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maskhoper · 11 months

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𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿?

➺ Character: Silco

➺ Reader: afab!reader

➺ Words: 2 830

➺ Chapter: Prologue

➺ Summary: He has a plan for Zaun, more important than you, more important than your son. For the sake of your people, you turn a blind eye to his negligence. Until he brings home that little girl.

➺ Warning: Angst.

➺ A/n: It's been a week since I discovered that I have a real soft spot for Silco, thanks to the many excellent fanfics I've had the pleasure of discovering. It's made me want to take another look at Arcane and enjoy all Silco's appearances. I'm new to the fandom, so I hope to do you, long-time readers of Silco fanfics, proud. English is not my first language. Sorry for the mistakes.

"Honestly…Days of silence and he only talks to me to ask me something." You murmur with a weary sigh.

You rummage through his desk, cursing under your breath at the ton of paper that's strewn everywhere. How are you supposed to find a file amongst all this paperwork? You mutter your dissatisfaction with each sheet you briefly examine. Caught up in your own world, you don't notice the door opening slightly or even the faint creaking of the old wooden floor.

"Boo!"

You shout, turning to see a child exploding with laughter, giving you the biggest smile you've ever seen on the face of a Zaun child. A breath of relief escapes you, but in revenge to pat the top of his head with a leaf file you had in your hand. Once you've got over your fright, the air in the room becomes calmer again, with small talk and laughter from the child who is working with you to find the famous file. After a few minutes, you finally get your hands on what your husband has asked you for. What a relief, you can finally bring it to him without too much delay. You were worried that the last few weeks might have affected his patience.

"Can I come with you? Please, please, please!" "You know…your father-"

Your next words immediately die in your mouth, unable to continue as your child's eyes shine with a pleading gleam, full of hope and despair. You knew he missed his father. You missed him too. Waking up in the cold, empty bed for weeks didn't ease the weight in your stomach. You knew you shouldn't, but you finally gave in. As you sigh, your son knows he's won. He jumps up on the sofa and laughs with joy.

"Don't jump on the sofa." Scold yourself gently.

He continues to laugh and jump on the sofa. A smile stretches your lips and you roll the sleeves of your shirt up over your elbows.

"You little rascal, come here so I can catch you."

You rush over to him, catching the frail body in your hands, lifting him up by his armpits. You turn together, lifting the little monster above you. He spreads his arms out to either side, as if imitating a flying bird. And when the game ends, he's in your arms, your son clinging to your neck, his legs closed around your hip. One of your arms holds him under his bottom while the other holds the papers firmly.

"Let's go and visit your father. And don't forget-" "I have to stay close to you and not do anything stupid, or he'll be angry." Repeats your son in a mechanical voice, reciting the rules like a poem instilled in him over and over again until the phrase becomes as natural as breathing. "Good boy." You kiss his forehead, leaving your house for the warehouse where your husband works.

You don't exaclty know what he's working on, only a few things. But one thing's for sure, you're not going to be in this building with your child for long. The air is thick and heavy. The dilapidated, empty vastness makes your heels thud against the asphalt. Only the purple vines break up the urban aspect of the place with a slimy, terrifying organic aspect. Your grip closes on your child, forcing him even tighter against your chest. The instinct to protect awakens. A lioness ready to sink her fangs into the slightest threat. You summon up all your courage, praying to the gods that your nervousness doesn't affect your son. It seems to be working, as your son shakes his legs, humming happily at the thought of finally being able to see his father. The smile on his lips and his eyes curiously exploring his surroundings, as if his father could be in every shadow of the disused factory. As the minutes pass and you wander along the corridors, your arm tires. The exhaustion fire spreads through the muscles in your arm, forcing you to lower your son to the ground, taking him by the hand so that he doesn't wander off into this dangerous factory.

And finally you see that glow. The orange flames of the forges. The rhythmic sound of hammers on hot iron echoes in your ears. You're on a catwalk above the workers. Some are striking the glowing iron, others are dipping their hot blades into a bucket of water. A perfectly executed dance. A well-executed secret enterprise. You feel your son tugging at your hand as he leans against the metal railings, intrigued by the novelty.

"Don't lean too far." You say. "You there."

You turn to see Sevika standing at the other end of the catwalk, arms crossed under her chest, watching you with the utmost indifference. She works for your husband, serving him so faithfully. Perhaps we can even speak of a touch of respect for him, a feeling that doesn't extend to you and even less to the child hiding behind your leg. You see her eyebrows furrow momentarily before she gives you a strange smile.

