Archive of Our Own

“I found him,” Benzo murmurs.

Vander looks up, unable to help himself. These have been the longest few days of his life. For the most part, he’s been too overwhelmed and busy to feel anything. Zaun still needs him. Funerals had to be planned. Children besides Vi and Powder had to be placed in other homes. He had to check in and see what else could be needed. Tensions had to be smoothed over with Piltover and the enforcers.

In his own home, Vi and Powder cling to him with desperation, clearly afraid that he’ll also disappear at any given moment. Vi understands too well what’s happened; Powder doesn’t understand enough. She keeps asking when her parents are coming back or where they’ve gone. Both girls have slept with him every night since they’ve been brought to his place.

And amid everything he’s doing for everything else, Vander hurts. His body hurts from fighting the enforcers again, from his clumsy, dragged-out brawl with Silco. And his heart hurts. He misses Felicia and her easy smiles. He misses Silco and his wit. And he’s horrified that he’s the reason that Silco is gone. When he looks back on their fight – he can’t believe what he’d done. His own body feels like a stranger to him, a weapon in the hands of an emotionally unprepared child. And yet, he can’t reduce his actions by saying he hadn’t recognized himself. He had. That’s part of what is most alarming to him now. He’s made his living off the bulk and strength of his body; using all of that for violence has been a familiar tool in their fight against Piltover. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s become the language he reaches for too quickly, that he’s grown comfortable speaking in.

He just hadn’t realized it.

Until he was back in the Last Drop, curled up with Powder and Vi beside him, remembering what Silco’s neck had felt like underneath his hands. Remembering what Silco’s face had looked like through the dirty silt of the river and the red haze of his anger. The fight comes to him in flashes, but he knows that he will never forget the resigned betrayal on Silco’s face.

He fucked up. Badly. Beyond belief.

He’d searched for Silco. He’d written to Silco. And when he hadn’t found him, he’d tried to respect Silco’s need for time.

But--

“He’s with that mad scientist from Piltover,” Benzo continues. He doesn’t ask Vander if he wants to know.

The glass that Vander is holding cracks in his hands. Anywhere else, he tells himself – anywhere else, he would have respected Silco’s decision to hide and heal, but not with Singed. They’ve all heard the rumors of the deranged experiments that Singed runs. Vander can’t deal with Silco being one of them. He not respecting this decision.

He’s come around from behind the bar before he’s even aware of it.

“Vander,” Benzo says, clearly alarmed.

“Keep an eye on the girls for me for a few hours, all right?” Vander says. “Powder is down for a nap. Plenty of food leftover for dinner.”

Benzo pauses. Perhaps considering whether to ask Vander if he’s sure. Perhaps to remind him that Silco doesn’t want to see him. But even after everything, maybe because of everything, Benzo trusts Vander. So, he sighs and nods.

…

They’ve been pointedly leaving the doc alone because he hasn’t caused any trouble to anyone. Vander and Silco had both assumed that he would bring trouble eventually, but they intended to leave well enough alone until then.

All the same, they had known where his little lair is.

Vander goes there now.

Frankly, he doesn’t even know if he wants to find Silco there. Yes, because he desperately wants to lay eyes on the man. Yes, because he wants to tell him that he’s so goddamn sorry, that he’s never been more sorry in his life. And no, because then it would mean that Silco hadn’t trusted himself to the damn doctor.

As soon as he steps inside, though, he has his answer. Singed looks up at him, dispassionately, not at all surprised to see him.

“He does not wish to see you,” he says, and then looks down again, as if dismissing Vander.

Singed is utterly irrelevant, though, as far as Vander is concerned. Because just behind him Vander can see the entire reason he’s come. Silco.

Vander swears his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know why – how could he, when there are so many emotions coursing through his veins? The same admiration that he’s always felt for Silco, the moment that he met him. Vander had known that he was something special, something that burned too fierce for the likes of their undercity. He’d always tried to grip Silco too tight, an edge of violence to his desperation early on. Silco had always felt mercurial, perpetually slipping from Vander’s grasp. He feels that undeniable pull now that has always kept them on a fated collision course.

Anger, still. Anger at the re-reckoning of what he has lost, that Felicia is gone, some part of their bright Zaun future forever dimmed. Anger that Silco played a role. Anger that neither of them, for all their cleverness and fierceness, could seemingly stop it.

And a healthy dose of fear. Fear that he has ruined the most profound relationship he has ever known, that has always beyond simple words, that Vander has never known how to describe. Fear at what he, himself, has perhaps turned them into.

Silco turns his head slightly, giving Vander a glimpse of his profile.

When Vander doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge that Singed had spoken to him, Silco turns his face more fully into the light, letting Vander see his own handiwork.

Vander barely keeps from flinching. He knows that Silco sees the aborted motion anyway, because Silco sees everything.

The left side of his face is torn open from his hairline down to the corner of his mouth, the damage localized mostly around his eye. Vander can’t even remember if he gave Silco such an injury. He remembers hitting him and hitting him, grappling with him to try and hold him. It’s possible that he was hurt in some way before Vander got a hold of him. It’s possible it’s just the battered skin and cuts reacting to the way that Vander had held him under the water. Because that Vander does remember, of course. Remembers the taste of the foul water in his own mouth, Silco’s flailing body underneath his hands. The way his own rage had seemed an unstoppable force and all he could do was let it burn through him and Silco.

The wound teems with infection, no doubt from the pollutants and chemicals in the water.

It must be agonizing.

Vander makes himself look, and Silco looks right back at him.

“I’m sorry,” Vander says, the words suddenly clumsy in his mouth.

“So you said,” Silco says. He raises a hand up, holding a piece of paper in between two slims fingers. Vander recognizes it as his note.

