Drawn to the Surface - Part 2
Inspired by @six-feet-sleep's art of tattooed Silco that you can see here. Don’t try to tell me that man isn’t completely tatted up under those fancy shirts and vests.
Continued thanks to @of-the-argonath. I continue to love you more than life.
Summary: When Silco shows up, years after you last saw him, you have no idea what to think. You’ve heard too many stories. Ones that incriminate. Ones that condemn. Of course, he’s not very forthright with any sort of answers. Not in so many words, at least. But then you realize he doesn’t need to. Not when he’s pretty much asking you to document the entire story upon his skin.
Young(ish!) Silco x Tattoo Artist!Reader SFW Word court: 5600 Prev. Part
For the next few days, after you’ve counted the tips from the day’s clients and carefully lock the shop behind you, you make the now-familiar trek to the old cannery, sketchbook in tow. Today’s a relatively early end to your workday. The hazy sun still lingers above the horizon and much of the light fails to filter down to the Lanes.
Just as well. There are only so many tattoos of gears and guns one can ink before it starts to feel a little bit old. You admit to yourself that the snake, at least, had been rather interesting. Too bad the runt hadn’t tipped worth a damn.
Without Silco leading you, forcing you into the shadows, it’s a much easier walk through the city streets. It’s just enough time for you to ponder the inanity of the situation you’ve found yourself in as you flash back to the night your entire world crumbled down at your feet.
You remember fuming as you had marched over to The Last Drop, ready to chew out the man for missing his appointment. He had always sent someone to let you know that he was okay, that he was sorry, that it couldn’t be helped. He had never wanted you to worry.
But now he’d left you without so much as a message to let you know where he’d gone. It had never crossed your mind that maybe he was hurt, or even worse. They knew you well enough here. Certainly someone would have come to tell you if something had happened.
Nearing the bar, Vander intercepted you. You demanded to know where Silco was, the son of a bitch. The large man had simply shaken his head and led you to a corner booth. He’d ordered you a drink, a strong one, and told you to cool off a little.
You didn’t want a drink. You wanted answers.
Tell me where Silco is.
The explanation caught on Vander’s lips and he’d swallowed hard.
He ordered a drink for himself this time.
Then you’d realized.
Vander was stalling.
You spied the bandage wrapped around Vander’s arm. The off-white was tinged crimson at the edges where blood had seeped through. Suddenly you’re cursing your assumptions. Suspecting the worse, all the anger in your heart faded as the organ fell into the pit of your stomach.
Vander followed your gaze and wrapped his opposite hand around the wound. He glanced away. You were caught off guard by the expression that flashed over the large man’s face.
It was guilt.
You’d desperately begged Vander to tell you what happened, where Silco was. Why they hadn’t told you earlier. Is he hurt?
Finally, Vander had told you Silco’s gone. His tone wasn’t open to further inquiry. You need to forget about him. Live your life. Move on. Why do you care so much anyways?
You heard Benzo over at the bar, muttering, just loud enough that you know that you were supposed to catch it.
Fucking bastard got what he deserved.
Vander shot a glare back to his partner, eyes blown wide.
You remember the disbelief that flooded over you, as you pieced together a story that they refused to tell you outright. You don’t know if what you assumed was true, but you were far beyond asking questions.
Someone asked you to leave. You were making a scene.
Vander offered to walk you home.
You declined in not so pleasant terms.
That was the last time you’d ever set foot in The Last Drop. Of course, many of your clients are all too willing to update you on the enigmatic Sons and Daughters of Zaun.
You find, however, that down a Founder, the idea of Revolution isn’t quite so sweet. You try to keep track of who is killed, at least. Who you knew. You know that Vander has taken control of the Lanes, Benzo filling in the role of his right hand man.
You’ve reached the old cannery sooner than you expect and have to pause for moment for your heart rate to slow and the anger to subside. It does, but you can’t seem to rid yourself of the bitter taste that lingers in your mouth.
Because now Silco’s back and you still feel like you’re drowning.
Silco, more often than not, isn’t at the cannery. He’s popped in several times, acknowledging you out of what you assume is courtesy. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he often makes a swift departure as soon as you descend the stairs. You try not to be offended, despite your history with the man. You need to let it go. He’s not here to rekindle anything. Time and circumstance have changed you both. Irreparably.
This is purely a business arrangement that you’ve settled on.
At least the Doctor knows to expect you now and you find that his constant presence isn’t as totally unnerving as you would have expected.
