There was one useful thing Chross's underling confessed in between pleas, just before his jaw got broken, supporting Jinx's hypothesis; the mechanism behind the bombs, it's Piltovan-made. Then, it was a matter of going up the chain of delivery, from Ran – that they had to make sure to see without Jinx because the blue-haired girl was very keen on making them pay for introducing a bomb that wasn't hers in the Last Drop – all the way to…
"Markus."
Silco's curt greeting snaps Vander out of his train of thought. He can't see his face, standing behind his desk chair as he is, but he can picture it just fine right now – narrowed eye, a tense line at the corner of his mouth that resembles a smile but is far from one.
What he can see, though, is Markus's expression, the moment the Sheriff's eyes fell on him.
Oh, he knows how that looks. He's clearly working with Silco, hasn't killed him, hasn't even tried to contact enforcers to smuggle intel about his business. It looks exactly like it is, in fact.
"Disappointed, Sheriff?" Markus's eyes snap back to Silco. "Nothing went how you wanted to. What a shame."
"What are you talking about?"
Silco sighs, sounding disappointed.
"We all know what I'm talking about. What, thought I wouldn't be aware of your little deal with Vander here? Not only did I hear about it from the start, but he also told me. There is one thing you Topsiders forget about Zaun; you made it so that the only way to survive for us is through loyalty."
Vander doesn't miss the way Markus's eyes shift from him to Silco at that. Maybe it's only in his mind, an echo of his thoughts right then, but he would swear his gaze lingers on the ember-black eyes and the scars. He grits his teeth.
And nearly misses the moment Markus looks up at him.
"I would have thought this loyalty extended to your daughter, Hound. This is your last shot to keep her out of Stillwater, you know."
He opens his mouth to tell the Sheriff to go fuck himself, but a flash of light catches his attention – the blade of the knife, formerly his, as slender fingers graze the carved driftwood. Markus, too, is looking down at it. Vander's heart clenches. Does Silco truly think he might… He's unarmed, and he made a promise, and–
He promised Silco to always be there for him, also, years ago. That he will protect him. He never thought until it happened that the threat would come from within. And he wasn't unarmed, that day by the river, but he might as well have been. His hands are weapons in and of themselves.
Really, the only thing that would have changed if he didn't have the knife by his belt at the time, is that he probably wouldn't have stopped. He would have killed Silco.
The thought makes him feel slightly sick. In a flash, he sees what he could do now. What the Sheriff's hoping for him to do, asking for him to do, holding Vi's freedom in exchange. He's close, wouldn't even have to take a step forward, no, he just has to reach, for Silco's arm first, to make sure he doesn't get a hold of that damn knife this time around. Maybe he could take it himself, make it quick. Or he could do it bare-handed, for old time's sake, punch him, hands around his neck, the frantic sputtering of his pulse under his palms, the ridges of his trachea that he wishes weren't so familiar – choke him until the light fades from those now-mismatched eyes. He can imagine the fear, anger, horror, because he saw all of that already, flashing across his old lover's face. It could all be over in a matter of minutes.
A flick of his hand, and Silco makes the knife spin around, taking it by the unsharpened side of the blade before handing it to Vander over his shoulder, handle first. Vander raises his arm, carefully avoiding the knife to lay his hand over Silco's shoulder. He can feel how tense the muscle is, slowly relaxing under his palm now.
"No one will be going to Stillwater, Sheriff." Silco's voice, still as calm, composed, with a hint of mockery in the way he lets some syllables drag. "Unless you want to go there with them? I'm sure the Council would love to know what happened to your predecessor, um?"
Vander would swear he could hear Markus's teeth grinding together.
"You're as involved in that as I am."
"Hmm-mh. But I am not Piltover's Sheriff, am I?"
"You're bluffing. I know you wouldn't risk your status and power for them, Industrialist."
Vander takes his hand off Silco's shoulder when the man leans forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped together so tight his knuckles are turning pale.
"You want to bet on that?"