A muscle jumps in Vander’s jaw. Part of him is relieved that Silco found it, that he knows how immediately Vander had regretted what he had done when he had risen from the specter of his anger. Part of him becomes more afraid, because Silco had read it and stayed away regardless.

But he had kept it. So that had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Is that all?” Silco continues with dedicated indifference.

“No,” Vander says. He strides past Singed, ignoring the doctor, going to Silco’s side. Silco doesn’t flinch away from him, because he would never, no, but Vander can see the way he braces himself. Prepared to fight again, should he need to. The action brings Vander up short. Because for all the fights they’ve had, all the things that Silco has seen him do, Silco has never seen him as a threat before. And Vander can’t blame him, can he?

“I heard your apology. Twice, now,” Silco says. “I don’t forgive you.” He pauses. “Did you think I would? Based on such an apology?”

What else can he say, Vander wants to know. Silco’s always been the one good with words out of the two of them.

“I can’t say it any better,” Vander admits. “Though you deserve that. And nothing I’ll say now will change what I did, regardless. But I do regret it, Sil. I am sorry. With everything that I am. And you’re right. You don’t owe me your forgiveness just because I apologized. But whether you forgive me or not,” his eyes dart back to Singed. “Not like this.”

He knows that Singed will pump Silco full of his strange chemicals. He’s tried to ignore Silco’s increasing comfort with the seedier lowlifes of the undercity. But this he can’t stomach.

“He will lose sight in that eye if I do not continue to treat him,” Singed says passively, as if they’re not discussing him in front of him.

“Come home, Sil,” Vander urges him quietly.

“Home,” Silco repeats faintly, as if the word is unfamiliar to him now. “I should come home with you, and warm your bed, and play house with you when you’ve turned those fists in the wrong direction and gone soft now? What use are you to me now, Vander, if you’re going to show your belly and play lapdog to Piltover?” He bares his teeth at Vander, and it pulls at the ragged, torn corner of his mouth, until blood oozes from it, dragging down his chin and onto his throat.

Vander breathes out slowly and picks up a piece of gauze from nearby. He steps closer, slowly, and presses it gently to the corner of Silco’s mouth.

“Because we can’t go on as we are,” Vander says quietly. “The violence isn’t working. It’s hurting us. It isn’t touching Piltover.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Silco spits. “Those girls are not your daughters, and they never will be. Pretending to be a father to them won’t change what you are. All you’ve done is left me to fight on my own.”

“No,” Vander insists, because that isn’t true. “No. I’m changing tactics is all.” He knows that he’ll never be Vi and Powder’s father. He can’t replace what they’ve lost. But all the same, he understands things differently now. He isn’t willing to knock his knuckles bloody against a brick wall time and time again. He has to build something for them. He can’t just keep burning things down.

He leans in closer, regardless of Singed’s continued proximity, regardless of the fact that if Silco has another knife, he could effortlessly end Vander. He presses his forehead to Silco’s, close enough that they’re sharing the same air, close enough that all he sees is the damage that he’s wrought and trying to find a way forward from.

“We’ve always been best when we’ve worked together,” Vander murmurs. “Zaun deserves both of us. I want to be more than the violence, Sil. And that includes for you.”

Something in Silco’s expression wavers. Vander can’t rightly say that it goes soft, but it’s an opening all the same as he gazes back at Vander and, at the least, doesn’t pull away from him.

“Come home with me,” Vander says. “Let me prove to you I’m sorry. I am still here for you, however you’ll have me. And I’m still here for Zaun.” They had always known their dream would be hard, but youth made them optimistic and unlimited. They know better now. They’ve lost and bled for their dream. But Vander isn’t done with it.

Silco says nothing, and Vander is afraid to pull away. He’s afraid that if he lets go this time, Silco will be gone for good. That his expression will shutter, and that Vander will have to walk away, leaving Silco and Singed together to fabricate their own plans to bring Zaun into a bloody future.

But after a moment:

“Yes,” Silco says, very quietly, the quietest that Vander has ever heard him. “Very well.”

…

They are afraid of him. Nearly to a man, they kept their distance from him now, gaze lingering on the mess of his face.

Silco has never been a particularly vain man. It’s hard to be, after all, in Zaun, where injury and disease and disfigurement are so common.

Somehow, his injury is different. Silco doesn’t know if it’s the extent of it, or that people knew what he looked like before, or the association with another crushing blow from Piltover. Perhaps all of it. But when people see him, they balk and gawk and whisper.

It means his time spent behind the bar of the Last Drop has remained slim, although he doesn’t particularly mind that. He’s never been one for providing good customer service.

Things are quiet, but they’re still unsettled. The fighting has waned. The funerals are over. Piltover has left them alone. And yet, there is no returning to the way that things were. Their revolution is quiet for the time being, regathering.

He and Vander are the same, he would suppose. He sleeps in Vander’s bed by himself, and Vander sleeps on the couch. They’re near each other, but they don’t touch one another. They don’t talk about anything that truly matters.

It’s terribly stifling, and he would prefer to grab Vander and shake him until they’ve reached some sort of understanding, but for one of the first times in his life, Silco isn’t entirely sure what he wants.

So, he plans and plots for things that don’t matter. He fixes things in the back of the Last Drop that don’t truly need to be fixed. He lets everyone ignore or skirt him.

Well.

Not everyone, to be fair.

Felicia’s younger daughter is his little shadow, although not nearly so stealthy as she seems to think she is. He had been present for Violet’s birth, but he’d seen his old friends less after her arrival. Perhaps his and Vander’s recent fissure hadn’t been so surprising in all honesty. He had kept pushing, had been unflinching in continuing to journey to the seedier parts of Zaun and partner with miscreants who had no qualms about whatever methods they used. Vander had gotten comfortable playing the doting uncle to Felicia’s children, only drawn into a fight when really pushed.

So, Silco knows neither girl well but particularly Powder. He’s never been much interested in children and had been frankly baffled at the way that Vander had been so endeared by Felicia’s spawn.