That is, however, until your fourth evening there, after you’ve muttered your goodbye to Silco when you pass him on the stairs, and you finally hear the scientist speak.
“I would try not be so offended, girl,” the Doctor drawls unexpectedly.
You’ve only just neared the end of the staircase when the voice startles you, softer and smoother than you would have predicted. He’s hunched over his desk, safety goggles dangling around his neck. He offers you a placating smile that you guess is rather unpracticed.
“Uh, hello.” You politely offer him one back, clutching your bag closer to your chest. You eye your destination, the table at the opposite side of the room. You’ve dragged it directly in front of the large window, and suddenly you’re wishing you could simply teleport there and disappear.
“You know, you are the first person he has brought down here. I believe he is simply quite unused to the company.”
Was your irritation really that obvious? Even if Silco had gotten so used to being alone, you don’t deserve to be treated like you barely exist. It’s not something you wish to discuss with the scientist, however.
“I uh... I don’t believe we’ve made a formal acquaintance,” you say nervously, trying to change the subject.
The doctor rounds the desk, and you force yourself not to shy away. Silco didn’t need to tell you much about his peculiar scientist to let you know that you would be wise to be wary. The scientist must have noticed your unease, however, as he pauses besides one of glowing vessels, eyeing it, but comes none the closer.
“You may continue to call me Doctor.”
“Then you can continue to call me girl.” Your retort is out before you are able to filter it. Eyes widening, you curse your quick tongue, backing up a step.
Silco wouldn’t keep the scientist around if he was dangerous, right?
Luckily, the Doctor chuckles softly, eyeing you again, as he bows his head in defeat. You could almost sigh in relief.
“I can see why he likes you.”
His statement surprises you.
“I wouldn’t know,” you mutter. There’s a long pause between you.
Your brows furrow, as you look back to him. You’re not following.
At his clarification, you consider it as you momentarily forget your growing resentment towards your mutual acquaintance.
It was an unusual name, though oddly fitting. Somehow knowing it makes the scientist not quite as intimidating as you originally thought. You edge closer to him. It’s his turn to balk slightly.
“Well, nice to finally meet you, Doc.” You hold out your hand, offering your name in turn.
He hesitates a moment before grasping your hand lightly and giving it a small shake.
“Good to finally meet you,” he replies, his lips twitching upwards again in that unpracticed smile. You smile back as he releases your palm. He replaces his goggles as he returns to his papers and potions.
Maybe next time you’ll ask him what it’s all about.
It’s the next day and you’re several hours into sketching when you sigh in frustration. You’re certain of the subject matter. Sea monsters. Tentacled creatures. Waves. Water. Maybe you’d throw some scales in there to fill in the negative space. That would be fitting.
The particular style of choice, however, eludes you. Traditional. Watercolor. Realism. Geometric?
Nothing feels quite right. Did he even want color? You hadn’t seen him yesterday and so hadn’t the opportunity to ask him. He wasn’t partial to it before and you hadn’t gotten that far during your little interview from that first night.
”All of it?” You question once more. You shake your head in disbelief when he nods his confirmation. “Even...” You cast your glance downwards.
He follows your eyes, followed by him then rolling his own.
“I didn’t mean—“
“You said all of it. What else am I supposed to assume?” You can’t help the smirk that is now plastered across your face. This was the Silco youremember.
“I am now seriously reconsidering my choice in bringing you into all of this.”
“Fuck, Silco!” You jump at his voice right next to your ear, flinging your graphite to Janna knows where. You hope it won’t be the second casualty of the week. “Warn me a little next time, will ya?”
You hadn’t heard him come down the stairs, which in hindsight shouldn’t have surprised you. The man moves like a ghost. You look at the piece that he’s pointed out. It’s a style that you had attempted on a whim. You’d seen something similar on one of your foreign clients.
“That?” You reply, incredulous.
“Hmm.” He hums the affirmative.
“That’s just a rough sketch, not really much more than a warmup.” You point to another practice piece, much more realistic in nature. “What do you think about this one?”
You glance up at him. His good eye is to your left, much to your relief. It’s narrowed slightly as he considers your work. A piece of hair has loosened and is curtaining it slightly. You’re torn between the urge to tuck it behind his ear and the need to smack him across the face.
“No, I prefer the other one.”
You tilt your head slightly at your sketch, considering the style. It could work. Rather fitting, actually.
When he leaves your side to stalk across the room, you let go of the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Except, it catches in your lungs once more as the man leans over slowly at the waist, snatching your graphite from the floor. So much for professionalism.