"This should be fun." "Where is he?" You ask, ignoring her innuendo. "In the laboratory. You know the way."

You nod, pulling your son's hand to guide him along with you, passing Sevika whose gaze doesn't linger on you any longer. You pucker your lips into a thin line, was he in a bad mood for her to be amused to see your son here when he is forbidden access? Everything should be fine if he's in your company and under good guard. It's just a short visit, a brief exchange. You calm your inflamed nerves as your steps take you closer and closer to the laboratory. The orange light from the flames of the makeshift forge fades to an unnatural purple. No matter how many times you come here, you can never get used to the creepy atmosphere.

"Silco. Next time, put your papers away, will you? It's hard to find what you want in all this mess." You scoff with a frank laugh as you hand him the file he wanted.

You take a moment to detail his look. His hair is still flat against his head, even if a few rebellious strands caress his forehead. His attire is always impeccable, a great man surrounded by thugs. He looks like a king ruling his people and you have no doubt that he will succeed in achieving his goals. Your eyes are lost on the movement of his fingers as they slide along the papers in a caress that sends you back to your vivid imagination. You can almost feel his fingers sliding up your thighs…

"Thank you, little bird." He says, flicking through the papers briefly before returning to you, a smile at the corners of his lips. He had caught you looking at him, lost in thought. He knew what you were imagining. You quickly look away at the Shimmer, in an attempt to distract yourself. "Do you want to see the Shimmer's progress, before you go home?" "No thanks, I've already seen the trial phase and had enough violence for a decade at least." You groan in discomfort, clearly remembering that poor cat's corpse being eviscerated by that mouse. Earning a mocking sniff from your lover. "I wouldn't want that-"

A gasp leaves you as you finally realise that your hand that was holding your son's is free. The look on your face confirms what worried you most: your son is no longer with you. As the realisation hits you, a loud noise echoes through the factory as if a great deal of glass has just exploded. Your heart races as anguish tortures your stomach. It doesn't take more than a second for your body to start running towards the source of the noise before your mind decides to do so. Instinct. You bite your lower lip, you should have been more careful!

You hoped you were wrong, but you're not. Standing before you is a storage room covered in shards of glass that glisten in the dark purple liquid. In the middle of this dark spectacle sits your son, his knees bloodied and the palms of his hands bruised by the shattered glass. He is looking at you, his eyes glistening with tears. He is panicking. He is suffering. He is totally incomprehensible. You don’t know what´s happened to bring him to this catastrophe, but you could imagine his discomfort and fear at having to face the wrath of everyone in the room, including his father. His eyes widen, staring at a specific point behind you. Ah. Silco is arrived.

The silence is heavy. You feel your limbs tremble under the pressure. Everyone is waiting for them to get angry or bark virulent reproaches. You force a brave expression onto your face as you approach your child to allay his fears. A vain attempt when he is blinded by the sole presence of his father, who towers far above your tenderness.

"You two, with me". Is all he says before storming off down a corridor, ordering some of the onlookers to mend this mess.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

"I told you not to bring him here." Silco sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in the hope of pushing through an intense headache. "He wanted to spend time with you. You're his father, but he's seen more of Sevika in a week than he has of you in months." You scold in defence of your son. "I'm running a project that will revolutionise the way Zaun will live. There's so much to do and not much time to do it in. I don't have time to play tea party with him. You should understand that." He replies, his lips puckered in displeasure. "He only wanted to come with me to see you. He miss you!" "And his coming destroyed an important shipment of Shimmer!" He growls, tired of the days of work, tired of the problems that get in his way, tired of his son and tired of you. "He's a child! He didn't do it on purpose! You can create it again but you've only got one child with a heart you'll end up breaking!" "Little bird, do you even realise how much effort he has destroyed by his mere presence? It will take us weeks to redo everything, it's far too much! A child's heart is not worth Zaun's future."

You remain silent, unable to shake off the stinging pain in your heart that he has just reduced to nothing. Your throat knots, as if the emotions you're feeling are preventing you from replying. It's your child's pathetic sob, hitherto silent, that jolts you out of your shock. You watch his tear-stained face, struggling to contain his sadness at his father's harsh words, and yet trying with every ounce of his being to remain quiet and dignified so as not to disturb him any further. And it destroys you. You force an impassive expression onto your features as you stare at Silco. Your tongue runs over your dry lips to moisten them. Your throat is pasty but you ignore your discomfort.

