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Jinx is actually the one who finds out.
"Did you know," she starts, lying on the rafters of his office, "that Singed is making a monster?"
Silco doesn't even lift his eyes from the report he's reading.
"A monster," he echoes.
Jinx hums, focused on doodling something herself.
"Yeah, he has it hanging in the lab. Some kind of big dog, wolf-looking, thing. And when I say big, I mean big."
That piques Silco's interest. He looks up.
"Where did he find an animal that size?" he asks.
"That's the thing," Jinx replies, twisting to look down at him. "He says that it wasn't an animal to begin with, but that it used to be a man."
Silco blinks.
A man.
"And he told you that himself?" he asks.
Jinx nods, one braid falling over her shoulder.
"Yup. Had to ask him about it first, though." she tilts her head. "You didn't know, then?"
No, he didn't know the Doctor had started to indulge in human experimentation to this extent.
What has Singed been up to?
That man has always been as heartless as they come, and it suits Silco just fine when it comes to the making of Shimmer and their partnership. Now, if he has decided to start picking poor bastards off the streets to use on his side projects, Silco thinks he deserves to know what for, at least.
He might even ask for details on this wolf-man of his, since he has been so secretive about it.
"No," Silco answers. "But maybe a visit to the lab is overdue."
Jinx grins.
Silco goes back to his report. He'll have to talk to Sevika, arrange matters before he goes to see Singed. It'd be best to leave things in order before he goes to have whatever discussion he's going to have with him about keeping secrets.
A man.
Pain.
Sharp, neverending pain that burns right through him.
That is the only thing he is sure of anymore.
He tastes blood at times, feels cold when it's dark, sight fails him more often than not, the sounds and smells around him change, his dreams do, too, and he never remembers.
He can't remember, he can't-
You've got a good heart-
Who?
He can't remember. Pain is the only thing he knows, anymore.
Pain is the only thing that stays.
Before going to bed that night, he passes by Jinx's room.
He has just finished talking with Sevika. She has vowed, if reluctantly, to keep the place in order while he visits the Doctor tomorrow. He'd have rather taken care of this tonight, but she pointed out just how many levels they'd have to climb in the middle of the night, and how plenty of people might be interested in taking a shot at him in the dark -the target on his back grows in size at once with the power he amasses- and he relented. He promised to take Mek and a couple of the others with him in the morning just in case, and she finally agreed.
Now Silco stands in the threshold of his daughter's room and watches her sleep for a few moments, the way he used to do on the first months she was here, when she asked him to stay every night.
(It's only a recent development, calling Jinx his daughter. Undeniable as it is, he had been lying to himself about it for a long time.
At the start, when it became obvious that she would be staying, he told himself she was simply another recruit. Then, that she was an apprentice of sorts. After, she was his future right hand in training, and later came a series of terms, each more convoluted than the rest, to try to avoid admitting that he had gone soft, that he'd let someone in again.
It's undeniable though, that he loves this child as though she was his own. Somewhere, somehow, she burrowed her way into his heart and he was helpless to stop it.
Besides, finally saying it takes a weight off of his chest. Silco has never liked to lie to himself for long.)
Jinx is breathing softly, sleep free of nightmares tonight, sprawled on the bed with painted carcasses of granades hung from its headboard that have been there since the day he gave her this room. They are a token from another time, something that belongs to the past -the drawings on them more childish and the design of the bombs less practical- but he has never asked her why she keeps them, he already knows.
Each copes with mourning differently, and as much as he would like to chase the ghosts that haunt her away, he can't. Silco can only kill his own terrors; she has to get rid of her own herself. All he can do is stand beside her as she does and hope it's enough.
Her fringe has fallen over her eyes, a strand particularly close to her mouth. Silco doesn't brush it back, not wanting her to pull the gun she keeps under her pillow on him again.