“You really do have a habit of losing these, don’t you?”
As soon as the ache had formed in your chest, it abandons you, irritation taking its place. Abandoning your chair, you stride up to him, hand on your hips.
“Maybe if you didn’t disappear every time I come over, only to scare the shit out of me when you decide to show up again.”
You reach out to take the utensil from between his curled fingers. Just as you are about to snatch it, however, he raises his hand high above his head, just out of reach.
You scowl up at him, quickly deciding your won’t belittle yourself so far as to jump to steal it back. You’re caught off guard by his soft expression.
“Are you saying that I’m quite... disarming?”
Smack him. You want to smack him.
Instead, you roll your eyes dramatically, a scathing retort already poised on your tongue that will wipe that smirk off his sorry face. It fades from your lips, however, when you hear a derisive snort from across the room, where Singed is tending to his projects.
Silco casts an annoyed glare in the scientist’s direction, who simply shrugs and returns to his work. It’s now your turn to wear the smirk, at least until you notice Silco’s increasingly murderous expression. You’d seen that expression before. Years ago. Back when it was uniform in color.
“Anyways,” you start. Now that he’s distracted, Silco has lowered the hand that is currently grasping your graphite. You triumphantly pluck it from between his spidery digits.
“I really should be heading home. It’s later than I usually stay.”
Your action forces Silco to tear his eyes from the scientist, the murderous intent tempering as he focuses on you instead. He glances out the large window, where the light has ceased streaming in, even weakly, from the surface.
“I’ll take you home.”
For all of your grumbling and annoyance that Silco’s been avoiding you, you weren’t prepared for that. You’re heartbeat quickens at the thought.
You shake your head, “Uh, there’s no need.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Really,” you say quickly, returning to the table and tossing your sketchbook and the aforementioned lead into your bag. “I’ve managed by myself for long enough in the Undercity. Besides, it’s such a long walk and I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“It wasn’t an offer.”
You sigh. “Silco, once was great, but I’m still sore from swinging over rooftops the last time. I’ll be fine. Plus, have you seen some of my clients? I know how to manage a brute.”
His right eye narrows. You swear you see his upper lip twitch.
“This is not a point that I will argue with you.” He’s crossing his arms now. You guess it’s to intimidate you into giving in. Curiously, it’s not working.
You scoff. “Afraid some villain of the night’s gonna snatch me up?”
You suddenly find you don’t have the heart to argue any further.
“Fine,” you concede, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “But we’re walking. Go put on a hood or something if you’re so afraid of being recognized.”
The thought crosses your mind that maybe you shouldn’t be so comfortable with this, the fact that you’re basically dealing with a fugitive, even if you are unaware of the extent of his crimes.
To your surprise, Silco listens, returning several moments later with an old, tattered overcoat in his arms that appears several sizes too large for his lithe frame.
“What old degenerate did you steal that from?”
Silco stares you down with a hooded eye, choosing not to grace you with a response to your quip. He simply pulls the the coat over his shoulders. You don’t think you imagine the small wince as he’s threading his arms through the sleeves. You’ll have to ask him about it later.
“Let’s go.” He turns to the staircase, pulling out a pocket-watch to check the time.
“It’s not my fault you look like a little kid who’s just raided his grandather’s coat closet.” You mutter as you pass him on your flight up the stairs, taking two at a time.
He snorts, following behind you.
When you reach the open air, you wouldn’t admit it to him, but you are glad for the company. Sure, you could handle yourself if you needed to. Silco and Vander had made sure of that years ago when there was so much talk of revolution. That didn’t mean you ever sought out a fight.
You wonder at how easily you’ve slipped back into your familiar report with the man. You know he’s not the same man that had abandoned you two years ago. No one hangs out in a creepy abandoned warehouse with an underground lair without being involved in some shady shit.
Of course, he hadterrified you when you’d first seen him back in your shop.
But something changes when you realize that you’re going to spend Janna knows how many hours jabbing a needle repeatedly into someone’s skin, privy to parts of them that hardly ever see the light of day.
It excites you more than you know it should, at least in between the times when your are infuriated by the man.
You glance over to your right at your companion. He’s situated himself closer to the street. Walking slowly, his hands are shoved into the pockets of his coat as his head is cast downwards. You can’t see much of his face. You can catch a glimpse of his long, narrow nose and his burning eye every few steps, as his hood moves back just right.
You wonder if it hurts.