"Why did you decide to fight for Zaun?" You ask suddenly. Quiet and monotone. "For the respect we are due." He replies fervently, driven by ambition and annoyance at previous events.

Your lips part. And suddenly Silco's shoulders slump, as if he's just realised something important. You don't know what's going through his mind, you don't want to know. All you do is take your son in your arms and leave the laboratory without a backward glance, despite the roar of your first name. You refuse to turn back.

Quickly, your footsteps take you out of the factory. You don't even notice that you've been standing in front of your door for minutes. Your chest heaves frantically, as if you've just run a marathon. Perhaps it was, anger pulsing through your veins, providing your muscles with a monstrous source of energy to escape the building. He hadn't followed you…you don't know whether you're glad he didn't or not.

As you enter the house, you place your child on the sofa in the living room. You leave him for a moment to get some disinfectant alcohol and bandages. Accessories that are difficult to access but which you had managed to steal on one of your rare expeditions across the bridge.

"It's going to hurt." You warn.

Your son nods and clenches his shirt into his tiny fists, waiting with closed eyes for a searing pain to shoot through his body. It didn't miss. He sobs painfully as the alcohol soaks into his wounds. He squirms in your grip and you are forced to hold him still to prevent his wounds from becoming infected. Despite your heart aching to see your son cry, you know it's for his own good. You can't afford to let his wounds get any worse.

"I know, I know… it's going to be okay, angel." You whisper against his forehead, your lips kissing the top of his head. "It's all my fault… It's my fault that if it broke and now dad is angry. It's my fault he's never home… It's my fault you fight." "No, it's not! Absolutely not! Hey, sweetheart. Look at me." You cup his face between your hands, inviting him to look at you. Your eyes fill with tears at the broken state of your son, who blames himself for everything. "It's not your fault. Dad is just tired, OK? He was very mean but I'm sure he didn't mean it, all right? But it's not all your fault. Daddy is working very hard for our future, that's why he's not here, okay? When he comes home you'll apologise, won't you? I'm sure he'll forgive you."

Your son nods shyly, sniffing at the snot running down his nose. You wipe the tears from his cheeks and then his nose with the sleeve of your shirt, then rock him with affection and love until late at night, when he finally manages to fall asleep in your arms. This argument has affected him enormously…if only you hadn't given in and left him at home. No…it's not entirely your fault, you didn't want to take on all the responsibility and guilt because you know that Silco was also at fault for being cruel to a child.

Tomorrow you'll go and see him again to talk to him once you've put your minds at rest. Maybe you can have a civilised discussion that way. Finally, abandoning the idea of getting into your pyjamas so as not to wake your child, you lie down in your marital bed, looking down at your son curled up against your chest. Silco won't be there all night, so you can leave this little bundle of joy with you.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The morning goes smoothly. Your son regains a certain youthful gaiety, playing with his toys, close to the front door as if watching for the moment when his father will cross the threshold. You decide not to send him away, perhaps because it reassures him and gives him a certain comfort. You can't blame your son for hoping to reconcile with his father. He was an important figure for him, an idol, a star. You can imagine that for your child, Silco is an important part of his life that he doesn't want to disappoint. A child's desire to please his parents, to have their undivided attention, just like when he was younger. Perhaps Silco's distancing himself from his work is hard for the poor child, who was used to being with two parents instead of one. You shake your head, pushing your futile conjectures from your thoughts. Instead you return to cook a dish that your older brother used to prepare for you when you were younger and easily saddened. That sweet, warm dish still soothed your torments to this day.

The sound of a key turning in the lock draws you out of the cooking. You strained your ear to hear your son's impatient noises, which brought a smile to your face. Today was definitely going to be a better day.

"Dad, dad is back! Dad I'm sor-"

Your son's voice fades to a whisper without finishing his sentence. Curious, you leave the kitchen, wiping your hands in a dishcloth as you walk to the front door where you see your husband holding a little blue-haired girl in his arms. A frail figure clinging to him like a wild animal cornered by danger. You feel your fingers tighten around the fabric, looking at your husband with apprehension.

"I intend to take care of that girl from now on."

Your eyes widen. He…plans to father another child?

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