But now, wherever, he goes, she is tucked away in some corner of the room, thinking she’s hidden, discreetly watching him as though he is a subject of the utmost interest. She never actually approaches him. But, to be fair, she never seems afraid of him when she sees the entirety of his face either.

He lets this go on for only so long.

It’s relatively early morning still. Violet is still abed, Vander off running errands, which means that Silco and Powder are left on their own. As the Last Drop isn’t open yet, Silco is doing dishes to ready for the bar’s opening while Powder is hunkered down under a table, pretending to color but really watching Silco with her dedicated intensity.

“You know, it’s rude to stare, girl,” Silco says finally, setting a glass down with an even clink on the bar top. He glances at her.

Powder pauses. She seems to process that she has been addressed directly and then startles under the table, sending her crayons rolling across the floor. She pushes herself hastily a little further under the table.

Silco waits another moment or two, selecting another glass while Powder realizes that it’s pointless to try and hide now, not when he’s known that she’s there all along. She peeks out at him from another the table again while Silco masks his amusement.

He wonders where this little one came from. Felicia had always been bright, and Violet has clearly inherited her brashness and impulsiveness. She seems to try and emulate Vander in many ways. And while Powder is clearly enamored with her sister, her demeanor is wholly different.

But not lacking her own bravery, it seems, for she scoots the rest out from under the table, collects her drawing instruments, and pads quietly over to the bar, her footsteps still light as a mouse’s. She drags herself up one of the chairs so that she’s directly in front of him, but then simply stares at him from a much closer distance.

“You have not stopped,” Silco points out. “May I help you?” It’s an unfair question, he knows. He already understands why she’s staring after all.

“Does it hurt?” she asks finally, pressing her own small hand to the corresponding side of her face.

It’s Silco turn to startle. No one has asked him that. Singed had been analytical. Vander had apologized.
No one else dared to ask anything.

“Yes,” he answers finally. Because it does, yes. In so many ways. It hurts in a purely physical sense, a deep, dangerous wound that is healing slowly and messily. And yes, Singed had been right, and he has lost the vision in that eye, something that still catches him off guard. He finds himself off balance, walking clumsily into things. It makes him feel weak in a way that he finds unforgivable. It hurts in an emotional sense, in that he no longer knows how to be himself or how to be himself particularly around Vander. He wakes in the night and smells the stench of the river in his nostrils. He wanders through the door and is no longer certain of his purpose in ushering in Zaun’s independence.

Powder’s face scrunches up at his response, although he can’t imagine that it has to be a surprise to her. She may have had a loving, safe family until now, but she is still from here. She knows what it is to watch other people suffer.

She scoots the chair back so that the legs squeals alarming and then clambers down it. Without saying a word, she scurries off again.

Silco wonders if such a simple answer has lost him his companion.

He returns to washing glasses. He pretends not to be interested in what Powder could be doing. He’ll need to check on in her in a bit anyway, he figures. To make sure that she is safe and whatnot.

But before he gives into his own curiosity, he hears the patter of her returning feet. She’s wearing a look of fierce determination that he has seen many times on Felicia. She climbs back on her stool and then slides a small box across the bar to him.

He blinks and reaches for the offering. It seems that she had raided Vander’s first aid kit, retrieved the adhesive bandages, and drawn bright blue and pink designs on the back. He holds them in his hand and stares.

Objectively, the gesture shouldn’t be that moving. Such small bandages can do little to aid his healing in any meaningful way, after all.

All the same. It somehow is moving, this simple act of care in an effort to alleviate even the smallest bit of his suffering.

“Thank you,” he says, and if his voice lacks its usual smoothness, who is there to know?

Powder nods, those big eyes still fixated on him.

“You’re quite the little artist,” he says after a moment. “Do you enjoy drawing?”

“I like the colors,” Powder says sagely.

“I can see,” Silco says, smiling faintly. “Would you care to show me more of your work?”

Powder lights up instantly at the invitation. She gathers all her papers to her chest. He gestures her behind the bar, and she follows his guidance. When he sits, she climbs into his lap seemingly without thinking about it. They both pause for a moment, Powder looking uncertainly up at him as if suddenly aware that she doesn’t know him very well and that she may have overstepped. Silco himself is surprised as well. Not that he’s known many children, but he’s never expected them to be comfortable around him in the way that they seemingly are around Vander.

He suspects, though, that their paths haven’t been so different since returning to the Last Drop. She may be quite young, with little context of the world, whereas Silco has grown weary of it, but everything they know has changed, all stemming from the same event.

“What is this one then?” Silco asks, smoothing over the moment by gesturing to the top sheet of paper.

“Oh.” Powder refocuses. “Those are the dust bunnies under Vi’s bed. Nymntha and Slate. They nibble on her toes. If I draw them, they have to stay in the corners where I put them.”

“Quite,” Silco answers.

He was never a fanciful child. And he’s frankly never understood the appeal of such pretend until he sits there listening to her unspool her stories, explaining what the bright colors represent in the world that she has created for herself. There’s such a beauty to it. Perhaps in that she can find such brightness even in this dark place. Perhaps in the vulnerability of the world, in that it can’t possibly last and will fade as she grows.

He’s glad that her parents’ deaths haven’t taken it from her.

He finds that he’s surprisingly content to be invited into her imaginary world for a few moments, to feel wanted and welcomed somewhere that isn’t defined fully by sorrow. She has a seemingly endless supply of drawings, the pages filled to the margins, and she flips through each one and explains them with varying levels of diligence. Some have entire backstories. Some she just shrugs and says she’s like the shape or the feel or the color. Or it’s how she felt during a particular time.

They sit together until the front door of the Last Drop suddenly opens.

Vander comes walking inside, clearly unaware that they’re there because he freezes as soon as sees the two of them together.