“Does it hurt?”
Silco doesn’t answer you for several long moments, but his pace slows. When he turns to you, you both pause. You arch a brow up at him expectantly. You hold your breath, wondering if he’s going to finally open to you, even if just on this one small thing.
“Come on,” he says and then you’re moving again. You clench your jaw to prevent yourself from crying out in frustration.
The rest of the walk is done in silence. Silco falls into step a few paces behind you this time, with only the sound of your footsteps to break up the night. As you leave the neighborhoods and near the Lanes you finally hear the distant sounds of city life.
You’ve only recently moved into this new, private studio, located just at the perimeter of the Lanes. It’s close enough to be easily accessible to your clientele, but far enough removed that your windows are safe from being shattered by the street’s riff-raff. After the third time it happened at your old shop, you were over it.
Here, you’ve built enough of a reputation that your clients know where to find you and others know enough to respect your property.
You also rent the small apartment above the shop. It isn’t anything fancy, but the rent is cheap and your commute is short.
Nearing the building, you reach for your keys. As your searching for the correct one, Silco’s voice catches you off guard.
“Ever since that first night, I knew you would be successful. You had too much talent to go unnoticed.”
You are suddenly brought back to the time when you had to choose between the food on your plate or the ink in your gun. You aren’t proud of the nights you’d spent at dingy bars, barely above begging the old drunkards there to take you up on your offer of a quick flash piece in exchange for a few measly tokens. What you’re asking for is hardly enough to pay for the ink.
Nobody had volunteered and you’d been just about ready to pack up when someone not so old and not so drunk strolled up to you.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna do it, Sil.”
“Come on, don’t you want to put the poor girl out of her misery.” You’re nursing your own drink, one you really can’t afford, and about to pack up when you see the pair ambling towards you.
A rather slim man with dark, shaggy, loose hair falls into the opposite side of your booth. He’s maybe six or seven years your senior, but it’s always hard to tell with the harsh conditions of the underground. His features are sharp, striking even, but his cheeks are too sallow and his chin too weak to call the man conventionally handsome. Still, you stare at him wide-eyed as you pull your half-filled cocktail to your chest to prevent it from spilling.
You eye his companion, incredibly tall with shoulders that you suspect have moved mountains, and who is now leaning against the back of the booth. He’s the one you could call handsome, if not for the unattractive expression of annoyance. He’s laid his head in his hands in sighing disbelief.
“Never knew you were much one for charity, Silco,” he grumbles.
Silco, as your now potential client had been called, is looking over your sketches so intently that, if he gets any closer, will literally be pressing his long nose into the parchment. You’re certain that it’s less to discern the quality of your art and more to make the images stop spinning.
Okay, so he’s drunker than you originally suspected.
“That one.” He points to a tiny sketch of an octopus. Not one you would have pegged him for but who were you to judge?
“Isn’t it usually me that’s supposed to make poor decisions when drunk?”
“Lay off it, Vander. We’re celebrating. Now, make yourself useful and go pay off the tab.” He inclines his head towards you. “Her’s too.”
As Vander stomps off to the til, Silco reaches into his coin purse for several coins, strewing them across the wooden table. It’s much more than you’d been advertising your work for, especially for what he’s chosen.
He leans against the table with a half-cocked smile.
“So, tell me your name, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, the little octopus on your big toe is certainly my crowning achievement.”
You jostle the key in the padlock several times before you give up, pulling the key out and slamming the metal door with your fists in frustration.
“Stupid,” you mutter. One would think that your landlord could actually give you a key that wasn’t bent and didn’t give you so much trouble every time you tried to enter your apartment. You’d meant to contact a locksmith, but you’d been decidedly distracted lately.
“I don’t know,” Silco replies behind you, looking down to his left shoe, lifting it up slightly. “I think I have excellent taste, even when slightly inebriated.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the little upturn of your lips. You’re beginning to forget that you’re supposed to be angry with him.
“You were drunk that night?!” You exclaim with faked incredulity.
Silco smirks back at you. He reaches up to pull the hood back, smoothing his hair back in the same movement. “At least it’s on theme.”
“So, why was Vander so pissed that night, anyways?” You ask without thinking.
When Silco doesn’t answer you right away, you recognize your mistake. His nostrils are flaring, his lips pressed thin, and you don’t like the glaze that’s settled over his mismatched eyes. You make a mental note never to mention Vander again.