(It's not the only reason, but he doesn't like to think about the rest for long. Letting her get close is surprisingly easy, letting her hug him and do his make up whenever she asks, but he never reaches out in the same way. Silco keeps her gifts on display on his desk and gives her anything she asks for, and yet he never so much as pats her in the back after she shows him another of her drawings.
He used to be far more carefree when it came to touch, he remembers. One armed hugs shared between friends, lending a hand to people he met on the street who needed someone to help them up, at his job when it was something he got paid for, with him…
One more thing that was lost to the river, he guesses, that sunk down into the waters while he was held down and never came back up, that fateful night.
One more thing to blame Vander for.)
Unless her screams reach his room and wake him before they wake her, he never risks doing anything that could wake her up.
Still, he stands on the doorway, deep in thought, for a few more seconds. He hopes, as he does every night, that she sleeps well, and with that in mind he leaves, closing the door as softly as he can before heading to his room.
(It still feels wrong to call it his, even after all this time. It was Vander's, when he lived here with his children, and, before that, it was theirs. He hasn't gotten used to sleeping alone in it, and he doubts he ever will.)
When they took the Last Drop and made it their base, it was the first room Silco visited, carrying Jinx asleep in his arms. It had changed, of course it had, only the bare bones of the place Silco remembered remaining. Vander had filled the wardrobes with his own clothes, left a few books on the bedside table, put a hook behind the door and left his jacket hanging there.
Staring at all those changes was almost like staring at him, at who he had become. Almost.
Silco left Jinx sleeping on the couch downstairs, came back up, and burned every single thing of Vander's that he could find. Clothes, possessions, a pipe -though he's sure there's at least one more hiding away somewhere in the building that he couldn't find; Vander must have owned at least two- and his stupid collection of arm braces -why he had so many, he'll never know.
(He only remembered he should have taken care of the sheets too when he went to sleep that night and found that they still smelled like him.
Silco slept under them that night, not letting himself think about how much he resembled a widower.
He ordered new ones the next morning and then burnt them as well, for good measure.)
It took him more than a simple stab to kill his ghosts, but still, he managed. Now they are long gone, nevermind the nights when he doesn't dare fall asleep, not afraid of nightmares, but of dreams, those made of memories of before. It's not like he cares, he turned his back on the corpse of what could have been, left it cooling down on an alleyway and ordered Singed to get rid of the remains.
Vander is long gone, and the memory of him and of what they once were barely, if ever, haunts him. It stopped mattering the moment he put his hands around his neck.
(Silco doesn't like lying to himself, but that doesn't mean he's above it on occassion.
When it's necessary to keep breathing easy, to stop himself from feeling like the Pilt didn't really change him at all and he's the same man that he was and he can almost feel the phantom of Vander's touch -hands, lips, teeth biting down besides his collarbone hard enough to draw blood- he's willing to tell himself anything to keep walking with his head held high.)
There is hunger, too, though it never stays the same.
Sometimes it starts on his stomach, a hollow thing that calls for him to hunt.
He thinks it was there before, but it never was so strong, so insatiable. Still, that one passes after he tastes blood on his tongue, after he sinks his teeth and claws on something; anything will do, when it comes to killling this hunger.
Sometimes, though, it starts on his chest.
It starts on his chest, but spreads to the rest of his body, fast, begging for something, but nothing in his reach will do.
It's a hunger that craves, that has him howling and fighting the grip the chains that bind him, that makes him whimper and brings tears to his eyes when all of his efforts turn futile.
He can still cry. That has to count for something.
Still?
He craves to feel something other than pain and metal and cold. He wants someone to kill the hunger for him, someone to touch him with something other than hurting in mind.
There used to be hugs, from the people he had to care for, t here used to be someone that held him through the night, before that.
There used to be tenderness.
He needs someone to hold him.
But who?
Time is the only thing that quells that hunger down, pain is what takes its place.
Sometimes, he prefers the pain.