“Everything all right?” he asks cautiously, as if he doesn’t know what to make of the scene even seeing it with his own eyes.

“Yes,” Silco answers, and he doesn’t explain any further.

…

He’s seen a healer a few times for his face, so he does his best to keep the injury clean, often bandaging it in actual gauze. He has a routine in the evening before he retires to bed.

This particular evening, Vander suddenly darkens the doorway of the bathroom, clearly having finished putting the girls to bed. Silco looks back at him in the grimy mirror but doesn’t acknowledge him right away, leaving Vander to shift his weight and clear his throat in the way that he only does when he’s nervous.

“Can I help you?” he asks finally.

“I don’t need your help,” Silco answers. He doesn’t actually intend for the words to be biting, but they are all the same. Vander falters but then steels himself, bracing his shoulders.

“No, of course not,” he says. “But I want to.”

It’s Silco’s turn to pause. He could turn Vander away. He doesn’t want Vander’s pity, after all. He doesn’t want this help out of a misplaced way to continue to grovel for Silco’s forgiveness. He knows the facade of softness would start to bristle, if Vander were to try and wear it too long.

But he realizes that’s not what this is. Vander does want to help. In the onslaught of fighting and aggravating for independence, he supposes he forgot that about Vander. He’s good in a fight, talented in a fight. Occasionally does crave a fight. But the ensuing violence had never come from an intrinsic desire for it; Vander liked to help. He’s surprised to remember this in the context of everything else, that apparently, in being so close to Vander, he had lost sight of him.

So, rather than sending Vander off with a scathing comment, he relents. Wordlessly, he turns to face Vander.

Vander reaches for him immediately, the first time he’s done so since Silco returned to the Last Drop. His touch is slow and measured, to be sure. But he dabs the medication onto Silco’s face with a tenderness that Silco had forgotten that Vander could be capable of. Vander is attentive to his task, but Silco watches him the entire while, aware of the strange juxtaposition that this is the same man, who snarling and more animal than man, had beaten him bloody.

“How’s yours?” Silco asks, gesturing to Vander’s side. Because he hasn’t asked, not once. Vander has been up on his feet, barely flinching or limping. But Silco knows he drove the blade in as deep as he could. He must have missed vital organs, but he doesn’t doubt that Vander still must feel the pinch and strain of his own healing body. The perpetual marks they’ve left on one another.

“Itchy,” Vander says with a huff of laughter, as though such a notion is amusing. He smiles at Silco, although the expression fades quickly. “I’m glad you did it.” He finishes with the medication and reaches for the clean gauze. They’ve spent so many nights bandaging each other up like this, after working accidents. After clashes with the Enforcers gone wrong. Never from each other’s hand before.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Vander answers immediately, almost earnest. “It kept you alive. It kept me human.” He presses a hand over his side, his broad palm probably pressing down with more force than necessary. “It’ll be my reminder to never slip that far again.”

Silco eyes him, still uncertain what to think of this Vander who is devoted to some other way. He doesn’t yet see it.

When Silco says nothing else, Vander looks at the other item that Silco had left out next to the bandages.

“Ah,” Vander says. “That looks like Powder’s handiwork.” He picks up one of the bandages with Powder’s drawings and rubs his fingertips across it. “She’s a sensitive one, I think.”

There could be a question there – about what he and Powder were talking about earlier, about if Silco thinks Powder is doing okay, about if Vander is really fit to understand and raise Powder – but since Vander doesn’t voice it, Silco doesn’t answer it. It’s readily evident that Violet and Vander are perhaps too akin for their own good. He’s doting and loving with Powder, too, yes, but any passerby on the street could be forgiven for believing that Violet is his biological daughter.

“She’s bright,” Silco says. He doesn’t clarify what he means by it: that she’s bright in terms of intelligence, that she’s bright in terms of being a beacon of light and color. His tone is neutrally careful, the barest comment that he could afford to any child he would consider worth his consideration.

Vander smiles.

“She is,” he agrees. He sets the bandage back down on the side of the sink.

But his task complete, Vander suddenly seems unsure of himself again, uncomfortable in the vastness of his large body, unsure of what else he can say. Silco privately hopes that he doesn’t apologize again.

Instead, Vander reaches forward, wraps his fingers around Silco’s wrist, and squeezes with the utmost of care. A touch of reassurance and familiarity all the same.

“Good night, Sil,” Vander murmurs before leaving him.

Silco watches him go, remaining rooted to the spot until he hears Vander start to settle on his makeshift bed on the couch. Only then does he remember how to breathe.

He reaches for the bandage that Vander put down, peels it open, and presses it carefully over the gauze on his face. The shock of blue is a marked improvement.

…

In the days that follow, they develop a sort of rhythm. Silco does all the work to get the Last Drop ready to open in the morning. Powder comes with him. She no longer relegates herself to the narrow corners or underside of tables. She stays close to Silco. Usually, she draws. Sometimes, she tells him stories. Sometimes, she asks him questions about how things work or what he’s doing, if it’s anything out of the ordinary.

She is rarely satisfied with his answers. She always wants to know a bit more. If she finds his explanations lacking, she’ll ask why he didn’t try a different approach. From anyone else, he would find the comments aggravating. From her, they are somehow endearing, proof of her intelligence and the clever way her mind works.

Occasionally, when she remains unconvinced, he’ll let her attempt something on her own. This leads to a broken pipe early one morning when she doesn’t approve of his attempts to fix a simple plumbing issue. Vander is less than thrilled, but the damage is minimal. While Powder is wide-eyed and scared at the notion of getting in trouble at first, she comes to him the next day and says she has a better idea.

She isn’t wrong.

He starts to pick things up for her in the market. Better coloring supplies, first. But then later any tools and gadgets that he can find, things that she takes apart and puts together in new and interesting ways simply for the delight of doing so.