“Forget it,” you backtrack. “I... I apologize for asking.” There’s an awkward pause between you. You stare at your keys again, flipping them through your fingers. Maybe you had accidentally picked the wrong one.
“He was losing a bet,” Silco growls faintly, barely breaking the silence. He’s staring at his feet.
You nod, leaving it at that.
“Uh... here,” you hold the key out to Silco, which seems to break him out of whatever mind space he’s trapped himself in. He takes the key without question.
“See if you have any better luck than I do,” you say, trying to impart all the sincerity you can into your tone.
Silco examines the key for a moment as if he’s trying to figure out what to do with it. Then , with a deep breath, he walks over to the gate, sliding the key into the lock as easily as you had. Turning it, he faces the same struggle and his face falls, the one brow furrowing.
You turn around to give him some space as he goes through the same motions you had, jostling the key before he too gives up in frustration.
“This is absurd,” he mutters behind you.
“You’re telling me.” You start to turn around again. “Here, let me have another go at it.”
You don’t have the chance, however, as you are cut off by the burst of gunshot.
“Fuck!” You exclaim as you duck, palms flying up to your ears, heart thumping in your chest as echoes of the shot reverberate through the streets. You scan the streets, trying to discern where the shooter is coming from. You can’t bring yourself to turn around. You’re not prepared for what you might see.
You don’t see anything. The streets are empty. You—
“You doing alright there?”
Silco’s cool voice draws you out of your panic. He’s standing there, unharmed and unruffled, twirling a smoking pistol around his index finger. The metal door leading up to your staircase is swinging freely, clanging against the wall behind it. The now broken padlock has fallen to the ground.
“I... I thought...” You shake your head, groaning as you press your palm hard enough against your eyeball that you see stars. “Ugh, I can’t believe you.”
Silco simply shrugs, slipping the firearm back into the pocket of his jacket as he turns to climb up your stairs. Your eyes widen.
“Wait, where’re you going?” You shout after him. He doesn’t slow and is now halfway up the staircase.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no you don’t.” You’re sprinting past him up the stairs, cutting him off. You barely refrain from pressing your fists against his chest to stop him.
“I told you I would take you home,” he says evenly, taking another step up so that he’s meeting you eye to eye.
You let out a single disbelieving scoff, taking another step upwards yourself. “Well, I think you’ve quite succeeded at that. Thank you very much, but I think I can manage myself from here.”
“I just shot out your lock. It’s unsafe.”
“Believe it or not, I actually have another one on my front door. And a deadbolt.”
You finally realize what he’s implying.
“You... You’re not staying the night.“
“Believe it or not, there are worst monsters than me out here.”
Shocked, you don’t stop him as he pushes past and climbs the rest of the stairs. He still has your keyring, you realize, which is now dangling from his long fingers.
Then he’s in your apartment, on your bench, removing his boots, and you’re at a loss for words.
You edge into your own apartment, closing the door silently behind you, sliding the deadbolt over.
“Do you not have a couch?”
You glance at your messy apartment, suddenly hot with embarrassment. Dirty dishes are accumulated in the sink of the tiny kitchenette. Your clothes have piled up in baskets where you’ve neglected to fold them and stow them away. Sketchbooks and art supplies litter every surface.
And no, you don’t have a couch.
“Threw the old one away when I moved here. Thought it was a lost cause when it started squeaking. I, uh, haven’t gotten around to replacing it yet. Not like there’s much room anyway. I wasn’t expecting any guests.”
“That’s fine.” He’s removing his oversized jacket now, pulling the pistol out to instead slide it into the waistband of his pants. “If I remember correctly, your mattress is comfortable enough.”
You didn’t know it was possible for the heat that has risen up your neck to blaze even hotter.
“No,” you say, pulling off your own coat.
“Not like that.” Silco’s tone is so earnest you that almost believe him. He’s shrugging out of his vest now, left only in his partially-buttoned dress shirt.
“You grew up in the Undercity,” he continues. “Like the rest of us, I’m sure you didn’t spend a single night alone in your own bed before the age of fourteen.”
You know what he is saying is true. That does not mean that you want to share your bed now.
“You know it’s not the same.”
“I don’t see why not.”
You have to laugh at that. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been gone for over two years, and then, when you decide you want to waltz back into my life, you give me the cold shoulder every time I even attempt to ask for an explanation.”
To his credit, Silco looks properly scolded.
“I had wanted to give you some space,” he finally says.
Space? He thought you needed space? You bring your fingers up to rub against your temples, rubbing away the headache that’s starting to built there.