He hisses the words more than he says them, and the very real anger in his tone takes Vander off-guard. He knows Silco values the cause, his dream of a free nation of Zaun, more than individual lives. He also knows how fiercely, intensely he can care for someone. He had that, before – before he fucked it all up in an instant of blind rage.
He never thought he could have it again.
Vander's awake, looking at the ceiling of what used to be a spare storage room from the time the Last Drop was still his. Now there is a couch in there too. Earlier, looking for the glass of water he was sure he had brought with him, he found half of a rolled-up cigarette of the brand Sevika likes, so he thinks she's crashing there from time to time. Between her and Silco, what the fuck do these people have against beds?
Speaking of the devil… A loud noise, coming from the other end of the corridor, makes Vander slowly sit up on the couch, grimacing as his back cracks with the movement. It sounded like something, a chair maybe, falling to the ground. It's probably nothing, and clearly none of his business, but he gets nonetheless, slips his pants on, vaguely curious and just as bored. The activity in the streets of Zaun never fully stops, but it does decrease at the little hours of the night, and right now it's picking up again. In the absence of sun rays, that's the best way down there to know when morning starts to peek around the corner. Might as well start on with his day as he isn't going back to sleep.
He stops more or less in front of Silco's door, hesitating – the other will not like to find him hovering around his room, but… Something on his right draws Vander's attention. The door to the office is ajar, and through the small opening, he can see the side of the desk, the outline of the coffee table, one armrest of the couch. What caught his eye, it's the outside light catching onto the rim of a glass, golden-brown liquid sloshing inside. The hand holding it shakes.
Vander's fingers brush against the door, reluctant to push it open, but drawn in nonetheless.
He wouldn't say what came first, that strangled kind of sob, Silco's body curling in on itself, or the crystal-clear sound of the glass shattering to the floor.
"Silco!"
Maybe it's the sound of his voice, maybe it's something else, but Silco tries to get up and his legs give out under him. One of his hands slides amongst the broken glass, red doting the translucent shards.
Vander's walking in before his mind fully has the time to process.
He crouches down and realizes he has no idea what to do next. Silco's knees are now drawn to his chest, his arms hiding his face, shoulders up and trembling. The spilled liquid reeks of alcohol. It's not exactly the first time Vander has seen him in that state, but it's the first time since that day – it's the first time he fully considers that he could be the cause of the panic attack. He thinks about leaving, then.
Maybe that would be for the best.
He touches Silco's leg instead, and as it doesn't get a reaction he feels emboldened enough to reach for his shoulder – the uninjured one. Only then does Silco seem to fully register his presence, a flash of orange and white as he looks up, and Vander is ready to back off, apologize, whatever- He's not ready, however, for the question that comes, nor for how small Silco's voice sounds.
"Are you real?"
How do you even respond to that?
"Yes?" He lightly squeezes Silco's shoulder, hoping the contact could help ground him. "I'm here. For real."
Silco looks at him for a few more seconds, lips slightly parted around unsaid words, before he suddenly flinches and his breathing hitches up again. One of his hands grabs at Vander's arm, nails digging slightly into his skin through the thin shirt. It's the one he cut on the glass, the hand, and a red stain is already blooming over the white fabric.
"Stay," he gasps.
"I am not going anywhere. Okay?" Vander puts his own hand over Silco's thinner one, letting his thumb rub circles onto the back of it. "Can you focus on my touch? Hey, Silco. Silco, look at me."
He doesn't get a response this time. He repeats his name, shakes his shoulder gently, to no avail. Silco keeps staring at empty space, mismatched eyes blown wide, his entire body shivering, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over his skin in the greenish light. His breath is coming out in gasps, more and more irregular, verging on whimpers when the strain becomes too much for his bruised ribs. Vander cautiously takes hold of his wrist, guiding Silco's hand toward his chest.
"You feel that, right? Feel me breathing. Follow my lead. In… and out. Okay? Just that. In, and out. Again."