The afternoons, when Vander is actually working, Powder spends trolling after Vi and the other children. Silco begins to frequent the Last Drop more during those times as well. The wound is no longer open. It’s beginning to fade into scarring, and people no longer stare so openly. Still, he itches at the inaction. He has spent all of his adult life, and some of his adolescence, planning on how to win Zaun’s independence. Being still now doesn’t come easy to him.

“Can you read, girl?” Silco asks Powder one morning while she has her face shoved against the jukebox. She is supposed to be cleaning it. In practice, all she’s doing it smudging it with her face.

Powder huffs out an insulted sound.

“Of course,” she says, as though he is the one who is stupid for asking such a question.

“Can you read well?” he corrects then.

Powder looks at him and shrugs one shoulder.

“And sums? Are you any good at those?”

“Sometimes,” Powder says, screwing up her face in thoughtfulness. “I like it when the numbers make things work, but not just when it’s a book just explaining things.”

He only half understands what she means, but he supposes that it’s no surprise that she would only find mathematics usefully if they’re helping her inventing something or understanding the practicality of something.

He makes a quietly interested noise but doesn’t press any further.

He does what he can to find some books at her reading level, both things of educational usefulness and that she will find of actual interest. He knows her attention will wander otherwise. So, during their mornings together, she will draw sometime, and fiddle with her inventions others, and sometimes he asks her to read out loud. At first, she whines about this, claiming it to be boring, but at realizing that Silco is trying to find books of interest to her, she relents. She reads with increasing excitement.

When the four of them journey out together, Powder often attaches herself to Violet, but sometimes she’ll glue herself to Silco’s side, holding his hand. She’ll tug him this way and that, showing him new circuits that she’s found or a book that she is interested in. They are not free with money, but Silco rarely refuses her, and Vander seems to find this endearing and amusing.

“We should try and find a school for her,” Silco says, brow furrowed one night before bed. They still aren’t sleeping together. But Vander comes into the bedroom and they chat about the day together before Vander retires to the couch.

He knows the request is easier said than done. The schools in the undercity are inconsistent. Teachers come and go. Schools open and close, running out of funding or interest. Those that are available are often not of a worthwhile quality. Plenty of parents teach their children the bit they know, and then their child is often off to work young as well. But Silco can see that Powder has a creative mind that deserves to be nourished.

“I can ask around,” Vander says. He’s looking at Silco in this strange way that Silco has only started to notice lately. Silco doesn’t know what it means, exactly. Simply that Vander finds it endearing that Silco cares about Powder, but there’s something more to it than that. Something that Silco can’t place his finger on exactly.

“I’m not sure that she’d be willing to go without Vi, though,” Vander admits.

“Violet could benefit from some schooling as well,” Silco says acerbically. He knows that Vander has started to teach her how to fight – not in the interest of teaching her the skill of violence but rather because she is a young woman in a dangerous city, and Vander wants to make sure that she can protect herself for when she undoubtedly needs to. Violet herself might like to pretend that she isn’t as clever as Powder, and perhaps she isn’t, but she isn’t unintelligent either. But books are of little interest to her.

“It’s a shame we can’t get her into a Piltover school,” Silco says moodily a moment later. Piltover values education. Their systems are well-rounded.

Vander barks a laugh.

“I can’t believe the garbage coming from your mouth right now,” Vander says, grinning. “No fears or frets about how they’d indoctrinate her with their useless rubbish? No, no. Our Powder has a mind that isn’t made to fit in their mold. We’ll find a way for her.”

“She isn’t made to fit in a mold, but she deserves to learn everything she can all the same,” Silco says. He feels a rush of heat in his veins, something that has only an edge of anger. But also something that is beyond that, the same intensity he used to feel when he and Vander would debate the merits and drawbacks of Zaun and Piltover, conversations that almost inevitably led to fucking. “Providing her nothing here will not benefit her either.”

Vander’s expression grows somber.

“I know, Sil,” he says. “Just because I’m not cracking Enforcers’ heads together doesn’t mean I’ve given up on that. Clean air and water, actual hospitals and schools. I still want all that.”

“We’re not doing anything to get it, though, Vander,” Silco says.

“We’re regrouping,” Vander says. “You’re the one who taught me that a good strategy is better than going in guns blazing.”

Silco makes a noise of discontentment. He’s not sure that he appreciates teaching Vander that lesson now, particularly when he’s not actually sure that a strategy is forthcoming.

“Don’t give up on me yet,” Vander says quietly.

“Sometimes, I sorely wish I had,” Silco says, but the comment is almost too sharp to have any real bite, a familiar refrain between the two of them, even if now the words have some actual weight to them. Vander seems to sense this; he grins again, almost blushing like a schoolboy in a way that Silco sorely wishes he didn’t find attractive.

“I’ll find a school for Pow,” Vander says. “In the meantime, she loves learning from you. She’s always chattering on about you.”

Silco, of course, enjoys spending the time with her too. He learns from her in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever learned from anyone. He doesn’t say any of this aloud, but Vander must sense it all the same.

He leans in with careful intention, rests his fingers around Silco’s wrist, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Night, Sil,” he says.

…

They have joined their lessons together for the day. While Vander directs Vi on how to throw punches, Silco and Powder are huddled together going after the math problems he’s crafted for her. She is obviously less enthused about her studies than usual, though.

She sighs again and chews on her pencil.

“What is it?” Silco prompts finally. He has learned full well that there is no sense in coercing her into anything; she only learns when she wants to – and that’s when there’s an interest to her. It’s a principle that Silco theoretically appreciates.

“I wish I could fight like Vi,” Powder says, half moody, half dreamy, propping her cheek up on hand.

