Chapter Text
They always talk about hearing the pin drop, but you'd argue that the pen rolling off his desk and clattering onto the ground was far louder. And when Silco spoke, you had to admit, the quiet question was far louder than any pin or pen ever could be.
"What did you just say?" It never occurred to you that the normal eye could stretch as wide-open as the more infamous one. It's the first thing that comes to mind when your mouth gaps, seeking a response to his bewildered, and yet stern question of pure bafflement.
Thankfully, you don't respond by noting the new detail of your employers eye-width, and instead slowly repeat what Silco just heard you say, off-handedly, and far too casually-spoken, "Do you want some help rubbing it out?"
The eye narrows to an acceptable level, and equally, his mouth closes fully too, and partially scarred-lips pale as his jawline tenses even further, and he hums. Thoughtfully so.
Silco, thoughtful. The thought makes you sweat, and you immediately work to backtrack, "I just... you look... I-i'll just go...?" You phrase it like a question, even when you are already halfway turning on a heel, and halted with a foot mid-step when he raises his hand.
"No, you won't. Not..." There's a pause, then. "Not until you look me in the eyes, and explain what do you think my reaction ought to be, for my employee to walk in and offer to... 'rub it out' with me."
"I... no, not like that-" Your mouth is back to gapping but, despite now being caught under a rapidly-souring glare from the kingpin, you manage to hold his gaze, "I-i just... you look-"
"Look what." It's now a snarl, and you can't tell what is about to break first: the man's composure, the desktop, or that vein that's beginning to throb beneath the skin of his forehead. If one of the latter-two are about to break, you subtly shift your feet to prepare for a swift exit to call on the nearest doctor (for yourself or him, you're not even sure if he's decided yet) but if it's the first-former, you resign to get your words out in full, in some attempt of sparing yourself from Silco's ire.
"Sir, you look very tense, like... I-i just wanted to know if you wanted help... rubbing out the tension? I-i mean your shoulders alone look stiffer than iron, sir."
Honestly, it was some divine miracle they hadn't seized up and left him frozen at his desk. Said-shoulders relax, but more like from steel to stone in it's actual progress. Few could tell the difference, and you were one of the many. "Are you standing here and offering to be a masseuse?"
"... again, I can just go." You had already brought the papers to him - average report, a little Firelight activity that had made his jaw turn taut like wire but otherwise normal - so there was no reason for him to keep you here.
"Do you always leave an offer on the table before escaping?" He drawled, tone smooth when everything else about him was anything-but at the moment. You blinked, "Well... you don't really pay me for the business side of things, sir. Negotiations or offers aren't really my thing."
"But 'rubbing it out' is?"
You blink, then feel your eyes squint slightly at the mocking tone in his voice. It feels like it's only partially at your expense, the rest dedicated to easing the shock at, what you can fully admit, was a less-than-a-professionally given offer. But not one born out of nothing, which you curtly tell him, "Look, sir, the offer on the table. All I'm saying is that you look like you need a hand to help relax - if you don't, then I'll go."
"I don't," Silco says, almost immediately. It's an effort not to roll your eyes, as he almost looks offended, though thankfully, not in the way that makes you worry if you're about to face termination from employment or life. "It's flattering that one of mine decides to show concern, but not only is it unneeded, I don't recall it being any of your concern."
At this, you did roll your eyes, and with that loss of self-control, you lose the rest of it, and started striding over around the desk.
"Don't you dare."
"Throttle me later, I'd rather not continue watching you practice your rigor mortis a couple years early."
"A couple years...!"
Taking a page out of his book, you lean on his desk with a palm on the wood, looking down at him with unimpressed eyes as he glowers, but doesn't get up. It's amazing that he has enough flexibility left in his muscles to bristle. "Dock my pay or get Sevika to kick my ass later, but I'm being serious here. You're more tense than a block of wood, and I can't think of a time when you weren't trying to imitate marble. Call a professional if you want, but I'm making an offer here and now. You can take it, or tell me to hit the road, but I am telling you that you need to relax."
For a moment, there’s only silence, and two sets of eyes boring holes into the other. You think the red one, color of fire enveloped in black, is halfway to succeeding in burning a hole though your brain, before you finally move.
It’s a little suicidal that you chose not to move away, but the part of you that’s still rational tries to convince yourself that you are simply taking initiative - a trait you would hope Silco could appreciate, if it didn’t include walking around behind his chair, reaching over, and setting your hands on his shoulders.
His nails are just beginning to bury into the skin of your wrists, a snarl of pure outrage piercing the air, when you roll the heel of your palm against the back of shoulders, with fingertips kneading through fabrics and leathers to press into stiffened skin, and Silco, goes fully limp.
Not limp to the point where he falls out of his chair, but enough that the room becomes still and quiet, and you find yourself freezing when his hands slacken considerably around your wrists. You wonder if maybe Ran had the right-idea about those talks of ‘pressure points,’ and perhaps you just pressed the one that effectively killed the man.
“I... are you-”
Pulling away to escape, or perhaps check the limp-man’s pulse, becomes a futile effort when his grip comes back to life the moment you start pulling away. It takes another minute for words, quiet, and a bit hoarse, to sound from your employer again, “You’ve never... been the type to leave a job undone.”
Still frozen, almost as stiff as him, you manage to blink. “Ah...Sir, are you...?”
Your tone is innocent. It’s in direct contrast to that wicked little sigh you get out from Silco, as you press knuckles into the sore muscles there on his shoulders. Indeed, there’s a shock that this is evening happening - that you have your hands on Silco, in a dare-you-say vulnerable way, and somehow, not already dead, but it’s also... amusing?
“Stop discussing it. You set out to do a task, the least you can do is see it through,” Another pause, before the undeclared King of Zaun settles back into your grip at his shoulders, fingers slowly peeling from your skin to settle atop the armrests. “If we must have a discussion afterwards, it can be about your neglect of...of minding your...”
“Minding what?”
It’s certainly bordering on domestic, particularly when he almost sinks back into your touch at another deep kneading into stiff, sore muscles. The thought makes a laugh slip out of you, close to a giggle. “Don’t... This is hardly for your entertainment.”
“Okay, Silco.”
“And don’t mistake me... I don’t need this.”
“Mmhm.”
He opens his mouth to insist again, and you press your thumbs deep into a particularly hard bundle of stress-sore muscles at the uppermost of his back. Rubbing it out into smoothness, you nearly draw blood with how hard you bite your lip when you hear the tiniest moan - a moan - slip out of the mouth of the most feared man in Zaun.
The sound may be just a reflection of his pleasure as muscles are pressed and prodded into relaxation, but it’s a sound that you can’t deny you want to hear again. You imagine, once the euphoria of lessening muscles and eased soreness wears off, that you’re either going to get the dressing-down of your life, or the most reluctant, threatening thank-you in existence from doing this.
But in that moment, you find you don’t care about that. Instead, you care more about sliding your hands further along the Eye of Zaun’s shoulders, and finding the next spot to massage firmly into.
Partly to finally get the man to relax for once in his life, and, selfishly, also because you want to hear him make that breathless little groan again.
You quickly come to find out, that there’s a lot of places that could make him recreate that little sound again.