Silco barges into the lab in the early morning, when the Lanes are still half asleep and the streets of Zaun are empty. They haven't run into any trouble on their way, and he is sure they won't run into any on their way back -Sevika is becoming too paranoid; if they had come here yesterday night it would have been fine.
A little bit of intimidation goes a long way when it comes to anyone's compliance, even if they are one of his supposed associates, so Mek and the others come in with him instead of staying outside as they usually do.
Silco doesn't appreciate things being kept from him, and it seems like Singed needs to be reminded of it.
Singed is, of course, already inside -there's a betting pool, that Silco certainly doesn't know about, concerning whether he ever leaves his lair or simply lives there. He has the eyes of a man resigned to his fate, if slightly bored by it. He knew damned well that once Jinx discovered his little project, word of it would reach Silco as well.
Silco clasps his hands behind his back and studies the room for a minute, unsurprisingly not finding the beast anywhere in sight. If the Doctor was already going through so much trouble to keep it from him, he wouldn't have put it on display right besides the door.
"I believe we need to talk, Singed," Silco says, raising his brows when he finally meets the Doctor's gaze.
The Doctor takes a look at his men.
"It might be best if they left," he rasps out.
Silco remains silent for a couple of seconds, wanting to see if Singed will back down. When he doesn't, he tilts his head, calculating.
In the end, he hums. As long as he remains cooperative, he might as well give him the benefit of the doubt and follow his suggestions. Singed is well aware of the power Silco holds, anyway. Maybe a show of might is a bit much.
"Wait for me outside," he orders over his shoulder.
Silence falls between them once the door bangs closed behind Mek. Singed appears hesitant, eyes darting towards a different door, one that leads deeper into the lab, as though he was considering something.
Silco is intrigued.
"Follow me," Singed ends up saying, resigned, and turns on his heel to march out that door.
Silco follows.
Hearts.
He can hear hearts.
He does not know how he knows what they are, but he hears them so much clearer now.
Now?
Could he hear them before?
Before what?
There is usually just one, now there are two, and he knows them both.
One belongs to the pain, is almost as constant as it is. Always pounding at his head, too calm, too loud, beating at once with its pulse, with the way hurt spreads from his back, wanting to split him in half and put him back together again. It's too much, too much, too much-
The other isn't; the other is faster, though more steady, softer where the other is incessantly loud. The other is familiar.
It's familiar.
The heart walks closer, unperturbed.
He knows he could change that, make it race under his hands.
His hands.
Hands touching hands, caressing skin, gentle, wandering, unhurried.
Hands around a neck, firm, not letting go, that pulse slowing under his own fingers.
I've never forgiven myself-
It's true.
What is?
With every beat, that heart brings a bit more clarity, drags into the light echoes of feelings and dreams.
He wants to scream for it to come closer, and yet he can't make his mouth move.
"You have to understand that I didn't plan on witholding this from you for much longer," Singed says.
Silco tilts his head towards him to show he's listening.
"I was unsure of whether the transformation would be succesful or not," he explains. "I planned on waiting until the product was ready, before showing it to you."
"You admit you've been hiding this from me," Silco concludes.
"Yes." Singed doesn't so much as flinch.
At least he's honest once he's cornered, if nothing else.
"The tests I've conducted have all shown promise, but the subject's mind is still- unstable. It still has trouble distinguishing its past from the final form its thoughts are to take."
"So it is true that it was a man," Silco says. "And you've gotten rid of his memory?"
The Doctor knows neither limits nor morals, Silco is aware of this, always has been, but he has to suppress a shudder every time he remembers just how far he's willing to go.
"With varying levels of success, I fear. I believe it would still be able to revert to its original mind submitted to the right stimulus, undoing all of my work."
Silco frowns.
"It's a weapon." A monster.
"It will be," Singed agrees. "One that obeys without question, much stronger than what any of our Shimmer enhanced soldiers can become. An animal with the cognitive capacities of a man."
They finally come upon a door -made up of metal, heavy, with multiple, interlaced locks- in a secluded part of the lab, which is more labyrinthe than ever, seemingly growing along with Singed's progress.