Silco is startled by the revelation, although perhaps he shouldn’t be. He looks between Vi and Vander to where Powder is pressed against him. Vi is clearly having more fun. But he’s equally certain that Powder does normally enjoy their lessons, and he knows what a benefit they will be to her.

“Why ever for?” he asks finally, blinking down at her.

“Because then I can be big and strong and beat up anyone who messes with us!” she declares, even holding up one scrawny arm to show off her bicep.

“Listen, girl,” Silco says quietly. “There are many ways to fight for and protect your family than feats of physical prowess. Knowing full well how to avoid an unnecessary fight is smartest of all. Knowing how to use your wits and cleverness to quickly end a fight to your advantage will serve you well.”

Powder looks up at him with her big eyes and is clearly listening intently to what he’s saying.

Because she trusts him, he realizes. She believes what he’s telling her because she trusts him. It’s an overwhelming prospect. He feels ill equipped to so easily be handed her trust, to have a role in safeguarding her and her future. He taps the paper in front of her, if only to distract her from continuing to look up at him. He’s certain that she’ll see through his fear.

She acquiesces and looks back down at the paper with renewed vigor.

Silco looks back up at where Vander’s attention has strayed to Vi and over to him. He’s wearing an expression of softness that Silco has never seen before, one that flusters him nearly as much as Powder’s.

Luckily, he’s saved by Vi getting a good jab in that Vander is utterly unprepared to block. That brings his attention snapping back to Vi, who whoops in jubilant success.

…

As far as Silco and Vander are aware, Vi and Powder are both in bed, so it’s a surprise when Vi comes barging in through the front door of the Last Drop, looking disheveled and wide-eyed. The bar goes unerringly quiet.

Silco stands from the table where he’s been chatting with Sevika, and Vander comes out from behind the bar, both of them striding toward Vi with purpose. She grabs for them.

“Are you alright?” Vander asks immediately.

“Powder,” she gasps. “I can’t find Powder!”

She crumples, her forehead pressed to her knees as she starts to nearly hyperventilate. She has both hands braced against the side of her head, and she hits the knuckles of one against the side of her skull.

Silco, for his parts, feels as though his stomach has been doused in ice.

And yet, despite the panic coursing through his body, the alarm blasting in his brain, he sinks calmly down next to Vi.

“Violet,” he instructs, taking a hold of her arms. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I went to a rally,” she says, her eyes welling up with tears. “Just to watch. I didn’t even know she’d followed me until after I was there, and I tried to bring her back. We weren’t even in the crowd – we were watching from a rooftop. But then the Enforcers came to break things up, and I lost her.” She chokes back a sob. “I looked everywhere for her, I did. I couldn’t find her, and I figured it was better to come back for help—”

Anger bites at the back of Silco’s throat, but he knows it will not serve him. He knows that Vi would never have intentionally done anything to risk Powder’s safety, especially not with the death of their parents so close at hand. If anything, she’s usually overprotective of her younger sister. Her extreme guilt if proof of that.

“We will find her,” Silco reassures her. “Now, stand. Show me where you were.”

“Sevika, man the bar, would you?” Vander calls over his shoulder even as the three of them step out into the night.

It’s a harrowing experience. The streets have not been so unsettled in weeks. The rally had been a minor thing, organized by a few who were barely older than Vi, still children themselves. All the Enforcers had done was break up the scene, although a few were still lingering. They hadn’t actually arrested anyone. Still, it makes for an uncomfortable walk, as both Vander and Silco are well-known by the Enforcers these days. They have to be careful not to ruffle feathers any further when all Silco wants to do is tear through each and every one of them until one of them tells him where Powder is.

He reminds himself what he had just told her: she is smart. She knows to keep her head down. She knows how to keep herself safe.

But he’s equally and painfully aware of just how dangerous these streets are, particularly for a young child. They go to all the same places Vi had been. Double back to them. Triple back to them. Vander asks anyone he’s familiar with if they’ve seen Powder.

They only stop, hours later, when Sevika comes to find them.

“She’s back at the Last Drop,” Sevika mutters. “Benzo’s watching over her. It was his kid that brought her back.”

Silco hurries back so quickly that he doesn’t remember the walk at all. Tactfully, everyone else has cleared out, and it’s just Benzo, Powder, and Benzo’s ward at the bar, a little boy who appears to be about Powder’s age. The kids are clutching hands while sipping on juice.

Silco swears his heart stops when he sees her. He can’t remember the last time he felt fear like this. The fear when he’d thought Vander really would kill him had been something else. That had been more akin to rage; this is born from desperation.

Powder turns when they walk inside. Her face is scraped, but she looks okay otherwise. As soon as she catches sight of them, her eyes well with tears. She flings herself off the stool. She first grabs Violet but in the next instance is hurling herself into Silco’s knees. The impact is so great, he nearly topples over. But once steadied, he reaches for her and picks her up into his arms, holding her tight.

“You’re all right?” he asks her, brushing a hand through her messy hair.

He thinks she responds in the affirmative, but mostly she’s messily crying onto his shoulder. He lets her until she tires herself out. He’s aware that Vander and Benzo are talking, asking questions of the boy, but Silco retreats with Powder. He washes her face the best that he can, brushes out her hair, removes her little boots, and tucks her into her own bed.

She half stirs through all of this, sleepily moving her limbs to help him.

It’s only when he stands to leave that she fully wakes, seemingly in a panic. She grabs his hand.

“You won’t leave right?” she asks, right back on the verge of tears. “Not just because I got lost? I didn’t mean to, but then we had to wait until the Enforcers were gone because I knew we couldn’t pick a fight with them, and—”

“Powder,” Silco says gently. “No, I will not leave you.”

“Okay,” she says tremulously, twisting her blanket in between her hands. “Because I love you.”

“I love you too,” he answers immediately, because he already knows; he doesn’t need to think about it. He understands what she’s become to him in the weeks since he’s been back. “Do you understand?”

She nods.