For a short while, it seems to work, before Silco tries to pull back, Vander tightening his hold entirely out of a reflex and keeping him in place. Silco lets out a panicked, pathetic sound.
"I can't- I can't breathe-"
"You can, love. I assure you, you can. You're okay, you're safe. You can follow my breathing. Like this, yes. Good. Try to inhale when I do. Exhale. You're doing great."
He doesn't think when he wipes with his free hand at the tears slipping out from Silco's good eye. Conversely, he is forced to think when Silco in turn reaches for his own face, except on the other side, nails leaving faint red lines amongst the scaring – because then the guilt hits him right there like a fucking truck.
"Silco…" His voice breaks; he has to force himself to try again. "Silco, hey, hey. Don't do that."
He gently nudges his hand away, unwilling to grab it and force it down.
"Just focus on breathing, okay? You can do this."
It takes a while, but his breathing eventually evens out, no longer half-choked and frantic, now instead soft and… wet. Vander wraps an arm around Silco's shoulders, squeezing a little tighter when the other leans into his touch, hiding his face into the crook of his broad shoulder as he cries.
He feels his smaller body slowly relaxing– then, tensing up again. A heartbeat later, Silco is pulling away, slipping out of Vander's embrace and wiping at his tear-stained cheek with the back of one hand, his lips twitching when he presses on the bruise there. He avoids his gaze all the while. Vander doesn't even try to stop him when he gets up on uncertain legs, nor when he walks to the desk and leans against the side of it. The light from the rose window cuts out the sharp outline of his profile. Vander pushes himself up in turn, settling onto the edge of the couch without taking his eyes off Silco.
"I heard a noise, something falling…" he says when the silence stretches on for too long. Only then does he take notice of the knocked-down chair next to him. "I was already up, so I came to check."
"Hmm."
"I didn't know if I was intruding or not," he adds after an instant of hesitation. "I was worried the… that I… that what I did to you, the river, that it caused… this."
"It did."
He was expecting that, didn't he? It still hurts. He looks down at his hands, the floorboards, broken glass crunching underneath his sole when he shifts his foot. There are a few drops of blood, too, and he makes a mental note to try and get a look at Silco's hand afterward.
"I'm sorry," is all he finds to say.
Silco turns his head, orange eye burning a hole through the shadows.
"I wish I could still hate you."
Vander raises his head again, looking back at Silco. He can't quite see his face in the darkness, only the eye, now fixated on some point over the floorboards, in between their feet.
Silco laughs, and if it sounds a little choked, a little insane, then that's entirely his own business.
"Shit."
He runs one hand over his face, the blazing iris obscured for a second.
"I thought, too," Vander slowly says, "that you would still hate me."
"Well, yeah, I don't."
Silence settles over the room again, and from outside comes the constant rumor of Zaun, huffs of steam, whines and whispers of a city that never sleeps. Vander gulps down his saliva, and gets up, whipping his sweaty palms onto his pants.
"Can I look at your hand? You cut yourself. On the glass."
He can barely see Silco's face in the darkness, but he has an inkling he wouldn't be able to decipher his expression anyway. Finally, Silco gives a sharp nod.
"There is a med kit in the bathroom next door."
There, sitting on the edge of the bathtub under the cold harsh light from the neon, tweezers in hand, he takes the glass shards out of the cuts across Silco's palm. Fresh droplets of blood roll over his skin, dripping down on the tiles below, but he doesn't make any noise while Vander cleans the wounds as gently as he can. It's when he's bandaging his hand that Silco speaks again:
"I really loved you, you know?"
Vander slows his movements down, keeping his head bowed over his work – not knowing what to answer to that. That yes, he was aware? That he thinks he did too? Maybe not as much, not equally, but he did love Silco. The worst part is, that he probably would not have bothered trying to kill him if he didn't.
So, what could anything he has to say mean, now?
"And I still do," Silco adds, so low that it's barely audible. His hand tentatively reaches for Vander's leg, fingers ghosting up the length of his thigh. "I still love you. I think that's why I can't hate you."