Chapter Text
There had been a letter, in their secret hideout in the abandoned adit of the mines. It had been far from an eloquent apology, but it had its desired effect, or something close to it. Silco couldn’t find it in himself to forgive Vander for what he’d done, and how he’d done it. But when he showed up at The Last Drop, tired and angry, he’d realised that Vander hated himself more than Silco could ever hate him. In the beginning, it was thrilling. Later, less so.
Had someone told Silco a year ago that he’d move in with the man who had tried to kill him, he would have laughed in their face and maybe robbed them at knife point. Vander was all that Silco wasn’t—he was strong and he was handsome, he offered second chances and cared intimately about the members of his community. All Silco had to show for himself was a broken sense of trust, a ruined face, and a fierce will to live. Although he wasn’t so sure about the last one anymore.
See, Silco had always had a strange relationship with danger. It made him a fearless leader of riots and uprisings. When going on a heist, he was the first one in and the last one out. He’d learned to pick locks and disable simple, and later more complicated, traps. Silco was the one they sent to negotiate because he wouldn’t let anyone intimidate him, no matter if their opponents wore masks and armour and carried guns. Silco was fearless. Silco flirted with death.
The truth was that he was terrified. But succumbing to fear was a death sentence in the Undercity, so Silco learned to love it, instead. The thrill of danger, of getting close, so close to what could end his life, it made him feel powerful. And after that fateful night at the river, that was what he needed.
Nothing was the same, after. He jumped at the slightest movements that escaped his periphery vision. The headaches kept him delirious at times, until his mind adjusted to the very limited vision left on his eye. But most of all, Silco trembled at the sight of water. The sight of any amount larger than what could fill a sink paralysed him. He could feel it, cold, clammy fingers seizing his limbs and weighing him down, dragging him away. Vander’s brute strength, hands that had cradled him gently, cutting off the air until he was flailing, choking, dying. It hadn’t felt good, then.
The first time Silco threw himself into the Pilt, he was pretty sure it was to end it. Exposed to the toxins, there was no way he would be able to survive. Except, he had no open wounds, and the agony of being eaten alive by chemicals didn’t come. Instead, Silco floated.
It became a habit after that. Fear would grip him at the sight of the river, and he would conquer it, again and again and again, until his lungs burned and his heart beat with triumph. Vander may have tried to kill him, but Silco was far from weak. He lived, and he breathed, and he flung himself into the river. It was like a high, an addiction, and Silco couldn’t help but need it. To wrestle death and come out on top. That he felt the same reaction of utter blinding terror at first, despite having completed this ritual countless times, didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have. He didn’t want to stop. He needed to feel that sense of control.
Silco hadn’t gone back to the Pilt after finding the letter, and he was getting antsy. Living with Vander again was…it was strange. Felicia’s girls didn’t know about their father’s history with Silco, but they treated him with wariness anyway. Vander himself was hovering more than he used to. Feeling guilty, Silco thought. It was satisfying, until it started to get on his nerves.
The problem was that Vander’s eyes held so much sadness that Silco’s heart did a pained leap whenever he saw him. He couldn’t forgive him that easily. He wouldn’t. And it didn’t matter that Vander remembered all of Silco’s quirks. It didn’t matter that he turned down the lights and the music when Silco came into a room. It didn’t matter that he stayed at a distance, giving Silco all the space he asked for and more.
It certainly didn’t matter that Vander’s smile grew warm and fond when he saw his girls begin to trust Silco. Powder was a force of nature, quick and curious. She asked a thousand questions, pestered Silco with her inventions, and he found he delighted in watching her experiment with different kinds of distractions and minor explosives. Vi was a bit slower to warm up to Silco, but she too allowed him into their family, and well, Silco’s issue was with Vander, not with his kids. He was a prick, but he wouldn’t let his frustration out on the girls.
It was during one of their quiet evenings that everything changed. Powder had come to say goodnight, and Vi had informed Vander she would practice her punches, and he and Silco were alone for the evening. Silco had grabbed himself a book, one that he remembered from the time before the uprising, and had folded his long legs into the old armchair that always squeaked as if it was about to fall apart. He hadn’t had the pleasure of reading for himself for a long while, and he was quite enjoying himself, despite the fact that he’d read the book at least twice already.
Vander was watching him. Silco felt his gaze on him, warm and sad. He sighed and snapped the book shut. “What is it?”
Vander made a face. “Nothin’.”
“You keep staring,” Silco pointed out neutrally.
“Ah,” Vander said. “Sorry.”
“Well, stop doing it.”
“I—yes, fine.”
Silco turned back to his book. Soon after, the tingling resumed. When he looked up, Vander was looking away. Silco sighed. “I don’t need your pity. You’re the one who got me the scar in the first place.”
“It’s not pity,” Vander said, eyes snapping back to him.
“Oh no?” Silco knew he was poking the bear, but he was itching for a fight, and Vander was the obvious, and only, target. “Then what is it? Do enlighten me, brother.”
“Dammit, Silco! You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. When you talk to me, you pick fights. And you know what, that’s your right. What I did to you was unspeakable, but it hurts me to see you mistreat yourself like this. I know you don’t want to show it, and maybe you don’t even admit it to yourself.”
Silco was frozen, the book forgotten in his lap. Vander clearly hadn’t expected that outburst, either, and he was staring at Silco, eyes wide and apologetic.
“I care about you,” Vander continued finally, his voice nearly breaking. “I know you find it hard to believe, but I do. And I hate to see how little you care for yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are.”
Vander’s intense gaze bore into him, and Silco felt hot and cold all over. With wobbly knees, he stood. The book fell to the floor with a quiet thud. “I have to go.”
“Silco—”
He rushed past Vander, past his burning eyes and passionate words. He needed to find some space to breathe. He needed to drown in the fucking Pilt.