The Doctor has definitely taken precautions to keep it out of sight. Silco feels a small spark of pride at the fact that Jinx managed to discover this scheme all on her own, probably forced her way past the locks as well. He'll have to congratulate her later.
Singed procures a set of keys from his belt and swiftly unlocks it, the mechanism of bolts creaking as he does.
Silco shifts on his feet while he's distracted, uneasy. Even if he has seen Singed come up with all kinds of grotesque ideas during the years he has known him, most of them still make his stomach turn. This one might be one of the worst to date, so he believes he has every right to feel as uncomfortable as he likes.
The door finally slides open, and Silco stiffens.
There, in the dark, chained to the ceiling and walls, lays the monster.
The heart is here.
He's here.
Something twists inside him.
The hunger.
The hunger is here too, it has returned stronger than ever.
And he somehow knows time won't be able to quell it.
It takes root in his chest and, slowly, spreads into his mind-
Children, four of them, only two made it out-
A place, somewhere warm, that felt like laughter-
Smoke on a bridge-
A river-
Water soaking his clothes, running down his cheeks, slithering inside his arm as soon as the knife-
Coldness, for a long time, things getting worse, when they used to be so easy between them-
Joy. Hope. That heart beating underneath his palm. Safe.
He latches onto that thought with all his strength and opens his eyes to find him standing at the door.
Silco.
The first thought Silco has, is that the beast is huge.
Jinx didn't lie when she said it was big. The wolf man is at least three times his size, all claws and muscle. Dark fur covers it fully, not a single strip of skin to betray that it was once anything other than… this. At a glance, it can certainly pass for an overgrown animal, if a chemically altered one at that, the vat on its back glowing green and what seems like a half finished contraption implanted on its right arm, metal and tubes filled with more of that green liquid portruding from it.
Silco is still willing to give Singed the benefit of the doubt, though. He wants to see if it can actually be turned into such a weapon as the one the Doctor has just described.
Its form hangs limply from the ceiling, heavy chains around its legs and arms holding him there, and probably keeping anyone that comes close from being torn to shreds. Breath slow, Silco thinks it's sleeping.
He takes a single step inside the room, and the beast's eyes snap open.
Then, to make things worse, it speaks, voice barely above a gurgling sound,
"Silco."
The hunger is carving a hole through his chest.
"Silco," he calls again. Silco looks terrified, scared, afraid of him.
It isn't new-
Isn't it?
It's wrong.
Still, he repeats his name again, and again, and hopes, because it used to be safe.
He wants to feel safe again.
Silco doesn't dare breathe while those piercing red eyes still on his, the monster calling his name.
What is that thing?
The Doctor has no problem, apparently, simply mumbling something untelligible as he picks up a syringe and sinks it into the creature's side.
It snarls, finally falling silent, pained, and throws its head back as it struggles against the binds. In a matter of seconds, its body goes limp again, chains clinking together as it sways.
(There's something uncanny, deeply disturbing in the way that, by that gesture alone, it reminds Silco of someone.)
"It recognised you," Singed sighs, setting the syringe down.
"Was it supposed to?" Silco asks, wondering if he only sounds near hysterics to his own ears.
"There was a chance it would." he bothers to look at least slightly apologetic as he shrugs. "That is one of the other reasons I wanted to wait. Its mind is still not fully sound, as I told you."
Not fully-
"Who was he?" Silco says, stepping closer, trying to keep his cool, even if his hands are shaking at his sides. Though who can blame him? No one told him the fucking thing could talk, nor that it used to be someone he knew.
The Doctor hesitates before replying, which does wonders for Silco's nerves. He's already running a list of possible candidates, of people whose life might have ended up on the Doctor's hands by sheer dumb luck and who would be able to recognise him.
Who has Singed chained up to the ceiling for his own sick amusement?
"Vander," the Doctor says, and the world comes to a halt.