“So what made today so different?”
He doesn’t give you an answer, but you don’t miss the grimace that passes over his face.
“Silco,” you sigh. “What are you doing here?”
“I was taking you home.”
You’re about to roll your eyes, to continue this little backwards dance of which you’ve found yourself a not-so-willing partner, when all of sudden, you’ve found that you’ve quite simply had enough. You deserve more than his half-answers, this mystery, this constant hot and cold. You deserve more than him pretending like he hasn’t been gone a day, like he hadn’t abandoned you.
“No, what are you doing here,” To your credit, you’re able to keep your tone at least somewhat even. “I know, I know. The tattoos. I get that part. But... but why why now? After all this time? If it was just about the tattoos, I’m sure you could find someone, anyone besides me to do them. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
Suddenly you find yourself stacking your sketchbooks, with the sudden need to do something with your hands so they don’t end up wrapped around your company’s throat.
“And don’t say it’s for privacy. Because who’s to say I won’t just waltz into The Last Drop and let everyone know where you are. I was friends with Vander too, you know? I’m sure he’d love to know what you’ve been up to. ”
You pick up one of your pieces of graphite. The edge needs sharpening, so you pull out your pocketknife and begin whittling aggressively at it.
“And let’s not forget how you’re just gone every time I get to the lab. When you do show up, I don’t get anything besides a hello, before you’re off again. Even that I feel like I have to beg for. Do you know how that makes me feel, how much that fucking hurts?”
You pray that the dam holding back the tears you feel pricking at your eyes remains steadfast. You can feel it cracking.
“And then, finally you are talking to me and you’re walking me home. Oh, but you’re not just walking me home, you’re shooting my fucking lock and breaking into my damn apartment like you belong there, taking your boots off in my foyer like you’ve never missed a day. And finally, finally, you’re doing everything short of demanding I let you sleep in my bed, like it means nothing. Can’t you see how fucked up that is?”
You voice cracks at your last sentence and the floodgates open.
The graphite suddenly snaps between your fingers. You toss the knife and the broken pieces to the ground, bringing your blackened fingers to your mouth in a poor attempt to stifle the sobs.
Silco’s walked across the studio during your little tirade, over to the high-top table and chair you use to eat your meals. You wait for a response. Anything, but he refuses to even look at you. It’s like you’ve been yelling at an emotionally constipated brick wall.
He stands there a moment too long.
You clench your jaw, slamming your eyes shut against the grief. He doesn’t deserve your fucking tears. You’re just about to tell him off again, to get out of your home, lock be damned, that he can shove his commission up where the sun doesn’t shine.
What you don’t expect, is the feeling of the two strong limbs encompassing your torso. They squeeze with just the right amount of pressure and you can’t help the sob that escapes your lips. You both stand there for a long moment, long enough for your cries to finally subside.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your ear. “Don’t cry.”
“You’re an ass,” you manage to say between sniffles.
But you can’t help yourself as you bury your face further against his chest and wrap your arms tighter around his slim waist. You know he won’t break.
“Easier on the ribs there, if you don’t mind.”
“You can take it.” So you hadn’t imagined the wince.
You don’t know when Silco’s managed to lead you to the bedroom or when you’ve lost your own shoes. But then, you’re laying against your threadbare quilt and the only thought in your head is that you feel cold once he’s left you.
You’re still in your street clothes, but you find you don’t care enough to change. You pull yourself under the covers. The bedding needs to be stripped soon anyways.
“I’ll see myself out,” you hear from the doorway.
“Don’t you dare,” you say before you can think better of it. Maybe you should have. Thought better of it.
“Like you said,” you mumble into your pillow. “Monsters.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just... stay on your side. And on top of the quilt. There’s another blanket in the closet.”
There’s a long moment before you feel a dip in the mattress by your feet as Silco sits against the edge of the bed. You can feel the warmth spreading through the quilt.
“Would you believe me if I said the real reason I wanted to stay is that the doctor snores.”
“Go to bed, Silco.”
You notice the shift in weight as Silco gets up. Sleep weighs heavily against your eyelids, exhausted from your outburst. You try to stay awake, if only to make sure he’s comfortable, if he can find the blanket. If he actually stays.
You don't know how minutes pass before you feel the mattress dip once more, this time to your back. You hear his voice just before your exhaustion finally overwhelms you. It’s whispered soft enough that you’re sure that he hadn't meant for you to hear it.
“I truly never meant to hurt you.”