He places one hand gently over top of hers.

“Then, rest,” Silco murmurs. “We will talk in the morning. I will still be here in the morning.”

She settles back down against her pillows, although she’s still watching him somewhat warily, as if she’s not entirely convinced. He supposes he can’t blame her. So, he remains by her side until she does fall properly asleep, her breathing evened out.

He wishes he could stay the whole night beside her, but he’s too restless. He strategically retreats to his – Vander’s – bedroom and paces, clenching and unclenching his hands at his hands at his sides. This feeling of helplessness is familiar to him. A son of Zaun, he’s always known it well, what it feels like to be beaten down, to be told to stay down – but he’s never been good at that. Since the very first moment that he felt that profound sense of injustice, of Piltover’s boot on the back of his neck, he’s schemed and planned on how to fight back.

Vander steps quietly into the room, looking worn and harried, stubble lining his chin, eyes shadowed by dark circles.

“Damn, what a night,” he says as he sinks wearily onto the edge of the bed.

“This is all your fault,” Silco says, low.

Vander whips his head up to stare at Silco, eyes widened and perplexed.

“What?” he asks, baffled. “I didn’t know they—”

“You,” Silco says sharply, pointing a finger at Vander, “You and your unwillingness to fight any longer, your unwillingness to do anything meaningful. What if the Enforcers had found her? They could have killed her! They could have sent her to Stillwater!” They both know well enough that Powder’s young age wouldn’t have protected her. She’s a Zaunite all the same to Piltover, a criminal already.

He expects Vander to lash back. That’s how things have gone as of late – since just before Felicia’s death.

“That’s just it, Sil,” Vander says beseechingly – and somehow there’s no anger in his voice at all, just desperation. “I want to build something for them. I don’t want them to be crushed in the rubble of us battering at Piltover’s walls. You see that now, don’t you? You want a future for Powder. You love her.”

“We have to fight for that future, Vander!” Silco snaps. “She deserves better than this!”

“She does,” Vander agrees immediately. Softly. “But we’re never going to overthrow Piltover through violence alone. We will never have the power to do that.”

“So what is the alternative?” Silco snarls, stalking toward Vander. “Continue licking their boots?”

“No,” Vander says. He hesitates. “I think it’s knowing when to press for peace and when to punch now. We weren’t close to beating them, but we’ve caught their notice. They know what we’re capable of.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve been talking with the head of the Enforcers.”

“You what?” Silco asks, blinking at Vander.

“Grayson,” Vander says, as if Silco doesn’t know who he’s referring to. “Chatting about where we can find some peace. Make things better. That’s why they didn’t arrest any of those kids tonight.”

Silco stares at him. Somehow, he’s more unrecognizable to Silco now than when he’d nearly killed him weeks ago. Vander’s rage was a familiar partner. Not aimed at him, no, but he’d seen the bloodshed and bruises that Vander was capable of. This, though.

“You’re in bed with an Enforcer,” Silco says, feeling faintly sick. “With the Enforcers.”

“No!” Vander snaps. He inhales sharply and flexes his massive hands in front of him, once and then twice. Silco watches the movement of them, remembering the feel of them around his neck. He tries again, “No. I’m trying something else. And it worked. No kids were killed or arrested tonight when they would have been—”

“She’s making you toothless,” Silco spits. “She’ll make you spineless. Their new little lapdog. Shall I have her buy you a collar so you don’t forget your new master? So you know whose call to heed when she says not to growl, when she tells you to heel?”

Vander’s eyes flash dangerously, and Silco wonders if he’ll push Vander too far once again. If he’ll break his new-sworn oath of peace and smash Silco’s head into the wall, crack him neatly like an egg this time and be done with him for good?

Vander moves from the bed, but instead of grabbing Silco, he goes to his knees in front of Silco. He buries his face into Silco’s stomach, one hand resting at the back of his knee, one arm going around Silco’s waist. Stunned, Silco stares at him, not certain what to say any longer.

“You think me so naive?” Vander mumbles into his stomach. “I know there will still be times when I must fight. But I think there must be also times when we know not to fight. When we know to talk.”

Silco goes still.

“And you think you know the difference?” he asks quietly.

Vander shakes his head. He glances up at Silco.

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “But I know we would together. I want to be more than just a clenched fist, a bloodthirsty dog. Do this with me, Silco. If you tell me a fight will be for a reason, for earning their futures, I will trust you. I will fight for you still.”

Silco continues to stare down at Vander. He is cowed by the power at his feet.

He tries to imagine what turning away from Vander now would mean, and he simply can’t. He has been angry with Vander. He has felt betrayed by Vander, has felt that Vander has fallen short. But he can’t imagine doing this work without him. And moreover, he does understand Vander’s point now. Perhaps he has been fighting simply for the sake of inflicting hurt and not the purpose of winning any longer.

“Very well,” Silco says quietly, resting a hand on top of Vander’s head.

Vander’s eyes widen at his response, but Silco also recognizes the sheer relief that floods Vander’s expression.

In the next breath, Vander is rising, striding forward, and catching Silco deftly in those large hands and kissing him with bruising force.

Silco groans immediately, looping one arm demandingly around Vander’s shoulders. It’s a relief not to be treated as thought he is a fragile, to feel the sheer proof of all the passion that Vander still feels for him.

Vander crowds against him until Silco’s back hits the wall. Silco drags his fingers across the back of Vander’s neck as they kiss with little finesse, all but biting at each other’s mouths, as if they can get any closer through sheer force of will.

Silco’s skin buzzes with heat, but this also feels like coming home in the best of ways. He’s felt disconnected from Vander for so long, but once, and perhaps now again, aside this man was when he had felt most like his truest self.

He’s hard dizzingly fast, grinding his hips up against Vander’s. Thankfully, Vander doesn’t seem to be in any better shape. Silco can feel the bulge of his cock through both of their pants.