Something sinks into his side, and pain drags him under.
Pain drags him under, but he isn't afraid, for once.
He didn't know the fear was a constant until now.
And then, the unthinkable happens, and Vander starts to remember.
A breath. Another.
Vander.
It can't be, he's dead. Silco saw his body with his own two eyes and told Singed to take care of it.
Hold on.
"You gave me your permission to deal with the body as I saw fit," Singed goes on, "and this might not have been what you had in mind, but I saw an opportunity to… finish what we started."
No, this wasn't what Silco had in mind. It wasn't what he had in mind at all.
Silco killed his ghosts that night, left them for dead and walked away with a little girl sobbing in his arms. It wasn't the quick revenge he had thought of at first, nor did it end with a stab to the gut and the death of his children, the bastard fought. Vander never knew when to back down, and the way he died only proved it further. Jumping out of a fucking window, sacrificing himself, saving his little prodigy's life only for her to disappear without a trace minutes later.
Janna, his corpse didn't even look like him, by the time it was over. Silco turned his back on it as soon as he could, not wanting to have the image he still had of Vander on his mind -of how he was, who he was- to become tainted by it.
Singed has to be lying; that thing isn't him.
"A body takes some time to fully die," Singed says, sounding to Silco's ears as if he was standing far away. "That itself is nothing new, but coupled with the dosage of Shimmer Vander took before his last stand… Well, it kept his body warm until I was able to bring him back."
The Doctor goes on, but Silco can't hear him, can't focus on his voice.
Singed has been playing god.
Silco wanted power, wanted to finally raise the Nation of Zaun that they had always dreamed of, and Vander was standing in the way. The decision of getting rid of him was an easy one to make. Silco had been meaning to get his revenge for a long time, watching from the shadows, waiting, and he took his chance when it finally came.
He wanted Vander dead, and then he was. It was the most effective way to take control of the Lanes and introduce Shimmer to the people of Zaun, and maybe it wasn't nearly as cathartic as he had hoped for, but it was useful, and that's what mattered.
It was not clean, but it was an end, and Silco realises he wanted it to be it. He wanted to be rid of Vander once and for all, not drawing out his torment a single second more than necessary to be able to finally keep him out of his mind.
(It was impossible, he discovered. It's impossible for him to ever escape Vander, his memory always present somehow. Silco can almost see him out of the corner of his eye when he walks through the places they used to go, when he looks at the Pilt, picture his head lying on the pillow next to his at night.)
Maybe it's because he has changed since, more than he ever thought possible, and he's gone soft, or maybe it's seeing what has become of Vander what's doing him in, but he suddendly realises that he didn't want Vander to suffer any longer either.
"Jinx was quite lucky," Singed says, and Silco snaps out of it at the mention of her, "that it remained asleep the other day. Had he seen her…"
Fuck, Jinx.
Silco can barely hear anything over his own heartbeat and he wants to scream.
"I suppose you'll wish to await to see the result." Singed clasps his hands in front of himself, like a vendor showing off produce three weeks old in the market calling it fresh. "There's still much to do, before project Warwick is finished."
Silco looks at him. "Warwick?"
"Ah, yes, that's its name." he straighens. "Warwick."
And that simply makes his blood boil.
He snaps.
"His name," Silco hisses, fury making his skin crawl. "is Vander."
The Doctor is taken aback.
"You told me to do with the body as I saw fit," he repeats, confused rather than defensive.
Apparently he believed Silco would approve, and he would have been right, of course. Silco can admit he wouldn't have cared less about any of this, about the monster dangling from his ceiling and its miserable life, if it wasn't because that's Vander.
Singed expected him not to care about the fact that he has kept Vander in chains for years.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Silco breathes out through his nose, growing frantic.
"Get him down," Silco says.
"What d–"
"I said get him down!"
He doesn't pull his knife on him, but it's a near thing.
