He brings his lips to your forehead, pressing a desperate kiss to it.

“Please…”

A broken whisper of your name.

“Just wake up.”

Darkness.

In the darkness, there's no pain, no guilt, no anger, no longing.

Only darkness.

Stay tuned for Chapter 27!

A/N: So much happened in this chapter, I don't even know where to start. At the very least, I will say that I have an art comm in the works right now of Finn's brutal death scene and I cannot wait for y'all to see it. I will likely link it in the notes at the beginning of 27! Remind me if I forget to! Also, yes, Thalia is vaguely kind of sort of AU Tailor-made reader (who is an AU to TMSA reader lmao) I just can't help myself. I love borrowing from myself.

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