Vander draws away, panting. His lips are slick with their spit, swollen red from the bite of Silco’s teeth. His pupils are blown, an all-consuming darkness.

They tear at each other’s clothes, trying to get each other naked as quickly as possible. Mostly, they get in the other’s way, but that doesn’t calm the frenzied rush of action any. They manage all the same, and finally naked, collapse onto the bed together.

Silco pulls Vander’s larger frame onto his. Vander’s body is an inferno of heat above his. Silco drags his thin hands over wherever he can reach, the thatch of thick hair on Vander’s chest, down the padded muscle of his sides. This is all his again. This is the man sworn to him.

“Get the—” Silco orders even as Vander twists to the bedside table to grab the lube – untouched, Silco thinks, since the last time they fucked.

Good, Silco thinks. Because he is selfish, because he is possessive. Because Vander is his.

He spreads his legs and props his hips up as Vander slicks his fingers. Vander’s gaze is enough to continue to stoke the heat in his belly; he’s staring at Silco with blatant lust, dragging his gaze over all the lean angles of Silco’s body, lingering on where Silco’s cock is already leaking onto his belly.

Vander shuffles forward, back into the cradle of Silco’s thighs, and carefully works one thick finger into Silco’s body. Silco groans immediately. An equally possessive expression crosses Vander’s face, perhaps at feeling how tight Silco is, at knowing that he also hasn’t been with anyone. Why would Silco bother?

Just the single finger burns through him beautifully, and Silco yields to the push of it inside of him. Despite their frenzied need to properly fuck, Vander doesn’t rush; he never has. He’s a master with those fingers, knows just where to push, when to slide a second finger into Silco.

Silco is warm liquid beneath him. He rocks his hips down into Vander’s touch, moaning and panting softly. He could live forever in this moment, he thinks. Speared open by Vander, held by his gaze. He wraps one of his own hands across his cock and jacks it lightly, simply needing to take some of the edge off.

Vander has his other hand on Silco’s hip, running a thumb up and down the crease of it with an almost soothing quality.

“I’m—” Silco starts to tell Vander that he’s ready, but that’s when Vander chooses to press a third finger into him.

“Bastard,” Silco groans, twisting beneath Vander, pressing his face into Vander’s pillows. Above him, Vander just grins, self-pleased. He knows he’s one of the few who can still Silco’s silver tongue.

Three fingers has Silco’s entire body curling with pleasure; he can’t form a coherent thought, let alone give Vander any proper orders on what to do next.

In between his legs, Vander leans back so that he can get a proper look at his own fingers pumping in and out of Silco’s body.

“Shit,” Vander groans.

Apparently the sight is more than he can take, because he pulls his fingers carefully free from Silco. Silco moans threadily, clenching down around nothing, feeling the loss of Vander from his body, even though mere seconds later, Vander shifts forward. He braces himself over Silco’s body and carefully presses his cock inside.

His motion is slow, deliberate, as they stare at the other, sharing air from how close their mouths are. This time, they don’t kiss, as if seeing the other will cement that this is all real once again.

Only once Vander is fully seated does he shudder and collapse forward. He presses his lips to the thin skin behind Silco’s ear.

“Missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.”

Silco wraps his legs around Vander’s hips. It will give Vander less leverage, but Silco doesn’t care at the moment. He buries his own face in Vander’s neck in return, inhaling him deeply, smelling the stench of beer, Vander’s sweat, his cheap soap. It’s the best goddamn scent in the world, and Silco thinks, I love you too, even if he can’t bring himself to say it just yet. He conveys it in other ways, and they are no less familiar to Vander than the words themselves.

Vander steadies Silco’s hips and rocks into him, using the room he has to make the motions count. They smother their moans into each other’s skin. Silco knows that he’s not going to last long, but he also senses that it doesn’t matter, that Vander isn’t going to last long either. Each motion of Vander’s hips sends Silco’s cock grinding against Vander’s hairy stomach. It’s a perfect feeling.

He digs his fingers into Vander’s back, feeling the shift of those powerful muscles. He groans faintly when Vander hits his prostate, and Vander takes full advantage of the knowledge, absolutely tormenting him until Silco’s body finally seizes with pleasure. He comes, raking his nails into Vander’s skin, spilling in torrents onto both of their stomachs.

Vander growls, curses, and then comes as well, flooding Silco with satisfying heat. Silco clenches around him as Vander pumps his hips forward, driving into Silco as if he can further cement his claim.

He collapses loosely, half on top of Silco, half next to him. He pillows his head against Silco’s shoulder, one arm thrown across Silco’s stomach.

They should get up and clean themselves, but Silco’s nodding off before he can even fully form the thought.

…

He only wakes, late, the next day, to the sound of the door opening and closing again and then Vander’s bare feet on the floor. He smells coffee before he’s even blinked his eyes open.

He moans his appreciation.

When he does open his eyes, it’s to see Vander blushing faintly, as if they’re still in their courting days. He offers the still-steaming cup to Silco.

“We, ah, may need to remember to lock the door next time,” Vander says.

Right. They have children now.

Silco props himself against the headboard, takes the coffee, and studies Vander, aware that he’s being studied in turn. Because they’re not in their courting days anymore. There’s no simplicity to their relationship. They’re not a neat family with normal issues to worry about.

“Did you mean what you said?” Vander finally asks. “Last night?”

“I did,” Silco says. He does not need to think about it; he wouldn’t have said it otherwise. “So why you don’t tell me when your next meeting with the sheriff is? I would also like to speak with her.”

Vander’s shoulders loosen with palpable relief. He shifts forward to press a hand against Silco’s face – the scarred half of his face, previously untouched by anyone else. He smooths a worn thumb over the worse of the damage.

“I love you,” Vander says.

Silco presses a kiss to his palm.