The doctor knows it too, and he's quick to move closer to a set of pulleys Silco hadn't even noticed were there. The chains holding Vander up clank as they fall, his limp body following with a painful thud. He doesn't so much as stir.
Silco is careful to stay still, not moving a single finger. He doesn't have any control over what his face must be doing at this point, though.
As soon as Vander's down, he orders, "Leave. Now."
Singed blinks. "The subject is not stable yet. It might become aggressive when–"
"Now!"
At Silco's thinning patience, Singed gives up his workplace and marches out the door, closing it behind him without another word.
Silco rushes to Vander and falls to his knees.
"Vander," he whispers, not knowing where to even start.
He has fallen on his side, one arm trapped under him, chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Every breath he takes rattles, wheezes past the maw he has for a mouth, eyes closed and brow furrowed in a mockery of what he used to look like as he slept.
Janna preserve them both, it's Vander.
Silco lifts a hand, about to reach out, but hesitates. The Doctor said he could be agressive, but Silco isn't even sure if it was genuine advice or one desperate attempt at getting him to back off. Still, even if he doesn't trust him, he doesn't want to lose a hand for this.
Then Vander gasps in his sleep, the sound echoing around the empty room, guttural, and Silco decides that he owes him at least the risk.
(He didn't even have him buried properly. He could have just given him up to the river, at least, but he chose to do nothing, to know nothing, of what became of him.
There are fates worse than death, and Silco damned him to one of them.)
Carefully, he sets a hand on the beast's shoulder. The fur there is coarse, thicker than it seems to be in other parts of his body, and by the way Vander remains unresponsive, Silco doubts he can even feel it.
"Vander," he calls and, after a moment's pause, sets a hand atop his head.
His laboured breaths are the only answer.
Silco looks him over again. The binds have to be chaffing his skin, and the way he's lying can't be comfortable.
Might try to make that better as well, since he's already here.
Slowly, he manages to drag Vander's arm from underneath him, studying his hand– paw for a moment as he does. If Vander's hands were already bigger than his before, it's nothing compared to the way they dwarf them now, the fur covering them softer to the touch, the claws as sharp as blades.
Silco holds it between his hands for a few moments, trying to collect himself.
(Trying to memorize the differences.)
He finally lets go, and moves closer to Vander's head. Silco cradles his nape and the space between his ears, and sets it on his lap.
Vander.
He huffs, breath hot against Silco's thigh, the same way he did when he had a bad dream.
(Vander never turned in his sleep, never made a single sound while he was having a nightmare, usually of his time on the mines.
At first, Silco only knew when he had them because of the way he held him after one, arms shaking, grip much more unsure than usual. It used to scare him, how different they were in that, in the way Silco woke up thrashing, ready to fight whoever was close while Vander stayed so still. Hence, Silco started paying attention, and ended up being able to read Vander, know all of his tells, by night as well as by day.
He had hoped he'd have forgotten them by now.)
Silco cards his shaking fingers through Vander's mane on instinct alone.
He calls his name again, and this time, Vander's breath hitches.
They thought they were invincible, back in the day. Mind you, for the most part, they were. Planned and did jobs Topside that no one else could pull off in a matter of days, never got caught by enforcers on their way home, and when they gave chase, they gave them a taste of their own medicine. They were cocky, and had good reasons to be.
Back in the day, they were unstoppable, and they knew it, so they started dreaming.
It probably begun with those late night conversations, when Benzo had already gone back home and it was only Silco and him sitting on a roof, sharing a couple of cheap cigars and a bottle of whatever they could find. At first, they only talked about doing bigger hits, how to get into Piltover proper, one of the towers, the Academy, the Council, joking for the most part and not being serious for what was left. After came the times they spoke about their beliefs, about how far they could actually take their winning streak, when the idea of a rebellion was first conceited. And later, when the revolts had just begun and they were still riding the high of victory, there came a whispered confession, a grin, and a kiss.
