Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You are sick

• You’re curled up in the bed, your breathing shallow and labored. The heat radiating from your skin is enough to concern even Silco, though he masks it with his usual composure.

• He steps into the room, a tray in hand with a glass of water, a damp cloth, and a small vial of medicine. His movements are precise, calculated, but there’s a tension in his jaw as he approaches you.

• Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sets the tray down and leans over you, his eye scanning your flushed face. His hand brushes against your forehead, testing your temperature, and he lets out a low, displeased sigh.

• “You’re burning up, darling,” he mutters, his voice quiet but edged with concern. He dips the cloth into the water, wrings it out, and presses it gently against your forehead. His touch is surprisingly soft, though his expression remains guarded.

• When you stir and mumble something incoherent, his hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. The gesture is brief, almost hesitant, before he withdraws, reaching for the vial.

• “You need to drink this.” His tone is firm, leaving little room for argument. He tilts the glass of water to your lips, his hand steady as he helps you drink, though he slows when you wince or cough.

• You try to protest weakly, but he cuts you off with a sharp look, his good eye narrowing. “Don’t be difficult. It’s not negotiable.” The words are harsh, but his actions betray him as he adjusts the pillows behind you with care.

• He stays by your side, his hand brushing over your shoulder absentmindedly as he studies you. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but the faint crease in his brow gives away his worry.

• When you fall into a restless sleep, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he sits in the chair beside the bed, one leg crossed over the other, his posture rigid but his attention fully on you.

• Occasionally, he reaches over to check your temperature again, his fingers brushing against your skin lightly. Each time, his jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath, though the words are too low to catch.

• As the hours pass, he begins to pace the room, his movements restless, his thoughts clearly racing. Every cough or groan from you makes him pause, his head snapping in your direction before he composes himself again.

• At one point, he sits back down and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hand finds yours, his grip firm but not overwhelming, as though grounding himself through the contact.

• “You’ll get through this,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a growl. There’s a determination in his tone, as if he’s willing the words to be true.

• He doesn’t sleep, not even for a moment. Instead, he watches over you, ensuring the cloth is always cool, the medicine taken on time, and your comfort prioritized above everything else.

• By morning, when your fever begins to break, he finally allows himself a small exhale of relief. His hand lingers on yours a moment longer before he stands, brushing his coat off with a practiced motion.

• “You’ll recover,” he says, his voice regaining its usual coolness, though the way his gaze lingers on you says more than his words ever could.

• Before leaving to attend to business, he presses a rare kiss to your forehead, his lips cool against your heated skin. “Rest, my dear. I’ll return soon.” The words carry an unspoken promise—he’d burn the city down before letting anything happen to you.