Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You're overworking yourself

• You sit on the couch in Silco’s office, papers and notes scattered on the small table in front of you, your hand trembling slightly as you scribble down yet another report. The dark circles under your eyes and your slumped posture tell a story of sleepless nights and relentless work.

• Silco watches you from his own spot on another couch, his sharp gaze flickering between his own documents and your hunched figure. His jaw tightens as he notices the way you rub at your temples, trying to stave off exhaustion.

• He doesn’t say anything at first, his patience calculated, but when he sees your hand falter again, he stands abruptly, his long coat brushing the floor as he approaches.

• Without a word, he takes the pen from your hand, his grip firm but not harsh. The action startles you, and you look up at him, but his expression is unreadable—cold, yet burning with an unspoken frustration.

• “That’s enough.” His voice is low and steady, but there’s an edge to it that brooks no argument. He sets the pen down on the table, his hand lingering near yours for a moment before he crosses his arms.

• You try to protest, insisting there’s more to do, but his glare silences you. He leans forward slightly, his eye narrowing as he takes in your tired expression.

• “You’re wearing yourself thin, darling.” His tone softens just a fraction, though the words are laced with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Do you think I won’t notice?”

• He steps back and gestures toward the other end of the couch. When you don’t move immediately, he reaches for your hand, pulling you gently but firmly to lie down.

• His fingers linger on your wrist as he helps you settle against the cushions, his touch possessive yet protective. Once you’re lying down, he kneels briefly beside you, his hands resting on the edge of the couch, holding you in place as if to stop you from getting up again.

• “Rest.” The word is simple, but the way he says it is heavy with authority. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek for a moment before he pulls back.

• When you sigh and shift uncomfortably, still tense, he grabs a blanket from the armrest and drapes it over your shoulders. His hands linger as he tucks it around you, his movements slow and deliberate.

• He sits at the far edge of the couch, close enough that his presence feels grounding. His good eye watches you carefully, as though ensuring you won’t try to escape back to your work.

• “You can’t help anyone if you’re dead on your feet,” he mutters, the words harsher than intended, but the way his hand brushes over yours softens the sting.

• When your eyes flutter closed despite your protests, he lets out a quiet sigh and adjusts the blanket, ensuring you’re comfortable.

• Silco leans back slightly, his head tilting as he watches you rest. His usual icy demeanor melts just a little, replaced by a rare expression of tenderness.

• “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Still, his hand finds yours again, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, a silent promise to keep you safe—even from yourself.