(By then, they already had them; dreams, he means. They had a vision, a common goal, a future in mind for which to fight, and wasn't that -having a tomorrow to wait for- just part of the dreaming, too?)
The late night conversations turned into simple late nights spent together once Vander bought the Drop, almost every night, in fact, even while Silco still lived at Babette's. They got used to them, obviously.
(They got comfortable, too comfortable. Then again, why shouldn't they have?)
On good nights, they didn't sleep at all, too busy laughing and kissing each other's smiles away after. On bad nights, Silco held him until dawn, a hand brushing back his hair, another on his back, letting him bury his face on his neck and cry.
It was good. It was easy.
Then it was over-
Or was it?
Fire licking at his heels, the building collapsing-
Vander doesn't know how they got here, how it could come to this-
He can't even take the damned arm brace off without thinking of him, for fuck's sake-
A river-
The rest is still a blur, more like his mind usually feels. Vander doesn't care; it will come to him, eventually. If this could, that can, too, because Silco is here now.
(Vander isn't sure how he's here, or what here is, but Silco has come for him.)
Vander opens his eyes.
"Silco?" Vander asks in a deep, hoarse voice, eyes half lidded.
Not even they have stayed the same, now a glowing red that pierces right through him.
(Silco and him match now.)
"Yes," Silco replies, hoarse, brushing the fur under Vander's eye with his thumb. "I'm here."
A deep, echoing breath.
"You came," Vander says, and it sounds like he's trying to smile.
The words land on his chest like a knife.
His memory lays in pieces, Silco reminds himself. The man he's talking to isn't the Vander he was at the end, even if it's still him. He definitely knows him, but he probably would have tried to bite Silco's head off if he recalled how their last encounter really went.
Still, the next words Silco says are, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."
Vander huffs. "It doesn't matter."-speaking takes him some effort, the words matching the cadence they used to have but voice too harsh-"You're here, now."
It matters, though. It matters, because Silco is now realising that it could have changed everything.
Tears gather at the corners of his eyes.
Silco feels like his old self, all of a sudden, like that young, naive man that would have died and killed for Vander if he so much as asked him to. Feelings he thought were long lost, that had withered and vanished with age, are brought forth with a strenght that almost burns through him. It might be what remains of his honor, or some misshapen sence of justice that has lost its form after all these years, crying out at seeing how much Vander has suffered without reason.
(Or maybe it's simply that this is Vander, claws and all, chains rattling as he curls his body closer the same way he did when they still shared a bed.
Silco thinks his heart might be breaking.)
On a whim, he presses his forehead against Vander's crown.
"Yes," he breathes, "I'm here now."
Silco reaches for Vander's paw, covering his claws with his fingers. Feeling them cut his skin grounds him.
Vander presses closer.
"Will you stay?" Vander asks, eyes falling closed. "Please."
Silco swallows.
"I will," he promises, and knows it's true.
"Thank you."
And, with one last huff, Vander's breath evens out.
A silence, Vander's even breathing the only sound.
(Silco still wants to scream.)
Silco chokes out a gasp, and slowly raises his head.
Fuck.
Janna preserve him, please.
A tear rolls down his cheek and he can't bring himself to care.
What now?
He doesn't know. Vander is alive, it changes both nothing and everything, and he doesn't know.
(He contemplates for half a second if it wouldn't be a mercy to take his knife out and end this now, while the beast sleeps. It could end things for good, if he set the body on fire after and didn't let Singed back in until this whole room had been reduced to cinders.
For that he'd have to take his hands away back and let Vander go, though, and he doesn't think he can make himself move.)
What can he actually do? Get him out of the lab? Hide him in the Last Drop's basement and hope that when he gets better he doesn't want to slice him into pieces?
A single drop of blood falls from his finger to the floor, staining Vander's claws, but he doesn't notice.
What is he going to tell Jinx?
Silco stiffens.
Janna. Jinx.
She can't know, he thinks, horrified, holding onto Vander.
She can't find out.